lula hoop

You straighten your skirt, looking down your own body.

A white blouse, a dark blue skirt that reaches to your knees, and feet clad in white knee-high socks and brown leather boots. Depicting sheer innocence.

If anyone looked at you right now, they would surmise that you're a well-behaved, polite young woman.

You swallow hard. You can't help but feel so incredibly ashamed about being nervous. It's not at all what you learned in Father Joel's preaching, the bible lessons and what your parents taught you growing up. Everyone sins, everyone does things they're not supposed to do, so instead of hiding from reality and burying the darkness deep inside your stomach, you should confess to it and work on preventing it from happening again.

This is precisely what Father Joel is there for. You should feel grateful that you have this amazing opportunity to personally talk to him about your problems, that a solution is offered to you on a silver platter.

And yet, here you are, knuckles turned white and face burning with embarrassment.

You are an idiot. You're a scared, foolish idiot who would rather run from her mistakes than face them proudly, boldly and with her chin held high like the other Christians in your community do. No, they probably don't even approach Father Joel about such… obscene things. So you were so much worse in not just one aspect but two.

Maybe all of this was a bad idea, and you should think it over again. At home, where you at least feel safe. Maybe there is another way out of it instead of speaking to Father Joel directly.

You turn around, slowly taking a step in the opposite direction of the church when you detect movement next to you.

"Oh sweet rose, is that you?"

You freeze mid-motion, hands uselessly dangling beside your body.

As a young girl, you hated that nickname some of the people in the community came up with, but nowadays you're so used to it, you answer to it as if it is the name you were given at birth.

Elizabeth, the church administrator, walks toward you as quickly as her ballet flats allow, the soles creating a squeaking noise against the damp grass.

"Elizabeth," you smile sweetly and lean in to give her a hug. "How are you?"

As always, she doesn't reply to that question, just pinches your cheek with so much force you flinch.

"You look pale around the nose, my sweet rose… You don't get enough sunlight. Where are you heading, hm?"

"I was…" you begin, only to remember that you just decided to head home and call it a day, when Elizabeth presses a hand over her brow as though she just remembered something.

"Oh, you're here for the consultation! Oh sweet girl, is there something bothering you? Is it still your cat's death? Or Georgina and Melvin's separation? I do miss her too… Such a nice woman, she always brought me the best pistachio cookies…"

You don't have a choice, Elizabeth practically drags you inside the church by your bicep and doesn't even seem to realize that it is not in your best interest.

"Elizabeth, I…" you try to start again, but she just keeps on babbling as if talking to herself.

"I'm so sorry, little rose… It must be a lot to go through all this. Georgina and you were close, weren't you? Oh no, oh no, my little girl… It's good that you're going to talk to Father Joel. He will know how to help, he will support you. I will too."

You don't have the strength to tell her that you barely knew Georgina and maybe exchanged two words with the woman who lived a few houses down the street before she moved away. And the fact that your cat was old when you first got her and even older when she died seems beside the point as well.

Also, Elizabeth is always kind to you, even now when you scarcely get a word out and would rather disappear into one of those cold stone walls next to you, the ones you nearly bump into while the older woman still yanks you through the corridor like she is bringing a criminal to her prison cell.

"Take your time, sweet rose… Talk to the Father, tell him about what makes you sad. I want to see our little girl smile again. I miss that smile."

She pinches your cheek again, a little softer this time, and you manage to give her a feeble grin that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," you murmur before she is already gone as quickly as she appeared.

Now it's just you and the heavy oak door in front of you. And, of course, the man waiting behind it in his office.

You can still leave. If you sneak out through the backdoor, Elizabeth might not even notice your escape, and since you didn't make an appointment with Father Joel, he won't find out about it either.

But then again, Elizabeth would learn about your exit by the end of the evening at the latest when she asked the Father about his day. This woman likes to gossip, and even though the Father is not allowed to give away details, Elizabeth would ask him if he was able to help you.

So, there is only one way. And maybe it's for the best, right? After all, you initially came here to confess to something that has been weighing on your heart for weeks now. And Father Joel is a generous, empathetic man who might actually be able to help you. If you are to overcome your anxiousness, of course.

"Come in!" Father Joel's loud, slightly brassy voice comes through the door after you knock, which automatically makes you lift your hand to the handle.

You realize that you have never been to his office alone. Once, you were there with two friends to speak to the Father about the upcoming nativity play for Christmas that you were part of when you were nine. But now you are twenty-three, and you just know that his office will look foreign to you.

Still, you open the door as he asked and carefully poke your head in.

"Sweet rose…" Joel smiles with kind eyes and puts down the sheet of paper he had previously been reading.

Yes, he calls you that too. Even though you haven't really spent a lot of time alone with him before. Of course, he knows your name, knows that you show up at this church every Sunday, that you are part of the community and know everyone just like everyone knows you, but Father Joel… He is the priest. There is something intimidating, something reverent about him that makes you hold your breath when he is near.

He looks friendly, you have to admit, while he invites you in by pointing to the chair across from his desk. He has hair on his cheeks and around his mouth, wears his brown hair which has started to grey over the years a little messy, and is tall and broad. Not really scary, just… caring.

You don't know why you sometimes feel your heart thumping in your chest, but you assume it is normal. This is the man who preaches every Sunday, who you just know is so incredibly smart and wise, who is closer to God than any man you have ever met. Of course, you feel unsettled in his presence. Who wouldn't? Maybe you should feel honored by the fact that he doesn't just know your name but also calls you by your nickname.

"Good morning, Father," you smile and take your seat in front of him. It is definitely a tad forced, but you try your best to relax your shoulders while you get comfortable.

"How are you, sweet girl? I haven't seen you on Sunday… is that right?"

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening.

"No, I – I was there, of course. As always."

You can't help but feel a little hurt about him not noticing your presence. Well, maybe you just aren't that special at the end of the day. Just one of many eager guests waiting to be blessed by Father Joel's preaching.

"That's good, little rose… That's good. You're always one of my favorite people to come by, you know that? Because I always feel like what I'm saying really gets through to you. Like you actually come to learn something. Which isn't the case for most people."

Heat spreads in your cheeks, your lips curving into the first genuine smile you have given today.

"Oh – thank you," you whisper and drop your gaze to your tangled fingers. This is actually the best compliment Father Joel can give you since it is precisely what you strive for, absorbing his words like a dry sponge, listening carefully to every word coming out of his mouth and holding it close to your heart. Those Sunday services mean more to you than anything, which is why that day is also your favorite day of the week.

You briefly consider telling Father Joel that but then decide against it. You can't imagine him liking people who suck up.

"How can I help you, little rose?" he asks next, leaning back in his chair and watching you through warm eyes. A dark shadow crosses your face at once, your toes curling in your shoes as it all comes back to you.

Right… you are not here to make small talk with the priest, you are here to talk to him about quite literally the worst thing you have ever done in your life and hope that the Father will forgive you for it. Yes, that is all that you want. To go home with a lighter heart and the ability to breathe freely again after all those torturous months of guilt and shame.

"I…" you whisper, eyes glued to the edge of his desk as though the answer lay there in the wood.

"Are you nervous, little thing?"

Your eyes shift, but you feel too shy to meet his gaze. "A little."

"Is there something you want to confess to me?"

Oh no, how does he know that? Can he read it in your face? Can he trace your sin in the way you hold yourself? Is it that obvious?

Though it doesn't really align with what you want, you involuntarily raise your gaze only to find yourself staring into the brown eyes of Father Joel, who sits up straight now, hands braced on the armrests of his chair.

"Y-Yes," you answer truthfully, a part of you hoping he can already tell what you did so you don't have to spell it out.

"The Lord listens to you, darling."

You swallow hard, well aware of the thick lump in your throat as you close your eyes.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession."

Yes, you remember that day clearly, only that it didn't happen here but in the confessional. Somehow, you didn't feel like that dark, dusty place was appropriate for the heavy load you are carrying with you today. Back then, it was about lying to your friend about not being able to make it to her party even though in reality, you just felt too tired and not at all in the mood to go over to her house. Now, you wish such irrelevant things were your biggest problem. You were spoiled back then.

"Go ahead, little rose. Though I doubt a good girl like you has committed any sinful actions."

Oh, how very wrong he is.

You nervously chew on your bottom lip, then look at his face. Not particularly because you feel comfortable with it but because you were raised right and learned to look at the people you are talking to, especially when it is Father Joel sitting opposite you.

"I have," you mutter, faintly swinging your legs over the edge of your chair.

"What have you done, sweet thing? I'm here to listen and understand, you hear me? You know I will try to help you get rid of that burden."

"Yes. I know," you murmur, fighting the urge to avoid his eyes again, but no, you would stay strong. Act like a tough woman, not a miserable fool.

"So tell me. I'm sure the Lord, you and I will figure it out together."

You wet your dry lips, then gather enough courage to say what you are so afraid to say you can feel your heartbeat in every fiber of your body, starting at your fingertips.

"I… I have – I felt desires, Father. Terrible, horrible desires that – that shouldn't be there."

You can't fight it anymore. Your gaze drops to your own hands, feeling too pathetic, too disgusting to feel worthy of any of this. You don't deserve to be in this holy church, you don't deserve to talk to Father Joel and waste his time, and you don't deserve to look back into his forgiving eyes. All you are worthy of is the sight of your own hands.

"Is that all?" Father Joel asks, the sound of his voice making you jerk in your seat. Thus far, he doesn't sound angry or disappointed but rather curious… Soft-spoken. "You felt desires?"

"I… I did," you whisper and dip your head even lower. If only that were all. But no, you aren't even done with half of the sins you committed, and you are certain that once it is all out, Father Joel won't look at you either.

You are a disgrace, a failure, one that the Father probably won't welcome in his church again after today. But at least you would be cleansed of your sins and live with yourself knowing that you said it out loud. That you have faced the Father and put the words in your mouth of your very own will.

"But I did even more, Father."

Tears well on your waterline. You think about whether there is any option to keep this a secret a little longer, at least until you feel more comfortable with sharing it, but after noticing Father Joel's encouraging nod, you realize that there is no going back now. You have to say it out loud, no matter how much the pain in your stomach swells, how numb your legs feel, or how rapidly your head is spinning at the idea of putting such hideous words into the room.

Father Joel doesn't even deserve to be forced to listen to this.

"You felt desires, sweet rose? What desires? Was it greed? Jealousy? Was it… sexual lust?"

You shiver at those last two words, a crease appearing on your brow. You wish he could understand you regardless, that you could communicate with him without having to part your lips and put up any effort, but you just don't know how, and it drives you mad.

"Y-Yes. That last – one," you stammer, shifting in your seat as though to shake off some demon clinging to you, like you want to shrug the guilt loose without realizing that you can't do it without Joel's help.

"The last one? Say it, sweet thing."

"Do I… Do I have to?" you whine as a single tear rolls down your face, thinking back to that one night when you lay restless, thoughts occupied with things that would probably make Father Joel's composure falter.

"Yes, darling. To be able to receive God's mercy, you have to accept what you did. You have to humble yourself in front of the Lord, speak your sins, and only then shall He forgive you."

It sounds reasonable, which is why you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and clear your throat, though you feel more miserable than ever.

"I… I felt desires. Sexual ones."

"I see," Father Joel says calmly, assessing you with his disarming gaze. "Is that all?"

You are going to throw up. "No, Father."

That's it. This is the end of it all. Keeping the secret inside you has been bad enough, but the second you form the words and push them out, it will be real. Suddenly, you don't crave being free of the burden at all and think it would be smarter to just bury the guilt within your brain, and hopefully take that secret to your grave.

"What else have you done, sweet girl?"

You don't deserve that name. You are not sweet, you are disgusting, feral, wild and evil. Weak, more than anything.

"I… I touched myself, Father."

Silence stretches over the room, and after two minutes, you can't even remember if you actually told him yet. Maybe it all happened in your mind, and he is still waiting for you to open your mouth. Or maybe he didn't hear you. But then a sigh falls from his lips, quietly and softly, like only Father Joel can do.

"You touched yourself, little rose… That's a shame."

"I – I know," you whimper, compressed lips trembling while more wetness pools in the corner of your eyes. "I know it's bad, I – I regret it. So much."

"How many times, sweet thing?"

You wonder why he still uses that name for you after what you just told him.

"I… Not often. Just – twice."

"Twice is bad enough," Father Joel replies, eliciting a soft cry from you.

"I know. I know, Father, I feel horrible about it. It's – the worst, it – I sinned, Father. I know that."

He hushes you with a single gesture of his hand, his chest heaving as he inhales deeply.

"I didn't expect something like that from you, pretty rose… You're so well-behaved in church. You always smile at people, always have a nice word for everyone. And how well you know the Bible at your age, it's remarkable. I can't believe you would do something like that."

You let the tears flow now, which clouds your view. It's probably a good thing. It hurts you more than anything to see Father Joel's disappointed features. The frustration and surprise swinging in his tone are already enough to bear.

"You understand why it is bad, right?"

Of course you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here, right?

"Yes, Father."

"Tell me."

"The Gospel of Matthew," the words spurt out of you automatically, like you are reading them off a chart. "It's a sin of the heart. Lust is supposed to exist between a man and his wife. Not in… in one's head."

"That's right." Father Joel nods, then places his elbows on the desk. "So why is what you did wrong?"

"Because I abused God's gift of sexuality, I… I was weak, I was ruled by desire. I damaged my relationship with God, and I – I was selfish."

"You were," Father Joel says, which is even worse than all the thoughts you had about your sinful act, though most of them were so much worse than what the priest says. Out of his mouth it's just so much more real and tangible.

"Where did you touch yourself, little rose?"

You freeze, your mouth falling slightly agape. To see his expression, you raise your gaze but can only find a neutral face in front of you.

"I… Do I have to…" you begin.

None of your friends have ever had this kind of conversation with Father Joel, or at least they haven't told you about it. Which is not a surprise, as there is no way you would tell any of your friends about this. But the great disadvantage is that you have no clue how those confessions work, how much detail you have to go into.

"Yes, sweet girl. God can only forgive what you are brave enough to confess in front of Him. As long as you keep it hidden within you, He won't know how much you regret it. So tell me. Where did you touch yourself?"

You swallow, throat working, while Father Joel's hooded eyes settle on your lips. Sometimes he looks a little tired, you find, especially after a long, extensive service on Sunday. He isn't the youngest anymore, is he? Actually, you have no idea how old he might be. Forty? Or fifty? But right now he doesn't look so tired, he has circles under his eyes, but his pupils look clear and even a little more intense than normal.

"Go on. I thought you were here to confess. I thought you felt guilty."

"I do," you quickly say in your raspy voice, sinking even deeper into your chair while you gather some moisture in your dry mouth. "I… I touched myself between my legs, Father Joel."

You draw a heavy breath. This is it. You did it, didn't you? Now he would tell you that you are relieved, that everything is going to be alright and the Lord forgives you for your sin.

"Where, sweet rose?"

"What – What do you mean where?" you breathe, your hair falling into your face, but you're too tense to care about it.

"Where between your legs? Touching the inside of your thighs is not a sin, for Christ's sake!" He looks nearly furious, which causes a shudder to ripple down your spine. But then he gets calmer, like a switch flipping, and dips his head a little to get to your level.

"You want this to be over, don't you? You want the Lord to forgive you. So tell me. Tell me where you touched yourself."

You're not even sure what all these places are called. You know that at twenty-three you are supposed to know your body, but no one has ever told you, so you just don't. What does Father Joel want to know? How are you going to tell him when you can't even say for sure yourself?

You start to panic, your breathing growing more shallow with every one of those thoughts that hit against the inside of your scalp sharply.

"I – I don't know, I – Just – "

He stops you, raising his large hands in a calming gesture. "Shh, little rose… Don't get ahead of yourself… I know this is hard, but I need to know. Do you know what these places are called? Do you even know where you touched yourself?"

He looks over the edge of his glasses like he already knows the answer, which is why you feel a little stupid as you whisper a quiet "No," feeling like you have just been caught doing something illegal.

"Oh Lord in heaven… I should tell you that it's a good thing. Because it means you genuinely haven't taken part in such obscenities before. That's true, isn't it? You remain a virgin, don't you?"

"Of course!" you exclaim, widening your eyes at the implication. As if there is any doubt about that! You feel disappointed, mad even, that Father Joel is having such thoughts just because you made one mistake. You can't imagine that he doubted your innocence a week ago when you were the perfect, polite girl that everyone knew you as.

"Good," he sighs, then points to your torso. "But we have to do something about that other thing. Take off your skirt."

Your breath hitches in your throat, nearly making you choke. Your eyes are so large that you feel like they are about to pop out of the sockets.

"What?" you pant, your limbs completely frozen into place. Even if you wanted to react to his command, you wouldn't be able to.

"I said take off your skirt," Father Joel says calmly, glaring at you expectantly. "If you don't know the names of the parts you ruined, you're going to show me and the Lord."

"But I don't – I can't," you stammer, eyebrows knit together. Sure, Father Joel knows more about the Bible, about what it's like being in God's service and what tasks there are, but you can't imagine that getting naked in front of the priest is what the Lord has in mind for you. It can't be, right?

"Why can't you?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"It wouldn't be – appropriate… It's – I can't do it."

He chuckles gently, clearly amused by your nervous demeanor. "So you want to tell me what is appropriate and what isn't? You think you know more about what is appropriate than me, little rose?"

This is exactly what you feared a few seconds ago. He is right, isn't he? He has been studying the Bible and the will of the holy father for decades, compared to him, you're just a child.

You can't get the idea that any of this is right in your head, but at the same time, Father Joel wouldn't do something that isn't fitting for a servant of Jesus. Yes, you are convinced of that. He is the kindest, most merciful, wisest, and most loyal member of this community, so there is no way he doesn't know what he's doing.

Yes. He always knows what to do, so he must be certain that this is alright. That this isn't sinful.

Your shaky hands drop to the hem of your skirt, which you pull up slowly. A million thoughts are racing through your head. You have never thought about whether you were pretty down there before since you assumed it was still a long time until a man would first see the vulnerable nakedness between your legs.

Now you do, though. But then again, this isn't about being beautiful, it's about doing what's right, which is showing Father Joel where you touched yourself. So he can help you name the places.

"Now pull down your panties, sweet rose."

You're wearing white underwear today, very plain and unadorned.

"Okay," you whisper but avoid his gaze while you yank the piece of fabric down to your knees. He knows what to do, he knows what to do… is the mantra you stick to whenever you feel doubt or fear creep up your throat.

"Good girl," Father Joel says when you are done with the tasks he has given you.

It isn't his voice, though, that makes you snap back to reality but the cold breeze tingling on your lips down there. The hair rises on your arms as well as the back of your neck at it, though the reason could also be the priest's shrewd stance.

"Spread your legs a little."

Tears burn in your eyes the second those words leave his mouth. Spreading your legs? This isn't what good, well-behaved girls do. You only heard phrases like that in movies you are not supposed to watch or on the schoolyard back in high school. Dirty, ungodly, lost girls do stuff like that. They spread their legs, let any men touch them there, and end up pregnant without knowing who the father is. You are not that. You are faithful, you are good and pure –

"Do I have to repeat myself, little rose?"

You bite down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from whimpering. And yet, you obey. Because the words come from Father Joel, not from some vulgar, crude man who only wants to get under your skirt. He knows what to do, and he knows what you need.

"Has anyone ever seen this cunt before?"

You twitch at the word. You have only ever heard that word used as an insult, which only makes you feel more wretched. Maybe your woman parts deserve to be called that after what you did, after what they seduced you to do.

"No, Father Joel. Only as a little baby, of course, but I – I mean I don't –"

"I understand," he cuts you off. "Now show me. Show me where touching yourself felt so good that you did it even though you know how sinful it is."

That's the part you are most scared of, because what if you're going to flinch or gasp like you did back then? Or what if you're not going to find the place and not be able to give Father Joel the answer he wants?

You slouch down further in your chair to be able to have access to your sex and bring your index finger to the upper part. Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing hard to think back to the first time you did it and remember where you put your finger back then.

There was this little nub, almost like a bead or a button, that made sparks fly in your head every time you swiped over it. Your limbs trembled and spasmed like you never experienced before, and after a while, your head was spinning in a way that made you think you wouldn't even be able to recognize your own mother right now.

Oh.

You release a breath, realizing that you just succeeded on your first try. It nearly feels as good as it did last time, even though you're not as relaxed with Father Joel eyeing up your body with an intensity that makes you think he can make your clothes disappear only with his pupils.

"Is that the place?" he asks gently and leans over the desk to get a better look at your woman parts.

"Y-Yes."

"Is that where you touched yourself, little rose?"

You nod once, your fingertip hovering a few inches away from that specific bud.

"What did you do to it? How did you touch it?" he wants to know next, which makes you exhale heavily as you work your brain very hard. It is all a blur now since everything has felt like a fever dream, but you don't want to disappoint the Father, so you put in all your best efforts.

"I… circled it."

"Do it."

"What?" you spit and drop your chin.

"Do it. Circle it like you did back then."

"I can't, Father, I can't do it again! I'm here to confess to it and – "

He moves even closer, his presence alone enough to make you stop in the middle of your sentence.

"You're here with me and the Lord. And as the Lord's most faithful and closest servant, I'm telling you to do it. Hey... Little rose."

Lips puckered, you refuse to meet his gaze until your bad conscience wins and prompts you to turn your head.

"It's okay. Don't be afraid."

His features are totally different now, much softer and more empathetic than they were before, which puts you at ease quite a bit. He isn't angry at you. He doesn't even seem too appalled by what you confessed, given that he asks you to do the same thing again.

"You're not scared of me, are you?"

"No, Father," you whisper, which is partly a lie. You're intimidated, maybe a little anxious, but you wouldn't call it fear.

"Alright. It's okay. You know I won't make you do anything bad… I would never ask something of you that the Lord frowns upon. I'm his most loyal follower, I talk to him when I can't sleep, and I feel his presence during our beautiful Sunday services. So he knows it too. He knows what a good girl you are. How eager you are to be a good servant like me. Isn't that right? You want to be good, don't you?"

"I do, Father," you speak lowly and then allow him to guide your right hand to your core.

"It's fine. Everything is in the Lord's best interest… I know so. And you know so too, deep down. I just have to do it to see what you did back then. I have to know how – bad the sin is you committed. So you have to show me, little rose. You just have to help me… And you're such a perfect, obedient girl… Always kind and sweet, even to the people who don't deserve it. You won't disappoint the Lord now, right? Not over something so… insignificant."

Your finger touches the bud again, only that this time, you don't pull back at once. Instead, you follow his instructions like you are hypnotized by his words, moving your index finger in slow circles.

"Good girl…" Father Joel praises you. You stare at the vein on his temple, his greying hairline, while his eyes linger on what he likes to call your cunt.

"You have a very pretty cunt, little rose… Very beautiful."

"Thank you, Father," you reply because you don't know what else to say to that.

"Stroke her nicely. Be kind to her, little one. Touch her where it aches the most."

It hurts most behind your forehead, but you are sure that is not what Father Joel wants to hear right now. So you continue rolling your finger around the bead until he suddenly snatches your wrist and pulls it away with little force.

"Do you know what this little bud is called, sweet rose?"

"No, Father," you answer mechanically, feeling a little drowsy from everything. Maybe it's the thin air, the way you have been touching yourself, or even Father Joel's proximity. Or maybe it's a combination of it all.

"It's called your clit, princess. Say it for me."

You do, although you are more distracted by the nickname he just used for you. Princess… you really like that, maybe even more than sweet rose or little one.

"Good girl. Your clit is very important, you hear? It exists to make you feel good, so you better be nice to it."

You stumble over the word good as the content of his words doesn't align with your worldview in the slightest. What you have done is horrible, right? It's a sin to make yourself feel good as you did it, so why is Father Joel talking about that part of your body so… fondly?

You are about to ask that very question when he is busy with your hand again, shoving it against your core.

"You know what I want you to do now, sweetheart?"

"What," you utter airily, eyes jumping between his face and his hand that is snaked around yours.

"I want you to move your hand down your cunt. No, wait until I am finished."

You pause, glaring at him with a swimming head.

"Listen to what I have to say, then act." He brings his other hand to your cheek, stroking along your cheekbone, which involuntarily makes you whine. Everything happens far too quickly to catch up on, you don't even know what's happening to you. A moment ago he was sitting casually across the desk, and now he is on the edge of his seat, one hand around your face and the other this close to your cunt.

"Move your hand down your cunt. You trail your index finger through your folds and you're going to feel wetness. I want you to keep moving your finger until you find your hole. It's going to be even wetter than the rest of your cunt."

You hesitate, waiting to see if there are more instructions to come.

"Have you understood everything?" he asks, making you nervously glance between your legs. With your hair covering most of your cunt, you have no idea if there is any wetness and if you are going to be able to spot it. What then? Would that be bad?

"You're going to do perfectly," Father Joel soothes you and drums his fingers on your wrist. "Just do as I said. It's gonna be fine, I promise. It's gonna feel good."

The moment your finger leaves your clit, moving south, you find out what he has been talking about. You are warm and damp, like someone poured honey over your woman parts.

"There—there is wetness," you whisper, in awe of how right Father Joel has been and how unfamiliar it is to touch yourself there. It doesn't feel as good as swiping across your clit, but it still prickles nicely, you have to admit.

"Yeah, I know there is…" he growls, a noise you have never heard spilling from his throat. It makes your chin lift abruptly, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you notice that your breath has quickened. Over the past minutes or just now, you don't know.

"Go on, little rose. Don't let yourself get distracted, alright? Do as I say, you can do it."

And so your finger drags through your slit like Father Joel ordered you to. You find more wetness, more of that sticky cream that seems to have coated your woman parts entirely. When you touched yourself a few weeks back, you weren't aware of your body reacting like that. You just swirled around that little nub, used some shower gel to make everything go smoother, and didn't dare let your hand wander further down than your clit.

And then there is your hole. It's true, the mysterious wetness originates from there, because when you stick the tip of your finger inside, you feel the liquid running down your digit, which makes you peer at Father Joel, all doe-eyed and startled.

"Is that—normal, Father Joel?"

"Oh yes," he chuckles and tenderly squeezes the side of your face, his brown eyes moving from your core up to your lips. "You're wet. That means you like it."

The thoughts rattle in your head, brow furrowed. "Is that… good?"

He laughs again, which goes straight to your lower belly. He has such an endearing laugh, always sounding a tad condescending but even more protective and caring.

"It is good, little rose."

"But I—I thought that it's wrong. You—you told me that it's wrong. I'm not allowed to touch myself, I don't—I shouldn't do this, I shouldn't lust."

Suddenly, you feel so dirty. Maybe even dirtier than you did before your confession, which sends you into madness. You are here to feel better about your sin, to cleanse your soul and go home light-heartedly, but thus far, you don't really detect any progress. It's the contrary, actually.

"Sweet girl…" Father Joel whispers and digs his fingers into the flesh of your cheeks, just very gently to make sure he has your attention. "Let me explain it to you, little one… The Lord doesn't want you to touch yourself at home when you're snug under the blanket and slip a hand between your legs. That's true. And he also doesn't want you to let anyone near you, not before you're married."

"I know," you say loudly, feeling indignant about the Father telling you things that are burned into your brain. As if you don't know this.

"Good. But the difference now is that I'm here. And so is the Lord. It is no sin while you are in my presence, little rose. Because you're here to show me what you did, which you did perfectly. I have to know where you touched yourself to know how grave a mistake you made."

You nod slowly. So far, it makes sense, but you still don't understand why—

"And do you also know why I asked you to find your hole?"

You shake your head, as it is precisely what's been throwing you off.

"Well, I noticed that you don't know a lot about your own body, princess. Is that true?"

You shrug before realizing who you have in front of you and decide to tell him the truth.

"Yes, I… I don't know a lot. Just… you know, the most important things?"

"This is important too," Father Joel utters and points to your cunt, which you only now remember is still exposed to the air, the priest, as well as the cross behind him.

"You don't know much about your own anatomy, which can be a problem."

Eyes getting round, your eyebrows raise slightly. "Why?"

"Well, because just think of someone taking advantage of your lack of knowledge. Think of someone touching you between your legs or making you do things that you have no idea about."

You process his words slowly, trying to figure out the meaning behind any of this, his implications, but you fear you need more information.

"What do you mean?"

Father Joel sighs and shifts in his chair to get into a more comfortable position.

"There are so many bad, evil men out there in the world, my little rose. Your parents, this community, they've protected you from those people all your life. But at some point, you're gonna meet some of them too. When you leave this loving community and go out into the world on your own. And what do you think bad, evil men want to do to sweet, innocent girls like you?"

You can taste bitter fear on your tongue as horrible, outrageous ideas appear in your head. Ideas so horrific, you don't even want to say them out loud.

"They want to corrupt you. They might want to put their hands on your body or use your pretty mouth or hands. Anything they can come up with. And as your priest, it is my duty to protect you from them. To prepare you."

Slowly, the puzzle pieces assemble and create the outline of a larger picture. Although you're far from pleased hearing tales about the bad people out there in the world, the image of Father Joel protecting you from them is to your liking.

"You need to learn about your body. You need to learn what the things a man and woman can do privately are about. So that no evil man can ever take advantage of your naivety and use you for his pleasure or lead you astray. I want you to be able to understand what a man might be trying to do to you and tell him no. I don't want you to go around the world with those heart-shaped glasses on. And therefore, you need to know about all those terrible things a man might want to do to you. You have to know. So that no one else can manipulate and ravish you, because you'll be able to see through them. Understand what they want."

Silence spreads across the room. You inhale a couple of times, feeling blessed by the fresh oxygen entering your lungs. His words carry a heavy weight, but at the same time it feels as though Father Joel has just illuminated you with the truth beneath it all. You feel… anxious, yes, but also wise and somehow more mature than just a moment ago. Because now you know things you didn't before, even though the cold truth is difficult to live with.

"I know it's a lot to process, sweet rose… Which is why I'm going to let you go soon, so that you can go home and rest. I'm sorry for telling you this, but you have to know. Because you're not just a member of this community, you are a precious soul, one of the most important people in my church."

Your cheeks gleam hotly under his compliment and you wriggle your toes while Father Joel continues.

"I want you to be safe and prepared. Which is why I'm asking you to come to me again tomorrow. Same time."

"But why?" you breathe. Father Joel chuckles softly, his voice laced with exhaustion.

"Haven't you listened to me, princess? You need to be prepared for what bad men want to do to you. So you have to be smarter than them and be familiar with all the horrible stuff they're going to try. Someone has to introduce you to all the secrets of intimacy so that no one can take advantage of you in the future."

Your breath is uneven and heavy, but Father Joel senses your uneasiness at once and takes both of your hands between his.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes. Of course," the answer bursts out of you, making him smile gently.

"Good. So you know that it's better if it's me who shows you than those bad men. Don't you?"

You think about his words for a beat, then figure that it was about right. Yes, Father Joel is trustworthy and kind. The men he was talking about… No, you don't even want to think about them that much.

"Yes, Father."

"Do you know what that means?"

You have a hunch but prefer for him to spell it out first, so you shake your head slowly.

"It means I want you to come to my office tomorrow. Wear something pretty. And keep your hair down, I prefer it falling down your back. And then… Then I'm going to show you a few things. And no, it is not a sinful action because it's me doing it. It's not a bad man with bad intentions. It's me. It's important that you know that this is what all this depends on. You don't let any other man touch you. You don't touch yourself. But when I'm with you, when I tell you to touch yourself or when I… touch you, it's okay. It's right, it's what the Lord wants."

He squeezes your hand tightly, his thumb drawing vague circles over your wrist.

"So… You're going to touch me tomorrow?" you ask weakly, feeling your stomach coil with heat while you wait for his response.

"Yes. I'm going to touch you because it's for your own good. I only want what's best for you, the Lord only wants what's best for you. It's going to pay off in the future, sweet rose, because it's going to protect you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," you reply, though your heart thunders up your throat. His plan is unspeakably indecent, but then again, it's coming from Father Joel. The man who talks to the guests with such passion during Sunday service that you always believe every word he says. He must be right about this one too. Just like he's right about everything.

"And… What about my confession, Father?"

He squeezes your hands one last time, gives you a friendly smile before withdrawing to lean back in his chair.

"We're going to talk about that tomorrow too. But you already did well showing me exactly what you did. That's a good step, sweet rose, it shows that you regret it and that you feel guilty."

Your brain aches from all the activity it has to catch up with today. So much has happened, there were so many things Father Joel told you in the past hour, you just want to put your head into a fridge and let it cool off. You still feel a little weak in the knees when Father Joel helps you get up, his hand stroking up your back while he leads you to the door.

"I have so much to do, little rose… I'm sorry. But I'll see you tomorrow. And I'm really proud of you for coming in. It takes a lot to make a confession like that. It was the right choice to tell me and the Lord."

Suddenly, you stand outside, hand braced against the wall next to you so you won't fall to the ground. Was all of that a dream? Have you even gone into the office to talk to Father Joel, or have you been standing here for an hour, wrestling with yourself about whether it is a good idea to consult with the Father?

No… that isn't an option. I'll see you tomorrow. Father Joel has clearly said that to you.

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

AN - I just want everyone to know I miss Joe Keery more than life

Thank you for the prompt, anon! I have received a seperate double-date Jancy request asking specifically for Dom!Nancy and Sub!Jonathan fucking next to Reader so that’s also here. I let Nancy get touchy with Reader because she would most certainly want a taste of you, no matter what Steve had to say about it + obligatory Jonathan spit kink.

I write a lot. I just love these characters loving on you. Feel free to send in more stuff, please! Bien à toi ~ Nyra

divider credits to @pixopix - header photos from Pinterest.

There was something special about the way Nancy’s gaze was always glued to your body, studying every movement in a way that was unwavering, yet never truly unnerving. 

“Your eyes… you look like one of my Great Aunt Betty’s haunted dolls,” you teased, catching her stare. “Do you ever spook Jonathan?”

“Only late at night,” Nancy chuckled, continuing to adjust the strap on your bra. 

You simply nodded, allowing her to work.

To others, intimacy like this would be odd. In conservative Indiana, it was nearly blasphemous.

Still, you’d grown comfortable with the notion that ‘weird’ wasn’t always wrong, especially when ‘weird’ was happening in Hawkins on a daily.

Your closeness to Nancy was nothing new, only blossoming since you’d met each other back in 6th-grade gym class (when both of you refused to run the mile). Since then, you happily accepted Nancy’s need for proximity as an act of devotion - a love language.

After all, there was nothing as comforting as having Nancy ‘Knock ‘Em Down’ Wheeler always by your side. The best ‘Best Friends Forever’. 

“Done. Let me fix the other one,” Nancy offered, already moving to adjust the tightness on your other bra strap.

Tonight certainly felt no different than the many prior nights you’d spent gossiping in Nancy’s room as a child, except you two were no longer in middle school. Time rolls forward, delivering a plethora of gifts. With womanhood came responsibilities; jobs and boyfriends and bills and a keen sense of confidence in knowing what you wanted- and tonight, you wanted to fuck Steve. 

Nancy, of course, was more than happy to help with your endeavors. 

You turned around fully to face her, feeling rather exposed in Nancy’s childhood bedroom in such risqué attire. 

“I feel stupid,” you muttered shyly, your body adorned in cheap, black lingerie. “I had to drive all the way to that sex shop downtown for this, and I don’t even think it fits right.”

“Stop it, you’re fine.” Nancy shook her head. “And by fine, I mean you look really hot.” 

You responded with a soft huff of annoyance, still unsure. “Even my ass? Maybe I should’ve grabbed a medium instead of a small.”

“Turn to the side real quick,” Nancy demanded, sitting on her bed.

You did as told, allowing her large eyes to do what they had always done best - observe you. You looked at yourself over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of your profile in the vanity mirror. Nancy poked and prodded your lingerie into place. 

“At least it makes my boobs look nice?” you tried convincing yourself, impressed with the sudden cleavage the bra provided.

Even you could admit to a certain confidence that came with the way the black lace hugged your curves so tightly. Your soft skin was only exaggerated by the barely-there coverage of sheer fabric, leaving little to the imagination.

Nancy gave a soft ‘hmmm’, gently running her hand up the back of your silky thigh. You were surprised as her path made its way inward, her cool fingertips tracing up past your garter belt, unexpectedly ghosting over your center.

Your breath caught in your throat, unsure of what was happening. Nancy’s touch retreated, now firmly placing both hands on your hips. 

“Now face forward, please,” she spoke, using her hands to position your hips to turn you from your side to your back.

You complied, of course, hoping Nancy wouldn’t notice the slick spot on your panties that most certainly wasn’t there before.

Your new pose gave Nancy a proper view of your (almost) bare ass, albeit for the smallest thong string holding everything together. Her fingers were back at work, adjusting the waistband lace so it lay nice and flat against your skin. 

You were shocked at the sudden feeling of your thong being pulled back before immediately snapping against your skin with a sharp sting. 

“Ouch! Quit it, Nance! I don’t want any red marks for Steve,” you lectured, no hint of genuine upset in your tone. 

Nancy shrugged, standing up and facing you with an innocent expression.

“What? Just checking the quality! Even if it’s a bit trashy, you two have been together for almost a year. Steve would still want you even if you were wearing literal trash bags.”

You couldn’t help but smile. You knew Nancy was right. 

It had been nearly two months since you and Steve had the opportunity to be intimate. Your schedules had been so conflicted lately between your night shifts at Hawkins Memorial and his morning ones at the radio station.

The last time you and Steve had both planned a night off, Steve was knuckles-deep in your pussy, cramped in the backseat of his BMW, when he received the dreaded comm from Dustin to help ‘save the world’… again. 

But you were his world, and tonight you hoped the added lace details would ensure that.

“Thanks again for coming over. I know you and Steve don’t get that much time together, so it means a lot,” Nancy smiled.

You nodded, as if you truly had a choice if you’d be here tonight.

You and Steve had both been reluctantly roped into what Jonathan liked to call ‘Fun Film Friday’, which was really only fun for him. It usually involved meeting at the Byers or Wheeler house, watching a movie, then Jonathan asking a million questions about the cinematography or acting style that went way over all of your heads.

Still, she had promised you only one movie. ‘I promise we will be quick; just one movie. We haven’t had a double-date in weeks! You can wear your new lingerie over here, then devour Steve the moment credits roll. Just please come.’

She even pinky promised, and Nancy Wheeler always kept her promises. 

Your train of thought disappeared at the sudden assault of a loud knock on Nancy’s bedroom door. You immediately reached for the silk robe you’d brought along, throwing it on in an attempt to make yourself decent.

Nancy groaned. “FUCK OFF, MIKE! WE’RE BUSY!”

“It’s just us!” you heard Jonathan’s muffled voice through the door. 

Nancy made her way over, unlocking the door. “There you guys are! I thought I told you seven o’clock?.”

Jonathan walked in first, hands overflowing with chips and candy for tonight’s moive plans.

“Yeah, our bad,” he mumbled, placing a soft kiss on Nancy’s lips before giving a polite nod to you.

Right behind him came Steve, all bravado and charm, as always.

Steve beamed, rushing to you immediately.

“And there she is! My sweet, sexy, amazing, god damn angel-of-a-woman,” he chuckled loudly, pulling you tightly against his chest in a compressing hug. “God, baby. It’s only been a week. I was goin’ through withdraws, ya know?”

“I missed you more,” was all you could manage, speaking into his chest.

Steve’s comforting scent of Old Spice aftershave, mixed with his unique musk, immediately enveloped you, making you feel right at home. He placed big kisses against every inch of your face before capturing your lips in the most tender kiss.

Time always slowed in moments like these. Even if absent from your life momentarily, Steve always returned to you as if home from war - desperate, loving, and usually very horny.

Steve pulled back. “Now, would ya look at that? What do we have going on here, babygirl?” he smirked, shaking off his denim jacket.

“What? We’ve just been waiting for you two to come back with a movie.”

It was true, after all.

He snorted. “Yeah, but why is my girlfriend all wrapped up in a silky robe in Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom, huh?” 

Steve looked down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes, studying your face briefly for any hints.

“Do you like showing off your nice legs, or are you two just playin’ dress up, again?” Steve joked, letting out a laugh too short to properly fool you. He loved to fake nonchalance, but the not-so-subtle possessive undertones were always present in Steve’s voice when it came to you. 

You hate to admit it, you truly do, but damn it. Jealousy always looks so fucking good on Steve Harrington.  

Jonathan chimed in, locking the bedroom door.

“Erm, sorry we took so long. Stevie here wasn’t interested in any of my nice arthouse films back at my place.”

“Not my fault, Byers. We ended up making a quick stop at the store for some snacks, and I ended up buying something wayyyy better.” Steve started digging into his denim jacket pocket, fishing out a video cassette tape.

“Look what I found at Big Buy - Killer Klowns from Outer Space! It just came out on VHS, we’re all gonna hate it!”

You could hear Nancy groan loudly, followed by a ‘told you’ from under Jonathan’s breath. 

“Steve, honey? I’m hoping we could watch an actually good movie for once,” you chuckled.

You never truly knew whether Steve’s bad taste in movies was ironic, genuinely terrible, or if he was simply trying to be excused from any future Fun Film Friday double-date invites.

You were almost certain it was the latter. 

“Sure, sure. I gotcha,” Steve sighed. “But if you want to make a quick run to Family Video, we have to dress you in somethin’ a little more modest, Princess. As much as I’d hate to put more clothes on you, we don’t need Hopper arresting your cute ass for indecent exposure.”

“Actually,” Nancy interrupted, rolling over to the side of her bed to brush through a pile of junk on her nightstand. Eventually, she pulled out her own VCR tape. “I was thinking we could try watching this indie flick Robin recommended.” 

“Oh, c’mon. You’re gonna take Robin’s recommendations over mine?” Steve waved his movie dramatically. “Clowns… and they’re in space!”

Jonathan plucked the tape from Nancy’s hand, turning the box over. “ ‘Passions of the Undone - Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark. Follow along as Elizabeth navigates the dangers of falling in love with the nightlife, unleashing her taboo desires before entering her arranged betrothal. Can identity be found even in the darkest of places?’ ”

Steve frowned. “A romance? Nah- Boring. I still vote Killer Klowns.”

“This movie is NC-17,” Jonathan added, raising a knowing eyebrow at Steve. 

A slight pause followed as Steve immediately conceded, suddenly keen on the idea.

“Okay, so it’s basically porn. Now that I can get behind. What do you say, baby?”

“I’m always down for some ‘romance’,” you shrugged. 

Steve smirked proudly. “That’s my girl.”

He pushed a warm kiss to your temple before pulling you onto Nancy’s bed with him, getting in a comfortable position to endure the next 90-or-so minutes. He was now holding you close to his chest, wrapping his strong arms around you securely.

“Don’t think I’m going to let the robe thing slip, baby girl. Whatever the reason, I don’t like you showing off what’s mine,” he whispered into your ear, before retreating back against the pillow.

Jonathan made his way across the room, slipping the tape into Nancy’s tv set that sat snug in the corner, the static screen buzzing to life.

Nancy handed you some M&M’s that the boys had picked up for you both, knowing your affinity for sweets.

This double date couldn’t be too bad. One quick movie for Nancy, a few of Jonathan’s relentless questions, then you’d be whisked away into Steve’s Beamer to have him tear off your lingerie with his teeth, all before midnight.

You allowed yourself to relax, taking some of the M&M’s to munch on as the film finally began.

⋆｡°✩

You had always enjoyed foreign films.

Hell, you were the one to introduce Jonathan to international directors like Hayao Miyazaki and Jean-Luc Godard, often priding yourself on your open-mindedness - on being cultured.

Right now, not even thirty minutes into Passions of the Undone, and you were at the breaking point of nearly becoming undone yourself.

Robin’s tastes had always been eccentric, but this choice was simply odd.

The English captions were not aligned with the fast-paced Dutch dialogue, leaving you clueless about which character said what. Scenes were spliced together in a bizarre way that leaned more amateur than artistic. Every available inch of the screen was being utilized as a way to fill it with at least one naked woman; sometimes many, many more.

Maybe that was the real draw of the film all along.

You had no idea whether Steve had fallen asleep or was simply bored with reading the captions, having said not a word since the movie had started. He simply held you, resting peacefully against Nancy’s headboard.

“Honey? Are you awake?” you asked.

Steve gave you a soft squeeze, nuzzling into your neck. “Yep. Wide awake.”

“You’re really quiet. Is this movie turning you on, or turning you off?” you teased.

“Hmm. Honestly, I stopped paying attention a while ago. I’m watching somethin’ much more interesting.” Steve whispered.

His comment puzzled you. Steve must have been able to pick up on your confusion, gently nudging his shoulder to the left of the bed where the couple beside you had been cuddling.

Their gazes were fixed on the tv screen, but Jonathan and Nancy were most certainly not watching the movie.

Nancy was cuddled up beside Jonathan, head of bouncy curls resting innocently on his shoulder. Her hand, however, could be found in Jonathan’s jeans, which had surprisingly been unzipped.

Her hand was moving rhythmically inside of Jonathan’s pants, stroking her boyfriend's cock quietly through his underwear. They weren’t being too discreet, as you could clearly see the outline of Jonathan’s length attempting to break free of his black briefs.

You watched, almost transfixed, as Jonathan bit his lip in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. Nancy’s fingers disappeared further, now slipping into the front flap of his underwear to allow herself full access to him. The softest whimper could be heard escaping from deep within Jonathan. He closed his eyes in pleasure, tilting his hips towards Nancy for more.

“They’re really gettin’ at it over there, huh, babe? You think they get off to us watching them have fun?” Steve whispered against your neck.

“Shush!” You playfully elbowed him behind you.  

You couldn’t help the warmth that flooded your lower extremities as you witnessed your best friend and her boyfriend touching beside you. They really were in their own little world, Jonathan looking to Nancy for any sort of reaction while Nancy simply focused on the film.

Steve was right, this was way more interesting than Robin’s stupid Dutch movie.

Steve planted a few more kisses up your neck, making his way back to the spot that drove you crazy behind your ear.

“Oh, so you want to not focus on them, huh? Fine, let’s talk about you, baby. Like what the hell you’re hiding under that robe of yours, hmm? Have you been showing off your pretty little body to Nancy again?”

“Steve, knock it off!” you groaned, hoping he’d drop it. You didn’t drag your ass downtown and drop $50 on shitty lingerie just to have his surprise spoiled before you even got the chance to have your boyfriend all to yourself.

“What was that!?” Steve grabbed your jaw roughly, turning your face towards him. “You know Daddy doesn’t take attitude. Knock it off, or I’ll take care of your back-talk issue myself. Got it?” he growled.

You nodded sheepishly.

“Good girl…” he spoke lowly, eyes darkened. “Now, tell me why you’re half naked in Nancy’s home, all alone, just the two of you, or I’ll inspect your body myself. Want me to do that? Right here in front of our friends, huh? I bet they’d love that, actually.” Steve snorted, releasing his firm grip on your jaw.

God, you loathed when he became so possessive. What you hated more was that his jealousy did, in fact, turn you on immensely. 

His fingers simply slipped the robe off your shoulders without asking, causing the silk to fall to your waist instead. You were now left almost completely exposed, the lingerie doing little to hide your perky nipples poking through the lace. 

Steve stilled, for a moment, not expecting the attire. His calloused hands began moving immediately to squeeze your tits from behind.

“God damn, babe. Is this just for me? You know how much I always wanted to dress you up in some black lace just like this.”

You nodded, a brief surge of relief coursing through you at the thought of Steve enjoying your lingerie choice. A quick glance over to the busy couple beside you brought a bit of relief. They were far too preoccupied with each other.

“You always said I look best in black. I was trying to save it for later. Nancy was just helping me adjust it earlier.”

“Mmm hmm.” He nodded, pulling the robe off your waist to reveal the sheer lace thong. “Black is your best color, but this is downright delicious. I hope it wasn’t too expensive, because as soon as we get out of here I’m gonna-” 

Jonathan suddenly let out a loud whimper beside you.

“Yes… ‘m being so good for you, Nance. Please?” He whined. The need in his voice is almost tearing at your heartstrings.

You blinked. Steve paused, fixated on your friends once more.

“Sorry. He gets a bit vocal sometimes,” Nancy smiled, though her hand was still well within the confines of Jonathan’s pants and into his briefs, her movement now slower than before.

Nancy noticed Steve’s hands gripping your breasts, now nearly naked and sprawled across his lap, with no robe anywhere on the bed.

“Looks like Steve likes the lingerie?” Nancy asked.

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle, tentatively massaging your breasts again.

“Hell yeah, I do. And don’t worry too much about Byers over there. This one can get whiny, too,” he teased, one of his hands leaving your breast to instead graze your inner thigh.

He gave it a big squeeze, ‘mine’, before his fingers eventually found the slickness that had already been accumulating on your skin.

“Oh? And apparently, someone can’t help herself. Already makin’ a mess in her brand new panties and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“STEVEN!” You cried, face blushing profusely with embarrassment.

Why the hell was he feeling you up like this in front of people? This was weird. No, this was completely inappropriate.

Steve simply did not seem to care. He was a man of little shame when it came to sex. Few worries, big ego, and an even bigger cock.

Nancy pulled the pillows that had pilled up between you two during the movie, allowing her full access to view your body being groped and grabbed by Steve.

“She was already turned on just by me touching her earlier. Don’t give yourself too much credit.” Nancy shot at Steve.

“Is that right?” Steve looked down at you, his nostrils flaring. “You let her touch you? Did you get all wet from her, babe?”

Nancy’s eyes were now glued to you, as always, waiting for confirmation. 

“Maybe? I can’t help it,” you offered.

Nancy smirked, quickening her pace of striking Jonathan’s lank within his pants, obviously pleased with your confession.

Jonathan whimpered again as he pawed at Nancy to keep going.

“You two wouldn’t mind if I just take care of Jonathan real quick, would you? I would usually wait until you leave, but we’re past any weirdness, right?” Nancy smiled innocently.

You desperately wanted to argue ‘no, you weren’t passed anything!’… but you couldn’t find it in your heart to care. Not truly. Not in a time like this.

You’d seen Nancy naked more times than you could count over the past 10+ years of your friendship. She’d see you naked, and you’d both certainly seen Steve naked.

As for Jonathan, you’d heard enough about Nancy’s sex life that it honestly didn’t really matter.

Now here you were, almost completely nude, in your best friend's bed, who was currently attempting to jerk off her boyfriend while yours was tracing the outlines of your pussy through your lace panties. All of this is happening against the background noise of some shitty erotica film. This was honestly one of the more pleasant ‘weird’ situations you’ve ended up in.

It would be weirder not take the opportunity that is being presented to you.

Steve’s finally broke the silence. “No, no, go ahead and take care of Byers. In fact, the way Princess is dripping tells me I should probably do the same.”

“STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THATTTT!” you begged, not knowing why Steve was insisting on embarrassing you.

“Relax…” Nancy cooed, gently reaching out to touch your thigh with her free hand.

She thought for a moment. “It’s Fun Film Friday, remember? Just…pretend you’re Princess Elizabeth indulging in her fantasies for a bit. You know, for ‘fun’?”

Nancy’s big eyes searched your face for every micro-expression that crossed your features that might elude to your feelings you hopelessly attempted to hold back - Fear, lust, shame, love. 

Her long fingers caressed up your thigh to your hip bone. Steve’s breathing seemed to quicken, watching Nancy’s movements cautiously.

Nancy’s hand seemed to then dip into your inner thigh before briefly applying pressure against your soaked thong, immediately pulling back.

“Steve? Is she always this responsive?” Nancy asked.

It was a redundant question asked only for Steve’s sake. Nancy knew very well how you secretly yearned to be under someone else's touch at all times. Perhaps you accidentally confessed it to her at one of your many tipsy sleepovers.

But something told you that Nancy Wheeler naturally attracted those who yearned to be controlled.

“Yeah, she’s pretty vocal,” Steve shrugged. “Other times, she gets too quiet. In her head, ya know? I wish Princess could just quiet her little mind sometimes.”

Nancy nodded, moving herself down from the head of the bed near you. She was now positioning her face near Jonathan’s exposed hips, his band t-shirt having come off to reveal his slim torso during the time you’d been distracted. She started shimmying off Jonathan’s jeans down his hips and thighs and off to her bedroom floor.

“This is good. Maybe ‘Princess’ will feel less shy seeing me suck my baby’s leaking cock. Watch into a weeping mess.”

Jonathan whined, cheeks flushed with sweaty arousal (and perhaps his own shame). “‘m not a mess…j-just…”

“Just what, babyboy?” Nancy mocked, yanking Jonathan’s briefs down in a swift motion to reveal his hardened cock springing free, pink tip bouncing against his abdomen. 

The technique Nancy was using was devilishly slow. Her thumb teased up and down a visible vein under Jonathan’s arched shaft, somewhere he so obviously wanted her to touch if the mewls of ‘please’ and ‘thank you, Miss’ were any indication.

Steve placed a forceful kiss on your lips as he adjusted himself, moving out from behind you and down towards the lower half of the bed, similar to where Nancy was lying. 

“Ridiculous,” he shook his head, eyebrows knitted in concentration. Steve began kneeling at the end of Nancy’s bed, pulling your ankles towards him. 

Two things made Steve Harrington unquestionably jealous to the point of breaking. Men who claimed to have better hair than him, and those who continuously happened to catch your wandering eyes, in that exact order. 

“No way in hell I’m gonna let my girl gawk at Jonathan fuckin’ Byers and Nancy goddamn Wheeler when I’m right here.”

Steve pried open your legs. It was hard to make out his exact expression with just the glow of the tv illuminating the room, but the shadows cascading across Steve’s face suggested something primal had awoken within him.

“Yeah, you want Daddy like this? Right here, huh?” Steve cooed, hair tickling your skin. “Let me take good care of you.” 

He admired your legs for a moment, taking his time as he began kissing, biting, and licking up into your inner thigh.

As he finally made his way to your center, Steve’s tongue darted out, lapping up the wetness that had seeped through the lace of your panties with an appreciative ‘hmm’.

His skillful tongue helped maneuver the string of your thong to the side of your crotch with practiced ease.

“You love when I suck your clit, huh, babe,” he mumbled into your folds, teeth immediately seeming to find your clit. Steve suckled softly, brown eyes looking up at you, hoping his talents would elicit the praise of your moans.

Your eyes rolled back, encouraging him to keep going.

Steve eagerly started working his warm mouth from your clit, down your slick folds until he was at your core, throbbing eagerly with need for him. He spread your thighs even further apart to allow himself deeper access to your cunt.

Similar to Nancy’s technique, Steve preferred to start hot and heavy, getting you worked up into a needy mess before slowing the pace down to a painful tease.

Steve’s feverish lapping melted into a gentle massage, taking your pink folds between his lips softly, allowing his tongue the time to trace through every inch of your, no, his pretty pussy, making sure to drink any of your sweet arousal he could. 

There was nothing Steve loved more than to worship your cunt. He always let you know every time he did, making sure to leave you absolutely breathless, a symphony of moans and a body slicked in sweat; still famished for more. 

“Keep going, Nance. Please. A-almost there. I’ve been s’good i-i promise,” Jonathan whined beside you, grabbing for your hand through the layers of sheets, seemingly experiencing his own oral revelations.

Nancy was in her element, sucking Jonathan’s length to the back of her throat with ease. You watched as your best friend bobbed her head back and forth, one hand jerking the base of his cock where her swollen lips simply couldn’t reach.

Her devotion to Jonathan was also just as impressive, making sure to give every inch of his cock undivided attention. Jonathan seemed quite sensitive to begin with, and her technique only heightened the tension within him.

Every pretty moan or whimper Jonathan let out incited the lustful gaze of Nancy, her eyes peering up at him through her spot kneeling on the floor. She was clearly ravished by the fact that her man had become undone while he was deep within the walls of her throat.

Your own partner had become impatient himself, as Steve began to pick up his pace. No longer a tease, but a man in search of glory. His tongue was now circling the rim of your hole, your cunt pulsating in need to have something to fill it.

“Ah… AHH!” You couldn’t help the loud moans Steve was releasing from your body.

“Shhhh,” Jonathan gave you a shy smile, adjusting his torso to be closer to you while Nancy continued her work. “We can’t be t-too loud. What if someone comes home? ‘Sposed to be watching a movie, remember?” He stuttered out, his soft eyes fixated on your lips.

Unexpectedly, Jonathan leaned over, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. You suppose that's an effective way to shut you up.

His tongue began immediately darting out to taste your lips, so gently and lovingly as your mouth opened to allow him in. The kiss was tender, forbidden in a way that was somehow more intimate than just fucking.

It sent an instant shock of arousal straight to your clit, a nearly overwhelming mix of shame and excitement.

You pulled away, unsure of how an overprotective Steve and your best friend would react to you kissing Jonathan.

To your surprise, Nancy was all smiles as she continued working on Jonathan’s cock. She always did share everything with you. Food, clothes, jewelry, and now her boyfriend.

Your eyes quickly shifted to Steve between your legs, who looked somewhat bemused at his girl making out with the other submissive within the group.

You knew Steve had little respect for Jonathan to begin with, referring to him as weak or sensitive almost daily. It was always Nancy he’d been more cautious of when it came to you.

“Good job, Princess.” Steve pulled back, placating your hole by inserting one of his large fingers within you while he talked. “Are you having fun with Byers?”

Nancy leaned back from Jonathan’s thighs, her hand still jerking his cock.

“Okay, they’re kind of adorable? Our two sluts can’t even go ten minutes without touching each other.”

“Maybe our mouths aren’t enough, huh?” Steve suggested, immediately sending you and Jonathan into a fit of denial. ‘No, no, no’.

“What does Jonathan taste like, hun?” Nancy asked you, a smirk on her lips.

“I…” you were lost for words, unable to focus on the present. Everything felt like a dream, hazy around the edges.

“Nancy asked you a question, baby. What does her boytoy taste like?” Steve prodded, removing his fingers from your pussy entirely as punishment for your lack of answers. 

“Here,” Jonathan offered. His cold hand softly squeezes your cheeks, causing your lips to part open. His touch was surprisingly warm, and (unsurprisingly) much softer than Steve’s had been.

He paused, inhaling, then leaning forward and spitting into your mouth. You both let out soft moans as you watched his saliva trail from his lips and onto your tongue.

You felt degraded, but God, it was perfect. You swallowed without being asked, surprisingly desperate for Jonathan in a way that was previously dormant within your desires.

“Cinnamon,” you answered, unsure how to describe the sweet-spiciness of Jonathan that lingered on your taste buds.

“Well, yeah, only ‘cause Byers was eating Hot Tamale candies when we started the movie,” Steve smirked, attempting to find any excuse that would belittle Jonathan.

“That’s true. He does love those things,” Nancy affirmed, leaning back in to lick a long strip up the side length of Jonathan’s cock. The man groaned, immediately wrapping his thighs around her face in need. “But he kinda tastes like that all over, too.”

Steve rolled his eyes, running a finger through your folds again to keep you nice and wet. “Yeah, but Byers has nothing on Princess.”

Nancy sighed. Steve is always trying to make everything a competition. 

“Really? What’s she taste like?”

Steve paused for a second, conflicted between the jealousy that would undoubtedly come with sharing you, and the pride that comes with showing off your perfect body. His perfect body. 

With that, Steve scooched (reluctantly) from his current position, offering your glistening cunt to Nancy. 

You propped yourself up from the pillow and onto your arm, watching as Nancy removed herself from Jonathan’s legs and toward your center.

This was very new territory for you. Steve had been the only one who had been lucky enough to have the opportunity to eat you out - until now.

Unsure of what to do, Steve gently caressed your outer thigh for reassurance.

“Be a good girl for Daddy and let Nancy taste you, yeah? I just wanna show you off a bit.”

You managed to nod, watching as Nancy kneels into your swollen, pink folds. She kept her eyes focused on you through her long lashes.

You knew you were supposed to be freaking out given the circumstances, but all you felt were flutters within your stomach. You almost couldn’t look Nancy in the eyes, hoping she couldn’t see the pink hue that settled into your cheeks.

You averted your gaze, fear starting to settle in. Sure, you were open-minded; this whole night had dissolved into a mess of newness. But this? This could ruin more than a decade of friendship. Your best friend and someone with whom you were closer than some family members. You wanted to stop, but not nearly as much as you wanted to push forward.

A glance at the tv showed the Princess character being fucked by a horde of people in some medieval brothel room; very much not helping your nerves.

Jonathan adjusted himself, pulling you against his chest similar to how Steve held earlier. He could sense your anxiety, wanting to give support.

“Watch it, Byers,” Steve warned. “I’m already whoring her out too much as it is.”

Jonathan said nothing, placing sweet kisses up and down your neck. One of his hands reached around you to palm your tits that had long escaped the confines of your lingerie, finally unclamping the bra and tossing it aside.

The warmth of Nancy’s breath hitting the cool slick of your folds made you feel dizzy. Any words of hesitation caught in your throat as you and Jonathan watched his girlfriend give kitten licks to your dripping pussy. 

You hummed, surprised at the soft pleasure of her affection soothing the previous sting left by Steve’s stubble that had harshly rubbed against your sensitive folds. It was the same, but it was different. A good kind.

Nancy took your vocalization as approval, continuing to move her tongue further into you with each lick. The warmth of her tongue almost suffocates your clit as you let out a whiny moan that Jonathan attempts to cover up once more by kissing you passionately once again.

Steve grumbled in dissatisfaction, upset that the scene in front of him was also awakening new feelings, turning him on drastically. His cock was now painfully hard within his jeans. Steve palmed at his bulge, itching for any sort of relief, but held his tongue. He had bigger priorities right now, including your comfort. Your pleasure. Your safety.

“Put two fingers in her. My Princess loves riding Daddy’s fingers.”

Nancy did as told, inserting two slender fingers into your pussy with ease. You moaned into Jonathan’s mouth, as he barely allowed you time to catch your breath.

While Steve’s fingers were warm and thick inside of you, Nancy’s were cold, and much longer, able to reach further than you were expecting. You swore she could feel the knot-like tension building in your stomach. Nancy began fucking her fingers into you as they curled around your velvet walls in search of that spot you oh-so needed for her to push.

After a gentle push on the head from Steve, Nancy leaned down, now lapping at your cunt. She continued, eyes staring directly up at you and Jonathan before her pouty lips pulled back, glistening with your arousal.

“She does taste good. You’re right for once, Steve.”

Steve smirked, satisfied. “Yeah, it’s addicting. If I’m not fucking her, I want babygirl to be riding my face at all times.”

Jonathan groaned into your shoulder, hands now holding your hips. He desperately pushed his hard member against your thigh, hoping for any sort of friction that could provide relief for the constant teasing Nancy had shown him earlier.

“Would you like that, Jonathan? To let me ride your face while you touch yourself?” Nancy offered, already knowing the answer.

Jonathan nodded eagerly, letting you go and moving back to lie down on the bed.

“For once, Byers and I want the same thing,” Steve said, pushing Nancy out of your thighs and back to the side of the bed she’d been previously occupying.

Steve had been very good and very patient while Nancy and Jonathan had some fun with you. But that was enough. He was done sharing for now and needed you back with him immediately. 

Steve stood from the floor, making his way back to the top of Nancy’s bed. He flopped down onto the pastel pillows, rather excited for what was to come.

All you could do was smile at the silliness that was Steve’s constant jealousy, giving him a tender kiss as the essence of your arousal still lingered on his lips.

⋆｡°✩

Nancy began to strip.

First to come off was her blouse, which she pulled off so quickly that one of the buttons caught in her hair. Next was her simple bra, revealing her small breasts, which you’d seen many times before.

What was surprising was when her shorts fell to her ankles, revealing that she was wearing no panties underneath. Just her naked cunt.

“What?” She asked you.

You scoffed playfully, “You planned this whole damn thing. The movie choice, suggesting the lingerie, no underwear…”

Nancy only shrugged, giving no direct answer. You stripped off the useless garter belt and thong that you still had on before climbing up on the bed.

Steve smiled, still happy as ever. You couldn’t help but relax a bit more, seeing how sweet and eager he always was to please you. You swung your leg over Steve, now gently sitting on his chest.

“You think Steve will let you me ride your face?” Nancy asked lowly, her eyes big and hopeful as she positioned herself over Jonathan’s face.

“NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Steve snapped. “Babygirl is a pillow princess. You both only have the privilege of givin’ her pleasure. I am the only one who she can please, capeche?” 

Nancy rolled her eyes at Steve before turning her focus back to Jonathan, who already had his tongue out, almost panting in anticipation.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the usual possessiveness Steve had over you before following suit, wrapping your thighs around Steve’s head, hovering your pussy over his face.

“Nuh uh, pretty girl. Turn around.”

“What?” you paused. “Do you want me to watch the movie while we do this or something?”

Steve frowned, unamused. “I want to eat you out, baby. Dear god I really, really want to. Just… my dick will fall clean off my body soon from lack of attention.”

“Jesus,” you laughed, reaching back to feel Steve’s obvious bulge desperately trying to escape through the front of his jeans. You obliged, turning around so that your pussy and ass were now in Steve’s face.

You quickly unzipped Steve’s jeans, slim fingers pulling down his boxers to reveal the massive length within his pants. Always intimidating, but you supposed it was a blessing and a curse to have a boyfriend so well endowed.

Nancy was already one step ahead of you both, wasting no time for herself.

“Open your mouth,” Nancy commanded Jonathan, whose mouth was now open wide. “Good job,” she purred, leaning down and spitting into his mouth. 

At least you now know where he got the spit kink from.

Jonathan’s soft ‘thank you’ was barely heard as Nancy immediately pushed her soaking cunt onto Jonathan’s face. She moved back and forth, grinding into Jonathan.

Steve took it upon himself to start as well, pushing his own face into your pussy. 

“Oh fuckkk, Steve!” You gasped, trying your best to focus as Steve greedily pushed his nose up against your ass. His tongue was already buried deep inside you, rough hands on your hips in an attempt to have you rock back into his face before pushing your mouth forward onto his cock. 

You started licking up and down Steve’s shaft in an attempt to lubricate it enough to fit in your mouth. You truly loved nothing more than feeling Steve fucking his cock deep into your throat; you really did. However, it wasn’t just the length that always made such attempts rather tricky, but also the sheer power he held over you in positions like this, even when you were on top. Steve was always in control.

Steve continued, using his tongue to finally fuck your hole that he so nicely teased earlier. His palms were resting on your asscheeks, spreading them open greedily so he could have a better view of every single part of you. 

Steve’s, “keep going, babygirl. You’re doing so well,” seemed to sync up perfectly with Nancy’s “such a whore, Jonathan. Being so good,” creating a symphony of encouragement you didn’t know you needed.

You could feel Steve growl into your pussy when you stroked him in a circular motion, your mouth sucking softly on his balls as he was desperately pushing himself up and into your throat. You began to lick around his swollen head, being mindful to apply some pressure over the slit, where precum was already greeting you. 

Steve moaned into your cunt, vocalizing his pleasure as he swirled your pussy around his face, practically smashing your body back into him. The way he’d maneuver your hips so he could see your asscheeks bounce above him made you feel silly for even worrying about lingerie earlier.

You peeked over to see Nancy having the time of her life, bouncing herself as Jonathan kept his tongue sticking out, flattened for her to ride and use to her own pussy's pleasure. Jonathan’s arms were being held over his head by Nancy, his cock still hard. 

He apparently hadn’t earned the pleasure of touching himself yet; poor thing.

Jonathan’s voice cracked as he looked up at Nancy, almost on the verge of tears. “Keep going. Ride my face harder, please.”

You felt a strong sensation flip-flop within your stomach as Steve pulled his tongue out from between your folds, quickly running it over your pink asshole, something he frequently did to draw your attention back to him during sex. 

And it always works.

You immediately went back to stroking and sucking as much as you could handle of his cock, moans becoming louder, the vibrations pleasing Steve’s length stuffed down your throat.

He responded with his own grunt, pulling you back onto him, shaking his face into your pulsing clit once more. 

A surprising, sharp slap was felt on your right asscheek.

A quick glance to the other side of the bed revealed Nancy, still bucking into Jonathan’s face, but her hand now gripping onto ass. 

“You have to be…” she paused to catch her breath between waves of pleasure. “You have to be quiet for us, okay?” she lectured softly, that same tone she always said so lovingly to you. 

All you could do was nod, muffling any remaining noises with Steve’s cock in your mouth. You could feel Nancy’s delicate fingers still on your ass, helping to guide you onto Steve’s face.

“That’s it… good girl,” Nancy praised with a smile.

Her words must have annoyed Steve, causing a gentle bite to your clit in protest. 

Nancy continued. “You and Jonathan are being such good little whore’s, letting us use you both how we please.”

You and Jonathan let out muffled whimpers of agreement, both of your mouths preoccupied with pleasing your lovers.

Steve pulled his tongue back, just enough to mumble words into your pussy. His warm breath came out in huffs as he tried to steady it.

“Such a pretty little pink pussy, all for Daddy. I feel you tightening on my tongue, yeah? Gonna come for me, Princess? Wanna taste more of you. This cunt belongs to me, yeah? Mmmm. God, I love you so much. My hole to use however I like…Come for Daddy; it’s the least you can. Come for me. Now!”

Steve’s words always did you in, sending you over the edge. Your pussy quivered, becoming slick with cum as Steve continued licking, and grotesque noises filled the room.

Your orgasm caused Nancy to reach her own, slowing herself down as she continued to slide across Jonathan’s face. “Good job, yesss. Feels sooo good,”  she chuckled, riding the high of elation on his face.

She finally released Jonathan’s hands from above, who immediately started jerking himself while Nancy remained seated.

After a moment to catch his breath, Steve playfully tossed your leg off of his chest, causing your body to fall towards the center of the bed. 

Nancy reluctantly dismounted Jonathan, who stopped touching himself with a soft sigh. You turned towards him, trying not to laugh at the hazy bliss that seemed haunt his features.

“Your eyes are all big and dilated,” Jonathan spoke, his voice hoarse.

“So are yours.” You smiled at him. 

You two broke into a small fit of giggles, a seemingly innocent moment shared, before Jonathan leaned in for another kiss. You could taste cinnamon once again, now combined with the slick of Nancy still on his lips. 

You were only torn away when Steve roughly grabbed your ankles, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed. 

“You’re lucky I’m even lettin’ you kiss the bastard, babe. Byers doesn’t deserve it. You’re mine, remember?” Steve snarked, his words low and steady in a way that signified he was not happy.

“No one can use this-” He pushed his finger into your mouth, hooking your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. “-or this-” he continued, pulling the finger out of your mouth and pushing it into your already aching hole, your pussy wrapping around him. “-but me. Got it, Princess?”

You nodded as Steve pulled his finger back. “Yes.”

Steve placed a kiss on your lips, a soft reward for your submission.

Nancy tsked, lying down on the bed beside you, legs hanging over the edge. “There goes Steve, again. Always greedy with his toys.”

“Damn right I am, Wheeler.” 

You couldn’t help but get lost in Nancy’s blue eyes again as she smiled at you. The weirdness and confusion from earlier are now a distant memory.

Nancy offered you a soft smile of assurance before her expression changed into one of immense pleasure. The grunts and whimpers from Jonathan telling you he was finally allowed to slide his cock into her.

Steve followed, flipping your legs up onto his shoulders. He eagerly began to press the head of his cock into your wetness, letting out a soft moan at your warmth.

Just like earlier, Steve loved nothing more than to make you a desperate mess beneath him. The way his cock stretched you open was a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, the sting always addicting. He let out rough grunts as he would pull back, the hot air of the room touching your swollen cunt before he’d plunge deep into you once more.

You couldn’t help the whine that would escape your lips as he patiently filled you up, making you take his cock one inch at a time.

“There you are, Princess. You’re still so tight for me even after all that stretchin’. Your pussy must just love my cock, yeah? Don’t worry, shhh. Just let me keep…” He pulled back out before pushing back in deeper. “-just let me take my time. I know… I know...”

Eventually, Steve had achieved his aim, bottoming out within you. You didn’t even attempt to muffle the loud moan that escaped, basking in the feeling of having your love so far inside of you. So warm, so filled.

He stilled his length for a moment more, allowing you the much-needed time to adjust, the weight of his cock always making a bit of your cervix bulge from your abdomen. 

“There we go. See? First comes a bit of pain, now you get all the pleasure your pretty pussy can take, babygirl. Always doing such a good job for me.” He praised, brown eyes full of nothing but adoration. 

The way Steve paid attention to your body and your needs made you feel like the only woman in the world. You were brought into a completely different headspace, only being drawn back to Earth from the intense sounds of your best friend getting railed next to you. 

The contrast was like night and day. Where Steve was eager to make the moment last, Jonathan was just… eager.

Steve began his slow movements again, the burning pain dissolving into a dull pleasure as your bodies responded to one another. 

Pull out. Your pussy squeezed desperately around his length, tempting Steve’s cock back inside. Push in. 

The feeling of Steve twitching inside you always sent a shiver down your spine. The intimacy between you two intensified as Steve now stood on his toes, his balls slamming greedily against your pussy in an effort to get every inch of himself inside of you.

“Oh, Steveee!” you leaned back against the bed, closing your eyes in pleasure. 

For Steve, that simply wouldn’t do, the attention whore he is.

Steve’s fingers brush through your locks, gripping your hair. He angled your head up so you could better see his length disappear into your dripping core.

“Look at me. Watch how good your pussy takes me, baby. S-so tight. It needs me, yeah? Needs me to fill it and use it and taste it-... and…” He trailed off, beginning to lose his focus. “God, you’re mine. Mine, mine, fucking mine.”

You rolled your head back again as Steve let your hair go.

“Bad girl, what did I say about lookin’ at Daddy?” he growled. Steve instantly grabbed your wrists, stretching your arms over your head, holding your wrists captive in his grip. 

Your gaze fell back to Nancy, who had been watching you this whole time. She continued being fucked in missionary by Jonathan while Steve fucked into you.

“Having fun?” Nancy mouthed.

“So much fun,” you mouthed back.

Steve picked up the pace once more, his hair sticking to his forehead as he planted sloppy kisses on your inner thighs. Your legs began to tremble, your second orgasm nearing.

“Not yet, babygirl. Daddy’s almost there,” Steve growled, picking up the pace to the point he was panting.

You whined softly in annoyance, trying your best to remain patient.

Cold fingers softly made their way over your hips, down your cunt, and onto your clit, as Nancy started rubbing gentle circles. One hand in your pussy, the other rubbing her own clit.

Steve grunted, “Hands to yourself, N-Nance. That’s my job.”

“I’m just helping. If you’re busy holding her wrists, what else is a girl to do?” Nancy said.

You started pushing yourself further onto Steve’s cock in an effort to have the head of his length continue to pound against your cervix. The feeling of Nancy continuing to massage circles in your clit, combined with the pressure that was building in your stomach from Steve, was threatening to have you done for.

“Mmph…Now?” You whined to Steve, glassy eyes begging for any sort of relief.

Steve sighed, clearly agitated. “Ask correctly,” he snapped, barely holding it together himself.

“May I come now, pretty please?”

“Yeah. Of course you can. You’ve been so good. Come for Daddy, Princess.” He groaned, running out of breath.

With the help of Steve’s magic words once again, you both finished together, riding your orgasms until the high melted reality around you.

Steve rutted into you.

“Fuckkkk. Fillin’ you up nice and pretty, yeah - my babies. My pussy. You’re stuck with Daddy. Oh Jesus-… mmmm,” he groaned, almost collapsing as he pressed his weight down and on top of your body. 

He began pressing messy kisses to your salty skin, continuing to rut his cock as far as possible up into your cervix. You closed your eyes as Steve’s hot seed filled you up completely, cum sticking to your thighs. You couldn’t help but bask in the warm satisfaction that had settled into your aching, used core. 

Steve stalled, pushing in only a few more half-hearted pumps before finally pulling out.

He immediately went into boyfriend mode, scrambling to lie beside you on Nancy’s bed, pulling you up into his chest. You grabbed onto the shirt he was still wearing.

“Love you so much, baby. You doin’ okay? No worries, you’re safe,” he whispered into your hair. The sweet nothings mixed with his soothing voice began to calm your soul, slowing your pulsing clit.

It seemed Nancy had found her way into her own world of pleasure, riding out her orgasm with Jonathan beside you.

“Holy fucking shit, so hot. Yes, keep going, Jonathan. Don’t-don’t stop.”

Jonathan didn’t have to be told twice, continuing the same pace, clearly exhausted. His whole body was trembling, and the beautiful sounds he was making only hinted at the absolute whining mess he always was. 

Once Nancy seemed to settle under the same dissipating euphoria after her orgasm, she finally said the magic words Jonathan had been wanting to hear all damn night.

“Mkay, baby boy. Come for me-”

Jonathan pushed himself quickly into Nancy’s cunt, coming almost instantly at the command. His loudest whines yet fell from his lips, so vulnerable. Jonathan’s pace began to slow, his face full of relief as he finally pulled out.

Glassy-eyed and absolutely spent, Jonathan immediately crawled onto Nancy, seeking warmth and undoubtedly words of affection.

The four of you relished in the moment, coming down from your orgasms in the peace of Nancy’s room.

The movie you had previously started finished long ago, leaving only the azul glow of the tv default screen to show the contentment that settled on your faces.

The moment was immediately ruined by the extremely aggressive slamming on Nancy’s door, causing the four of you jump in fear.

“TURN DOWN YOUR GODDAMN MOVIE, NANCY!! I HAVE FRIENDS OVER!!” 

Mike Wheeler was not happy, the doorknob shaking violently as he tried to enter. Thank god Jonathan was thoughtful enough to lock the door behind him earlier tonight.

Nancy pushed out a half-shout, yelling back in what her strained voice could manage.

“shIT! SoRRY, MikEY!”

You could hear Mike's heavy footsteps retreat down the stairs, leaving you shocked at what had just happened.

The surprise visitor, the sex, the horrible movie. It would take at least a few days for your brain to recover.

“Well, I wasn’t really expecting a second dose of adrenaline so quickly,” you teased. 

Steve grumbled in agreement, pressing kisses into your hair.

“I thought you said the house was empty, Nance.”

“It was empty. I can’t control Mike and his stupid friends. They always end up back here,” Nancy sighed, scratching Jonathan’s back as he remained happily sprawled out on top of her.

Steve’s hand reached towards the night’s stand, grabbing a handful of Milk Duds he’d been snacking on earlier. He brought them to your lips, feeding you one at a time.

“Hey, looks like movie night was a success! What was that movie supposed be about, again?” Steve asked.

“A princess who lives a double life as a prostitute,” Jonathan mumbled into Nancy’s skin.

“Oh yeah,” Steve nodded, his finger hooking into your jaw gently to have you look at him. “Dumb movie. You’re the only princess I care about.”

You leaned in to kiss him, feeling the bed dip as Nancy began moving Jonathan’s tangle of slim limbs off of her in an attempt to stand.

“Anyone hungry? I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

“You’re always hungry,” Jonathan smiled.

“It’s 10 pm. Mel’s Diner on Main should still be open,” you suggested, a common spot you and the Party frequented after many late-night crawls.

Nancy nodded, standing up to stretch before searching for her clothes.

The rest of you followed. Steve was first to find your bra, which had been half-hazardously tossed onto one of Nancy’s lampshades in the middle of your… events.

“It did look nice on you, ya know? I was more than surprised.” Steve smiled, helping you put the bra on.

You began venturing around the room for your thong, as the others were now fully dressed. Unable to find it, you shimmied your way into your jeans and the t-shirt you’d worn upon arriving at Nancy’s this afternoon.

You’d find them eventually. Right now, salty fries and a gluttonous milkshake were very much your priority.

⋆｡°✩

The floaty feeling in your head didn’t really go away.

This made it rather difficult for the four of you to give your best efforts to remain quiet. You tiptoed through the hallway and down the stairs. The front door wasn’t far. A few steps to freedom.

You could hear the kids chatting in the kitchen, allowing you a quick getaway if all went well.

It was somewhat expected that Steve’s weight would cause one of the steps to groan loudly, immediately summoning Mike and Dustin to gather at the landing.

“Hey, what the hell? You all were up there watching a movie?!” Mike asked, clearly confused.

As far as Mike could remember, Nancy never held movie nights in her room, always in the living room with the larger tv and always with many failed attempts at shushing the campaign night he held in the basement.

Mike’s eyes met each of yours, assessing the pink flush that still lingered on your faces. You had no doubt your mascara had smeared a bit during your physical activity.

Nancy scoffed. “So, having people in my room is a crime, now? I wasn’t aware you owned the damn house.”

Mike’s expression soured, sensing unusually high tension.

“What were you watching up there that sounded so…” Mike trailed off.

“Sexually explicit,” Dustin offered. “We could totally hear, like, muffled moaning through the ceiling vents.” 

Steve had planned for such accusations, having the foresight to grab the movie from Nancy’s tv before leaving. He shoved the tape into Mike’s hand.

“It’s called Passions of the Undone, if you want to be so nosy. It’s a romance story that isn’t made to be viewed by innocent eyes like yours,” he smirked.

“You could’ve just watched it down here,” Mike snapped back, refusing to let the moment go, much to your dismay. “We can watch R-rated movies now. Robin used to rent them to us all the time at Family Video.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Robin. This shit here is NC-17, kid, which means ‘No Children’. And you two, as far as I’m  concerned, are children, now and forever, whether you like it or not.” Steve huffed victoriously, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Was the moaning because of zombies? Is there lots of gore?” Dustin asked. 

“What? No, Hernderson. What romance movie has ‘lots of gore’? Sometimes, adults just want to enjoy things in private, in the comfort of a bed. Okay?”

Mike flipped the tape over and read the film description aloud. 

“‘ Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark'…okay yeah. Gross. That explains the weird-ass moaning noises.”

Mike shoved the tape back towards Steve, clearly satisfied with the explanation.

“WAIT WAIT! Does this Elizabeth chick go topless?” Dustin asked eagerly. “Cause I totally have a homework assignment due Monday that requires watching a European erotica film right nowwwwww.”

“You’ll never know,” Nancy added, ushering the three of you out the door. “We’re off to Mel’s. Don’t burn the house down,” Nancy warned Mike, slamming the front door shut.

The mood seemed to instantly shift again, lighter now without the aggressive questioning. The cool air felt nice against your warm skin. The stars were out, and Hawkins felt even more peaceful during quiet hours like this.

Jonathan gestured towards his sedan, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.

“You know, one of us is going to have to actually watch Passions of the Undone. The boys will talk to Robin, and Robin will bombard us with scene-by-scene questions because we finally took one of her film recommendations,” you chuckled softly.

“God fuckin’ damnit, you’re right,” Steve shook his head fondly, sliding the movie securely into his denim jacket. “Now I am the one with the homework assignment of watching a European erotica before my next Squawk shift. Could be worse, I guess.”

Steve’s hand rested on your ass, giving it a brief squeeze before helping you into the backseat of Jonathan’s car - the gentleman he was.

“No panties, babe? I know Mel’s ain’t fancy, but they probably still require decency,” Steve teased, giving you a playful swat before sitting beside you, buckling your seatbelt.

With a soft smile, you leaned back into the seat.

You hadn’t been too worried about the whereabouts of your cheap lingerie until now, when you spotted the thin line of a familiar black lace waistband peaking out of Nancy’s shorts.

The lace was clearly on display for you while she bent down to sit in the front passenger seat beside Jonathan. Your used panties. What you’d just soaked through maybe less than half an hour ago. What Steve had maneuvered off of you with his tongue, now being worn so casually as if normal for best friends.

It was sick -weird. So incredibly Nancy to pull such a power move right under your nose. You knew if you ever wanted them back, it’d be up to you to pry them off, Steve and Jonathan be damned.

Nancy turned to face you, seeing your bewildered gaze exactly where she was hoping it’d be.

For the first time in a long time, you were the one finally gawking at her.

Joel

‘Fuck this shit!’

Joel growled, wiping sweat off his forehead, and grabbed another nail. The nagging bitch which he called his wife had made him fix the fence in this damn heat so he was gritting his teeth at the Texan sun that had been fucking everyone in the ass every day that summer.

The back door creaked and Joel turned his head toward the sound. Here you were — his cock-hungry stepdaughter, sauntering into the yard with a glass of lemonade in hand and a pretty smile on your face. You were wearing a tight top and the shortest Daisy Dukes he'd ever seen in his life. Damn! He was really lucky to have such a slut walking around the house.

"Thanks," Joel barked before taking the glass from you and downing the refreshing liquid in one go. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, shamelessly checking out your naked legs, tummy and cleavage. "Get me a beer next time. I ain't twelve."

"K," you shrugged and headed back. Joel covered his eyes from the sun and ogled your asscheeks, poking out from under the jeans shorts. Ughhh... He adjusted himself with a grunt, already in need of a release - only a minute next to you and he already popped a semi. But that goddamn fence wasn't done. And his wife was home. 'Fuck my life!' Joel thought and kept on working.

A few minutes later you surprised him when instead of hiding inside the house from the unbearable heat you came out, sat on a lawn chair and stretched forward your gorgeous naked legs.

Joel scoffed, noting that you didn’t throw one glance at him but instead pulled your phone out and started click-clacking over the screen.

Joel spat onto the glass, thinking that you deserved a good spanking, didn’t you have anything else to do besides taunting him with your sexy body? His balls were getting heavier the longer he was staring at you but he wanted to finish the work today so he turned around and continued to hammer away.

Joel considered himself to be a strong-willed person, yet he couldn’t help but check you out again and again. Without a care in the world, not aware of his struggles, not looking at him at all, you were focused on your phone, your fingers typing.

Soon Joel realized it would be impossible to work — his head kept turning your way, his attention drawn to your gorgeous, almost naked body. Besides, he was getting really annoyed by you giggling like a silly schoolgirl, distracting him from his task.

Of course, you were addicted to your stupid phone like everyone in your generation so Joel didn’t think much of it at first but you kept tapping and laughing, laughing and tapping and Joel snapped. You knew your stepdad’s rule number one — ‘NO BOYS’ so who the fuck were you texting?

Joel threw the hammer on the grass and stomped to you.

“Whatcha gigglin’ about?” He gruffed, stopping so close, his leg was touching yours. Not waiting for an answer he unceremoniously grabbed your phone out of your hands.

“Hey! Give it back!” You jumped onto your feet, matching your stepdad’s scowl with your own. Joel didn’t give a fuck. He looked at the screen and his expression softened when he saw a girl's name at the top. For a second he almost felt bad, thinking that he had overreacted and you had just been talking to your friend, but he knew better than to trust such a slut like you so he began scrolling up and found a video.

“Joel, you can’t do this!” you exclaimed, trying to take your phone back, but Joel pushed your hands away and pressed Play. Music and loud voices filled the yard and Joel turned the volume down not to attract his wife's attention.

“No! Give it!” You tried to grab your phone again but Joel turned around and kept watching.

It looked like a house party and you were dancing with a girl among other people.

“Lookin’ like a slut… what a shocker!” Joel growled, getting even hornier at the sight of you in a short tight dress. His eyes were getting progressively wider the longer he was watching the girl and you grind against one another, hands roaming each other’s bodies, until she leaned over and kissed you on the lips.

Joel’s jaw dropped and cock twitched.

He was staring at you two making out for a few seconds and then the video ended.

A scowl returned to Joel’s face and he hissed through his clenched teeth, “What the hell is this?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, sneaking your phone out of his big hands, your anger gone and quickly replaced by embarrassment. You looked like a puppy who’d just wet the floor. Joel placed his hands on his hips, his pose intimidating.

“Didn’t look like nothin’, little slut. Why were you kissin’ that chick?”

“We were just dancing, Joel.” You kept looking at your feet, avoiding your stepdad’s glare. It was almost cute but Joel was too angry and horny to be charmed.

“I saw that. You always shove your tongue into other people’s mouths when you dance? Is she your girlfriend?”

“No!” You finally lifted your head, locking eyes with your stepdad. “Well…”

“Well?”

“We’ve just met but… I like her,” you said with a trace of defiance in your shaky voice.

Joel narrowed his eyes.

“You a lesbian now? As far as I remember you were happily bouncin’ on my cock just two days ago.”

“Yeah but ..,” you held your head high and declared, “I’m exploring my sexuality. I don’t wanna limit myself to boys. Or.. men.”

Joel inched closer to you and anger rumbled in his chest as he gruffed,

“Ya better limit yourself to this cock or we're gonna have a problem.”

You were staring up at him with concern in your Bambi eyes, then threw a glance at the house, making sure your mom wasn’t looking, and put your hand on his broad chest.

“But, daddy,” you purred, pressing your body to his. “You said that I can be with girls.”

Joel was still glaring down at you but your sweet tone, your soft hand on his pack, your pretty eyes full of submission, all that made his cock harden and heart soften.

“Yeah, yeah…,” he muttered, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips. Joel was conflicted, he wanted to have full control over his stepdaughter, wanted you to be horny just for him but the images of you fucking another chick made his dick very very happy.

So he leaned over and asked with a wolfish smile,

“Did you eat ‘er pussy yet?”

“Oh my god, Joel! No!” You took a step back from him and crossed your arms over your chest. Your tits looked even better now. “I said we just met.”

“Who knows what you kids do these days. A bunch of pervs.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Aren’t you the one fucking your stepdaughter?”

“Watch it!” Joel pointed his thick finger at you and added, “Or no more daddy’s dick for ya!”

Your expression soured and you were fumbling with your fingers for a few moments, then looked at Joel and said quietly,

“I still want you to… to use me. All the time.” Then you glanced at your phone and added, “But I really like her.”

“Aww,” Joel mocked your confession with a sarcastic tone. “I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

Now you looked downright hurt and he hated when you were in a sulk — your pussy wasn’t as wet, your blow job technique turned sloppy and not in a good way. He liked you needy and willing to give yourself to him completely.

So Joel took a deep breath and sighed,

“Pussies are ok, I guess.”

When you heard him, your face lit up and you bounced on your feet with excitement.

“Thank you, daddy!” You chirped but Joel quickly wiped the smile off your face when he added,

“But if you two fuck I wanna hear the details.”

“Eww, Joel! You’re the worst!” you exclaimed and crossed your arms again.

Meanwhile Joel’s eyes skimmed the windows, looking out to the yard. He was painfully hard but his wife could catch you and him inside the house. Suddenly a bright idea popped into his mind.

“Let’s go to the shed! All this pussy talk made me hard.”

Joel grabbed you by your arm and began leading you to a small construction on the other side of the yard. Your eyes widened and you screeched,

“Spider shed?”

“There aren’t any spiders, jeez… Your mom’s home. She’ll see us inside.”

“Any shed has spiders!”

You were trying to free your arm from Joel’s iron grip but he was relentlessly pulling you forward.

“Not this one! And you gonna be busy taking my cock. Spiders will be the last thing on your mind,” Joel chuckled, already opening an old wooden door.

“Mom can catch us here too!” You whined, giving him your last argument, but Joel was already pushing you inside.

“Nah. She’d never believe you’re in the spider shed.”

“Joel!!!”

You

Joel was right. It was hard to think about anything else except a huge schlong filling your mouth, a fat tip hitting the back of your throat. Your stepdad was towering over you in a tiny shed, his feet planted wide apart, his sweatpants and boxers tucked under his sweaty balls, while you were on your knees, gagging and drooling all over his crotch. The musk hitting your nostrils was intoxicating you, the salty taste of his sweat and precum made you salivate so much, your chest and top were soaked. Your eyes were watering profusely, tears streamed down your cheeks. You looked like shit with all the throat fucking and the temperature inside the shed being hellish, but damnnnn you were in heaven.

“Yeah— fuck—take it—take it—take it,” Joel chanted, rocking his hips and pushing his cock deeper down your throat with each thrust. You were doing your best, trying to breathe through your nose, but Joel was like a feral animal, smashing his lower belly into your face so fast, you started suffocating.

Desperate for air you scratched his hairy thighs and his hand, that was clutching your hair, roughly pulled you off his cock.

“What?!” he grunted, stroking his glistening shaft. You were coughing and wheezing, blinking your tears away and swaying on your shaky knees. You couldn’t reply and Joel slapped your cheek with his big wet cock and chuckled,

“Look at you. Nothing better than daddy’s dick, right?”

Your throat was sore already and you just nodded, looking up at him with your glossy eyes.

“Reckon that’s enough for your suckin’ hole. Let’s use your fuckin’ hole,” your stepdad smirked and pulled you up onto your feet. He pushed you to an old workshop table in the corner, unzipped your shorts and manhandled you to lie down on it.

You scrunched your nose in disgust feeling the dusty surface under your hands but the desire to get railed was so strong, you didn’t complain.

Joel looked insanely hot— his golden skin glistening with sweat, his hair wet and dark, his neck veins bulging.

“Spread ‘em. Knees bent. Yeah like that,” Joel threw commands at you after taking your shorts off and leaving you ass-naked. As always in your stepdad’s house, per his rule, you had no panties on.

“Here's my favourite cunt,” he said with a carnal smile, staring between your thighs, his head titled to the side. Your holes were fully exposed to him and Joel lightly slapped your pussy, coaxing a needy whine out of you, then laughed at your reaction and repeated the spanks a few times, watching you jerk again and again, each slap sending electricity through your whole body.

“Slutty snatch. Droolin’ when she gets spanked.”

Joel’s obsidian eyes were set on your leaking entrance, his breathing heavy, then he licked his lips, bent down and latched onto your spread cunt like a man starving.

“Oh my god!” When his hot mouth crashed against your heat, you gasped and arched your back. Your mind was short-circuiting as Joel began lapping at your folds, sucking on each pussy lip, flicking your clit with his tongue. It was his turn to drool now. Soon your already wet cunt was drenched with a mixture of your juices and his saliva.

Joel locked eyes with yours, his lips and facial hair shiny with your slick, and smirked, “Watch me,” then opened his mouth wide and stuck his tongue out. The next second he pushed it into your dripping hole and started tongue-fucking you, grunting and slurping, keeping your folds spread with his thumbs. You lifted your torso on your elbows and watched Joel eat you out, committing the sight and the sensation to memory for your later ‘self-care’ sessions.

Even biting your lips you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning and whimpering, filling the small space with your noises. You dropped your head back when pleasure rippled through your body, heat rose up in your core and you began shaking on the table, a hard orgasm hitting you like a freight train.

“No one’ll eat you as good as me. Got it?” Joel gruffed, parting from your hole that was clamping around nothing, then pushed your trembling hips down and kept sucking on your pussy throughout your shattering climax.

“Yes—yes—no one,” you mumbled as if drunk. When your orgasm began subsiding, your limbs felt weak, your body spent.

“And no one will fuck you as good as daddy,” he smirked, straightening up and settling between your legs. His cock landed heavily on your mound and lower belly and you shifted on the table, eager to fill up your wet but empty hole.

Apparently Joel wanted to play with you first, so he dragged his big fuzzy balls against your puffy pussy and you jerked, overstimulation burning you.

“Beg me to fuck you,” your stepdad gruffed and roughly snapped his hips into you, his leaky cockhead drawing a wet line on your skin. You wanted him so much, you’d do anything. You locked your blown out eyes with his and purred like a good stepdaughter,

“Please, fuck me, daddy.”

“Yeah? You want it?” He asked and pushed his hips into you again. Your core was aching for him so you nodded eagerly.

“I do, Joel. So much.”

“Good girl.”

Your hardened clit twitched as you heard his praise and when Joel finally began pushing his big rock-hard meat inside your pussy, you took a deep breath and relaxed all your muscles, getting ready to take him. Even after being opened up with his tongue, taking Joel’s cock was not an easy feat for your tight pussy yet extra pleasant for Joel, judging by the way his face twisted in ecstasy.

“Fuckmeeeeeee,” he exhaled, bottoming out inside you. “Best place on earth, this cunt.”

You smiled at him, filled to the maximum with joy and his cock, but he didn’t give you much time to enjoy the compliment because the next moment he grabbed your hips tightly and started rocking your world. The rutting was relentless and though you were holding onto the table, your back was still sliding up and down with every hard thrust and pull.

Joel was groaning, fucking into you, his curls wet and sticking to his sweaty forehead, his jaws clenched. He looked so hot your eyes might as well be hearts.

Your stepdad’s cock was rubbing the soft gummy spot inside you deliciously and you felt another orgasm building and brought your fingers to your clit to help yourself come.

Joel slapped your hand away.

“I’ll do it,” he barked and began rubbing your puffy bud with his calloused thumb. You knew that he'd do it better than you so there were no objections and soon you were thrashing against the table, seeing stars while coming on Joel’s fat cock.

“Shit…gonna… bust…,” Joel choked on his words and started spurting his load deep inside you. With his thick fingers digging into your thighs, he was pumping you full for what felt like hours. Before him you had never known a man who could jizz so abundantly, and while you were praying for your pill to battle through, your pussy was greedily milking him, wanting more and more of his hot sticky cum.

When his balls were drained, Joel planted his hands on the table by your sides and hovered over you, covered in sweat, catching his breath. His cock was still anchored inside you and your walls were clamping around it from time to time.

“Damn,” he chuckled as your eyes met.

“Yeah, damn,” you repeated, giving him a hazy and satisfied smile.

Finally, Joel pulled out and wiped the wetness off his face with his tee that looked completely soaked. Breathing heavily, he picked up and threw your shorts at you and after you both got dressed, he came up to you, pinched your chin and turned your head to face him.

“So that chick of yours…” You swallowed loudly, scared that he’d prohibit you from seeing your crush, but Joel surprised you. “You can fool around with her, I ain’t stoppin’ ya but —…” he leaned down, pressed his wet lips to yours and then whispered, “don’t forget that you’re mine.”

That word hit you straight in the sore pussy and you almost moaned. Mine.

“And my rule still stands,” Joel gruffed, his breath hot on your lips. “The only cock you take is daddy’s. Repeat it.”

“The only cock I take is daddy’s.”

“That’s right,” he nodded and turned around before saying over his shoulder,

“Wait for five minutes and then come out.”

Your jaw dropped.

“I’m not staying in the spider shed alone! Joel!” you yelled but your stepdad was already out of the door.

Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you liked the story. I appreciate your support💞

Stepdad Joel Masterlist || MASTERLIST

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. . .

The dorm room had the curtains pulled and the blanket draped over both of them like they were hiding from the world on purpose.

Which, technically, they were.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor with a large blanket pooled over her shoulders, the bong set carefully between her and Nancy like it was an important centerpiece. The little bag of beautiful Purple Palm Tree Delight sat off to the side with the rest of her “supplies,” and the air was already thick and warm in that unmistakable way.

Nancy sat opposite her, knees pulled up, edge of the blanket draped down her back.

She watched Y/N take a hit and exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.

“I cannot believe,” Nancy said, voice flat, “that you talked me into skipping fifth period.”

Y/N blinked slowly, very calm, very pleased with herself. “I didn’t talk you into it.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did.”

Y/N shrugged like it was obvious. “You were already emotionally exhausted and you hate that class.”

“I hate my calculus class,” Nancy corrected, “but I love my GPA.”

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the blanket slide a little down her back more. “Then consider this an investment in your mental health.”

Nancy stared at her. “That’s not how school works.”

Y/N smiled and nudged the bong and lighter a little closer to Nancy. “You’re holding it like it’s going to bite you.”

Nancy muttered, “It does bite me,” but she took it anyway with the careful seriousness of someone handling contraband.

Y/N watched her with open satisfaction. “I prefer you high,” she announced.

Nancy blinked. “Excuse me.”

“You heard me, Wheeler,” Y/N repeated. “You’re nicer.”

Nancy scoffed. “I’m always nice.”

Y/N gave her a look.

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’m… tolerable.”

Y/N smiled sweetly. “Exactly. When you drink you get do your ‘bullshit, bullshit’ babbles and you get really sad.”

Nancy’s face tightened. “I do not get sad.”

Y/N lifted her eyebrows.

Nancy sighed. “I get… reflective.”

“And then you whine,” Y/N said.

“I do not whine,” Nancy snapped.

“And act like the whole world is against you,” Y/N’s smile widened. “Not to mention, you cried at that movie we saw a couple months back.” 

Nancy’s face went instantly red. “You cried too!”

“I lived Wil Wheaton’s life in that movie,” she said, grabbing the bong again. “Parents thought writing was a waste of time.”

Nancy pointed at her. “First of all, his name was Gordie—“

“I don’t care.” Y/N took a hit and exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. “All I know is you’re my River Phoenix to my Wil Wheaton.”

Nancy made a strangled sound. “Oh my god, River’s name was Chris. And Wil was—“

“I’m trying to have a sentimental moment, dammit.”

Nancy stared at her for a beat, still pink in the cheeks, then sighed like she was being forced into emotional vulnerability at gunpoint.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Go ahead. Sentimentalize.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up. “Thank you.”

Nancy rolled her eyes, but her voice softened anyway. “You’re still wrong. It’s Gordie and Chris.”

Y/N waved a hand dismissively, blanket sliding down her shoulder. “Details. Not important.”

“They’re literally the only important part,” Nancy said, but she was smiling now, small, reluctant.

Y/N leaned closer, lowering her voice like it was some sacred confession. “You get it, though.”

Nancy blinked. “Get what?”

“The whole thing,” Y/N said, gesturing vaguely with the bong like it was a microphone. “Being young and…not really feeling safe at home. Feeling like nobody believes in you until you leave. Having your one person.”

Nancy’s expression shifted, the teasing fading into something more careful. “Y/N…”

Y/N shrugged like she didn’t care, but her eyes were too bright for it. “I’m just saying. You’re my one person.”

Nancy’s mouth opened, then closed again like she was offended by the softness trying to happen.

“You’re high,” Nancy said finally.

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

“And dramatic.”

“Also yes.”

Nancy huffed, then reached under the blanket and nudged Y/N’s knee with hers. “Fine. If we’re doing this…”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “We are doing this?”

Nancy looked away, voice quieter. “You can be my… whatever. Too. I guess.”

Y/N grinned. “Your Wil Wheaton.”

Nancy groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Never say that again.”

Y/N laughed. “Okay, okay…your Gordie.”

Nancy pointed at her, satisfied. “That’s better.”

Y/N’s smile softened. “So we’re agreed.”

Nancy sighed like she hated agreements. “We’re agreed.”

Nancy took another hit just to avoid the argument and handed it back, eyes slightly watery. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Y/N said, taking it, “I’m your best friend.”

Nancy muttered, “Against my will.”

Y/N leaned her head back against the bedframe behind them, letting the smoke curl up under the blanket. Her voice went dreamy. “This is so cozy.”

Nancy stared at her. “We are literally hotboxing our dorm room.”

Y/N nodded. “Cozy.”

Nancy opened her mouth, then closed it, because she didn’t have the energy to fight semantics with someone who was already floating.

They sat like that for a while, passing the bong back and forth, giggling quietly when something stupid became suddenly profound, taking turns saying half-finished thoughts like they were philosophy.

At one point Nancy started ranting about how the student newspaper budget was “a personal insult,” and Y/N listened with the kind of intense seriousness that only happened when she was high.

“You should do an exposé,” Y/N whispered.

Nancy blinked at her. “On the budget?”

“On the whole system,” Y/N corrected, nodding like she’d cracked the code of society. “The man is oppressing you.”

Nancy stared at her for three seconds, then snorted. “You are so annoying.”

Y/N grinned. “I’m right.”

Nancy leaned back and murmured, “Maybe.”

Y/N laughed, then suddenly sat upright like she’d been struck by lightning.

Nancy squinted. “Why are you moving like that?”

Y/N poked her head out of the blanket and blinked at the clock on the wall.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my God.”

Nancy’s face tightened. “What?”

“We have an assembly,” Y/N whispered urgently.

Nancy stared. “We do not.”

Y/N pointed at the clock like it was a courtroom exhibit. “After our last period that we…didn’t go to.”

Nancy’s mouth fell open slightly. “Oh my God.”

Y/N was already scrambling. She threw the blanket off like it was on fire, smoke releasing into the room as she reached into her drawer, and whipped out a bottle of eye drops like a professional.

Nancy lurched to her feet, suddenly sober in the way panic always did that. “This is your fault.”

Y/N tilted her head while squeezing drops into her eyes. “How?”

“You’re the one who said ‘mental health investment,’” Nancy snapped, grabbing her perfume off her desk.

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to clear the redness. “It is mental health.”

Nancy sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it aggressively like that would erase all evidence. “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Y/N capped the eye drops and handed them to Nancy. “Here. Fix your eyeballs.”

Nancy took them, grumbling. “My eyeballs are fine.”

She put the drops in anyway.

Y/N rushed to crack the window, fanning the air with her notebook. Nancy grabbed a sweatshirt and started shaking it out like she was trying to create a breeze strong enough to remove guilt from the room.

“This is why I prefer you high,” Y/N said, fanning faster. “You get productive.”

Nancy shot her a look. “I hate you.”

Y/N grinned. “No you don’t.”

Nancy sprayed perfume again. “If anyone asks, we were cleaning.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “We were cleaning our…vibes.”

Nancy stared at her. “Stop talking.”

Y/N grabbed her bag, still blinking rapidly. “Okay, mom.”

Nancy shoved her notebook into her tote, then paused and looked at Y/N over the top of it. “If we walk into that assembly smelling like a hippie’s dream, I’m ending our friendship.”

Y/N pointed at the perfume cloud. “That’s why you’re here.”

Nancy rolled her eyes and grabbed Y/N’s sleeve. “Come on. Move. Before they lock the doors.”

Y/N stumbled toward the door with her, laughing under her breath as Nancy dragged her down the hall like a frustrated chaperone.

And despite the panic, despite the eye drops and perfume and the fact they were absolutely going to walk in late, Y/N couldn’t help thinking:

This was the best kind of trouble.

. . . 

Nancy and Y/N made it out of the dorm looking almost normal.

Almost.

Their eyes were a little too shiny, their smiles a little too easy, and their steps had that tiny delay to them, like their brains were politely waiting for the rest of their bodies to catch up.

They walked fast anyway, cutting across campus with the kind of urgency that only came from two people who knew they were late and were trying not to act like it.

Nancy kept her tote bag clutched tight to her side like it contained state secrets. Y/N kept blinking like her eyelashes were heavy.

“Okay,” Nancy muttered, glancing ahead at the auditorium building. “We can still do this.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “We can do this.”

Nancy shot her a look. “Do not say it like you’re giving a speech.”

“I’m not,” Y/N said, offended. “I’m affirming.”

Nancy sighed. “You’re high.”

“I’m focused,” Y/N corrected.

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “You were focused when you called perfume ‘air makeup’ thirty seconds ago.”

“That was accurate,” Y/N insisted. “Because it covers… the air’s face.”

Nancy stared forward. “Stop talking. You’re going to get us caught.”

Y/N leaned closer as they walked, voice dropping conspiratorially. “What if the auditorium has like…smell detectors?”

Nancy’s head snapped toward her. “It doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because smell detectors aren’t a thing,” Nancy hissed.

Y/N considered that deeply, then nodded like Nancy had just explained a scientific theorem. “Okay. But what if someone can smell fear?”

Nancy’s expression went flat. “They can. And you smell like it.”

Y/N gasped. “Rude.”

Nancy pointed a finger at her without slowing down. “If you say one more sentence that starts with ‘what if,’ I’m leaving you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, then she whispered, very seriously, “What if I leave you?”

Nancy blinked. “You can’t. You don’t know directions.”

Y/N stopped walking for half a second just to look offended. ‘Fuck, I hate when she’s right.’

Nancy grabbed her sleeve and dragged her forward again.

“Come on,” Nancy muttered. “We’re going to walk in and act like we belong.”

“We do belong,” Y/N said, nodding. “We pay tuition.”

Nancy whispered through her teeth, “Just shush.”

They reached the doors to the main auditorium and slowed, both of them instinctively trying to smooth themselves down. Nancy adjusted her hair. Y/N tugged her sweater into place. Nancy checked her eyes in a compact mirror.

Y/N peered at the heavy doors and whispered, “These doors are intimidating.”

Nancy’s brows knit. “They’re doors.”

“What if the door swing at me really fast and knocks me out?” Y/N insisted.

Nancy exhaled slowly. “You’re not allowed to speak once we go in.”

Y/N nodded. “Okay.”

They walked inside.

The sound hit them first, hundreds of voices, chairs shifting, the low roar of an entire student body being forced into one room. The main auditorium was filling quickly, rows of seats packed, aisles crowded with late arrivals and staff.

A banner hung near the stage: END-OF-YEAR PREPARATION ASSEMBLY in bold institutional lettering that looked like it hated joy.

Nancy leaned toward Y/N and whispered, “This is my nightmare.”

Y/N whispered back, “This is my nightmare too.”

Nancy blinked. “That was normal. I’m proud of you.”

Y/N smiled, then immediately ruined it by whispering, “What if everyone’s brains sync up in here.”

Nancy’s face dropped. “Oh my God.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N murmured, “this many people in one room? That’s a lot of thoughts.”

Nancy grabbed her elbow. “Stop. You’re going to spiral.”

They moved down the side aisle, and that’s when Nancy stiffened.

Because the stage wasn’t empty.

Faculty were already in their seats at the front, some on the stage itself, some in a reserved section just below it. There was a long table set up on stage with name placards, water pitchers, stacks of papers, and microphones that weren’t turned on yet.

And there, sitting at the table with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies placard near him, was Henry.

Not in lecture mode.

In official mode.

Suit jacket on. Tie neat. Posture straight. His hair combed back like he’d never once been touched by chaos. He looked like he belonged on a stage in front of an audience, which made Y/N’s stomach dip with a mix of pride, nerves, and the sudden realization of how exposed this was.

Because being on campus with him was one thing.

Being on stage with him was another.

And of course her brain chose right now—stoned, sleep-deprived, and emotionally fragile—to decide Henry Creel in a tie was the most offensive thing she’d ever seen.

It wasn’t even fair.

Even from across the auditorium, she could see the disciplined line of his throat above his collar. Something about that pristine appearance-so controlled, so proper-made her want to mess it up.

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

Not from nerves.

From a thought she did not ask for.

Nancy’s hand tightened around Y/N’s elbow. “Oh, great,” she muttered. “Your favorite authority figure.”

Y/N didn’t answer because if she opened her mouth she might say something unforgivable like he looks so hot I could pass away. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her pulse thumped in her throat.

Nancy’s gaze flicked from Henry to the table to the sea of students. “You know you’re going to have to sit up there,” she whispered.

“I know,” Y/N whispered back, swallowing hard.

Her eyes kept drifting back to Henry's hands on the table-long fingers, steady, the cuff of his shirt showing just enough to make her remember how those same hands looked when they would explore every inch of her body.

She blinked fast, trying to clear it like eye drops could fix thoughts.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “And you are currently….”

Y/N blinked slowly. “I am currently.”

Nancy exhaled, pained. “You’re stoned.”

Y/N nodded once. “Yes.”

And apparently horny, her brain added, because it hated her.

Nancy made a sound that was half prayer, half threat. “Okay. We can still do this.”

Y/N stared at Henry's profile-the calm professionalism that made him look like he'd never once been touched by chaos. It made everything feel too real, too dangerous. It also made her remember how he looked when he stopped being professional, which was absolutely not helping right now.

Then she leaned toward Nancy and whispered, very seriously, “What if I wave at him and my arm falls off?”

Nancy’s face twisted. “Why would your arm fall off?”

“Because,” Y/N whispered, “this is stressful.”

Also because he looks like a man who could ruin her life in two languages, her brain supplied.

Nancy grabbed her shoulders gently, firmly. “Listen to me. You are going to walk up there, sit down, and take notes. You will not fall apart. You will not wave aggressively. You will not act like a stoned girl.”

Y/N nodded, eyes wide. “Okay.”

“And,” Nancy added, eyes narrowing, “you will not stare at him like you’re about to climb him.”

Y/N blinked. “Nancy.”

Nancy’s voice dropped. “I’m serious.”

Y/N whispered, “I’m not going to climb him.”

Nancy stared at her. “You’re thinking it.”

Y/N frowned. “I’m not thinking it.”

Nancy sighed. “You’re thinking it.”

Y/N leaned closer and whispered, “I’m thinking… about the concept of climbing. Like hiking.”

What she was actually thinking was: If he adjusts that tie once, I'm going to need medical attention. Or maybe a cold shower. Or an exorcism. The thought of his fingers at his throat, the casual adjustment of that perfect knot, was somehow more obscene than anything she'd ever seen.

Nancy closed her eyes briefly like she was asking the universe for strength.

They reached the steps that led up to the stage.

A staff member at the side entrance checked a list and waved Y/N forward. “Departmental assistant?”

Y/N swallowed. “Yes.”

The staff member handed her a folder and a small stack of handouts with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies header. “These go out after the assembly. Sit at the table with your faculty marshal.”

Y/N nodded, gripping the folder like it was a life raft.

Nancy stopped at the bottom of the steps, eyes on her.

“You’ve got this,” Nancy whispered.

Y/N looked back down at her. “Do I?”

Nancy’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And if you don’t, just remember: you’re smarter than half this room.”

That actually helped.

Y/N breathed in, steadied herself, and climbed the steps.

Henry looked up the moment she reached the table. His expression stayed controlled, of course it did, but his eyes softened when they landed on her, like he was relieved she’d made it.

Then his gaze flicked briefly to her face, assessing, checking if she was okay.

Y/N felt the look like a hand. She had to fight the ridiculous urge to melt into it right there in front of everyone.

She sat beside him, placing the folder and handouts neatly in front of her like she wasn’t vibrating internally.

Henry leaned a fraction closer, voice low enough that the microphones wouldn’t pick it up even if they were on.

“You’re here,” he murmured.

Y/N nodded. “I’m here.”

His cologne was faint up close, clean, restrained, and it messed with her head immediately. Her brain tried to replace the smell of an auditorium with the smell of his apartment. The memory hit so hard she almost lost the ability to speak like a normal person.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice went quieter. “Are you all right?”

Y/N blinked at him very earnestly and whispered, “I am so normal right now.”

Henry held her gaze for a beat, then looked down at her eyes, too glossy, too soft, and the corner of his mouth almost moved.

Almost.

He didn’t smile.

He simply said, with calm precision, “You’re late.”

Y/N whispered back, “Time is a social construct.”

Henry’s hand paused over his papers.

He glanced at her again, and there was a flicker in his eyes, something like disbelief mixed with fondness.

It was that fondness that made her entire body flush with heat. She didn't just want to press her mouth to his cheek; she wanted to drag her teeth down his throat, to bite the knot of his tie and pull him closer. She wanted to crawl under this table and press her face against the hard line of his thigh. She wanted to behave, but her body was rewriting the definition of the word with every throb between her legs.

Then he leaned even closer and said, very quietly, “Stay still.”

Y/N nodded so seriously it was almost painful. “Okay.”

She sat up straighter, hands folded over her folder, pen ready. She faced forward like she was about to defend a dissertation.

Her body, unfortunately, was still very aware of his knee near hers, his arm close to her elbow, the way he looked so composed while she felt like a mess of nerves and want and leftover smoke.

The auditorium lights dimmed slightly.

A dean approached the microphone.

The assembly was about to begin.

Y/N stared out at the sea of faces, but she wasn't really seeing them. She felt the risk land in her chest like a hot stone, but beneath it was a deeper, more dangerous thrill. This was public. This was visible. And the thought of getting caught, of someone seeing the way he made her feel, made her slick with a heat that had nothing to do with the stage lights.

Her heart raced.

And of course her brain chose that exact moment to think: If he touches my thigh under this table, I’m going to black out.

She inhaled slowly, a useless attempt at control. Focus. Notes. Academic bullshit.

Normal. But her body was a traitor, already remembering every single sexual encounter ever with Henry. 

But Henry’s knee shifted slightly under the table, brushing hers once, small, grounding, electric: I’m here. I know what you’re thinking. 

The jolt didn't just go through her; it settled deep and low, a pulse of pure need that made her thighs clench.

Y/N gripped her pen until her fingers ached, her knuckles white. She forced her eyes forward, trying to look composed, trying to look like anything other than a girl who was seconds away from spontaneously combusting from sheer, unadulterated lust.

And despite everything-the weed amplifying every sensation, the anxiety of being exposed, the audience of hundreds, and the fact that Henry Creel looked like sin in a suit-she managed to sit there and behave... even if her thoughts were begging to have him. 

Henry leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the fog in her head. "Just breathe. Look at me."

She turned her head, and his calm, steady gaze met hers. He wasn't judging her; he was grounding her. In his eyes, there was no assembly, no audience, no risk. There was just him. The frantic energy in her chest began to subside, replaced by a slow, creeping warmth. The anxiety didn't vanish, but it morphed, melting into a lazy, heavy arousal that settled low in her belly. The danger was still there, but now it felt thrilling, a current buzzing under her skin.

For fifteen minutes, she behaved. She listened to the dean drone on about academic integrity. She tapped her pen. She nodded at the appropriate moments. But she was bored. And the high, now coupled with a potent dose of desire, made her reckless.

Her hand, which had been resting innocently on her own knee, slid over to his. It rested there for a moment, a simple point of contact. Then, with agonizing slowness, it began to creep up his thigh, her fingers tracing the seam of his trousers.

She felt him tense instantly. He didn't move, didn't look at her, but his entire body went rigid. She reached the apex of his thigh, her fingers brushing against the growing bulge in his pants. 

She teased him, her touch light and maddening, tracing the outline of him through the fabric.

His hand shot out from under the table, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a firm, warning grip. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes were fixed forward, but the message was clear: Stop. Not here.

But the weed and the power had made her bold. She didn't pull away. Instead, she waited, her hand still. 

A beat passed. Then another. 

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. He simply moved her hand, placing it directly over his now-hard cock, pressing her palm against him. It was a surrender. A silent, desperate permission.

That was all she needed.

Her fingers worked with a newfound confidence, quickly and quietly undoing his button and lowering his zipper. He let out a barely audible hiss of breath. She reached inside, freeing him, his hot, heavy length fitting perfectly in her cool hand. She began to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate at first, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over his head.

He was utterly still, his jaw clenched so tightly she was surprised it didn't crack. His hand came back to the table, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. He stared straight ahead at the dean, a statue of forced composure, while under the table, she was slowly, methodically taking him apart.

Her movements became a slow, torturous rhythm. Each deliberate glide of her fist up his shaft was a promise of the pleasure to come, each twist of her wrist a new form of exquisite agony. Henry was a statue carved from ice, but beneath the surface, he was a raging volcano. 

He could feel the heat pooling in his groin, the tell-tale tightening that signaled his impending undoing.

His colleagues were mere feet away, droning on about student engagement. He could hear the head of the English department, Dr. Albright, laughing at some inane joke. 

The sounds were a distorted, underwater soundtrack to the silent, frantic war he was waging with his own body. He had to stop her. It was too much. He was going to lose control, to make a sound, to disgrace himself in front of everyone.

His hand moved under the table, his intention clear: to pull her hand away, to end this exquisite torture. His fingers closed around her wrist just as she tightened her grip, her thumb swiping over his sensitive head in a way that made his vision blur.

He was on the absolute edge.

Just as he was about to forcibly remove her hand, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. Her voice was a ghost of a sound, a warm, wicked puff of air that sent a shiver down his spine.

"I could stop right now," she whispered, her hand stilling for a heart-stopping second. "Or...you could cum down my throat."

Henry’s world tilted on its axis. The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a surrender. He didn't speak, couldn't speak. He just gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. It was the capitulation of a drowning man.

A triumphant, satisfied smirk played on her lips. She ducked under the long tablecloth, disappearing from view. The world above the table faded into meaningless noise. All that existed was the dark, cramped space under the table, the scent of his arousal, and the sight of him, hard and waiting for her.

She leaned in, her mouth watering, and took him into her mouth. His hand moved down into her hair and she was just getting settled, her lips wrapping around his thick head, her tongue preparing to taste him—

A piercing, high-pitched shriek of microphone feedback ripped through the auditorium, loud and violent. It was a physical assault on the senses.

Y/N jumped as if she’d been shocked, her head flying up and cracking hard against the underside of the table. She let out a sharp, pained yelp as she scrambled to sit back up, her heart hammering against her ribs, the sudden shift from illicit pleasure to shocking pain whiplash-inducing.

Henry, who had been teetering on the brink of oblivion, was jolted back to reality so violently it was almost painful. 

He flinched, his eyes wide with panic as he looked around. Dr. Albright was glancing his way, a concerned look on her face. 

Henry just gave a tight, pained smile, rubbing his ear as if the feedback had bothered him, all while his cock, still hard and desperate, throbbed with a denied, agonizing release under the table. The assembly continued, but for both of them, the world had just been blown apart.

. . . 

When the dean finally wrapped up, the whole auditorium shifted at once, chairs scraping, bodies rising, the sound of hundreds of students all moving as if they’d been released from a spell.

Y/N stood automatically with everyone else, still a little foggy around the edges. The lights felt too bright. The air felt too loud. Her brain was slow to catch up to what her body was doing.

She blinked, looked around, trying to find Nancy in the sea of heads.

Nancy.

…Where was Nancy?

She had completely forgotten about the man sitting beside her, the hard length in her hand, the near-disaster. She was just a student in a crowd, looking for her best friend. 

And then Henry was beside her.

Not in front of her. Not obvious.

Just suddenly there, close enough that she felt him before she saw him, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the crowd noise.

“Y/N,” he murmured. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

She turned, disoriented, and saw his expression.

Not professor-neutral.

Not gentle.

Something darker. Controlled. Tight.

Y/N’s mouth parted, half ready to joke, half ready to ask what he meant until his hand closed around her arm.

Not bruising. Not violent.

Firm.

A grip that said you’re coming with me.

Before she could protest, Henry guided her through the press of bodies and out of the aisle, moving fast, using the chaos of the crowd as cover. They slipped out a side door, then another, the noise muffling behind them.

Cold air hit Y/N’s face the second they stepped outside.

It sobered her a little.

Not enough.

Henry didn’t stop walking until they were out of the flow of students and around the side of the building, where the wall was brick and the campus foot traffic thinned.

He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. He spun her around, backing her up until her shoulders hit the rough brick of the building with a soft thud. He caged her in, one hand on the wall beside her head, the other still gripping her arm. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell his cologne mingled with the scent of his raw, unspent arousal.

And she could feel it, too. The hard, thick line of his cock was straining against the fabric of his trousers, pressing insistently against her hip. It was a tangible, undeniable proof of his desire.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said quietly.

Y/N blinked up at him. She should’ve felt embarrassed. She should’ve felt guilty.

Instead she felt that familiar flicker of defiance…and of course, arousal.

“It was an assembly,” she said, as if that explained anything.

Henry’s hand stayed on her arm, his fingers tense. “That,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “was the most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”

Y/N’s lips parted in a slow, dazed smile. “You didn’t seem to hate it.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

He leaned in slightly, and his voice dropped even lower. “You don’t get to confuse my lack of immediate reaction with approval.”

Y/N tilted her head, eyes bright and unfocused in that stoned way that made her brave.

“But you’re still—” she started, then stopped, her gaze dipping briefly before she looked back up at his face with a teasing softness. “You’re still not exactly… angry.”

Henry’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, and Y/N could feel the tension in him, the way his control was barely holding.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse picking up. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing,” Henry said. “All the little stunts. The teasing. The games I’ve been letting you get away with.” His eyes sharpened. “That was the worst possible place to take it.”

Y/N, the fog in her brain finally starting to lift, looked up at him. A slow, defiant smirk touched her lips. She shifted her hips, pressing herself more firmly against his straining erection. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it a few minutes ago," she whispered back, her voice husky. "In fact, you still don't."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes flickered down to her mouth, and for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her, to devour her right there against the wall. Instead, he pushed off the wall, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space between them.

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up, a clear sign of his fraying control.

He looked her up and down, his gaze a physical caress that left her skin tingling. "Do you have plans for the rest of the day?" he asked, his voice suddenly calm, which was far more terrifying than his anger.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

"Good," he said, his tone flat and final.

"Cancel them. Whatever you were going to do, forget it. Because you and I are going back to my apartment. And I am going to fuck your brains out."

He didn't wait for a reply. He grabbed her hand again, his grip like a vise, and began pulling her towards the faculty parking lot. His long legs ate up the distance, and she had to practically run to keep up. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a frantic, excited rhythm.

This wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't teasing. This was a promise of retribution, of a punishment so exquisite she was already trembling with anticipation.

. . . 

The drive was a blur of motion and sound. Y/N’s head was still swimming, the edges of reality soft and indistinct. She had vague, disjointed flashes of trees blurring past the window, the tight clench of Henry's jaw, the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel. But the journey itself was lost to the haze. It wasn't until he was fumbling with his keys, the metal jangling with an impatient urgency, that she fully registered they were at his apartment door.

He finally got the lock to turn, shoving the door open with a sharp push. He gave her a light shove inside, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stumble over the threshold. He stepped in behind her, kicking the door shut with a loud, final thud that echoed through the apartment.

The sound snapped her out of her stupor. She turned to face him, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. The danger was palpable, a living thing in the room, and it was intoxicating. She started walking backward into the living room, her hips swaying with deliberate provocation.

"Something the matter, Henry?" she taunted, her voice a low, sultry purr. "You seem a little... tense."

Her eyes were locked on his, challenging him, daring him. But in her stoned, overconfident state, she misjudged the distance to the rug. The heel of her boot caught on the edge of the plush carpet, and she went down with a surprised yelp, landing in a heap on the floor.

Before she could even process the fall, he was on her. He loomed over her, a tall, imposing figure blocking the light. He didn't offer to help her up. Instead, he crouched down, his hand shooting out to grip the front of her shirt, pinning her firmly to the floor. The fabric stretched tight across her chest, his knuckles pressing against her collarbone.

"Did you have fun playing your little game?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Did you enjoy seeing if you could make me lose control in front of my colleagues?"

The bratty, defiant part of her, the part that had gotten her into this mess, reared its head. She smirked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Immensely," she shot back. "You looked like you were enjoying every second of it, too."

His eyes darkened, the last vestiges of his control shattering. He released her shirt, only to grab her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his searing gaze.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his face inches from hers. "You wanted to play? Fine. We'll play. I'm going to punish you, Y/N. I'm going to use you. And you," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "are going to take everything I give you. Do you understand?"

A shiver of pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was it. This was the consequence she had been chasing. She could only manage a small, submissive nod, her breath catching in her throat.

His grip on her chin tightened. "Use your words," he commanded, his voice hard and unforgiving.

She swallowed hard, her gaze never leaving his. "Yes, Professor."

"Get up," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He released her chin and stood, offering no hand to help her. Y/N scrambled to her feet, her legs still a little unsteady. He pointed a long, authoritative finger down the hall towards his study. "Go into my office. And bend over my desk. I’ll be right there.”

A thrill shot through her, so potent it almost made her knees buckle. She turned and walked, her steps deliberate, feeling his eyes boring into her back with every step she took. The office was exactly as she remembered: dark wood, towering bookshelves, the scent of old paper and leather. It was his sanctuary, his place of power.

She walked around the large, mahogany desk, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She placed her palms flat on the cool, polished surface and leaned forward, bending over at the waist, presenting herself to him. The position was vulnerable, submissive, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between her thighs.

He followed her in, shutting the door with a soft, definitive click. He didn't touch her. He just leaned against the door, crossing his arms, his gaze a physical weight on her.

"Take off your clothes," he said, his voice low and even. "Slowly."

Her fingers trembled as they found the hem of her sweater. She peeled it upward, the fabric a whisper against her skin. As it cleared her head, she felt the cool air of the room kiss her heated flesh, but it was nothing compared to the scorching intensity of his gaze. She let the sweater drop, a forgotten piece of fabric on the floor. 

Her hands moved behind her, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It gave way with a soft click, and she drew the straps down her arms, the lace whispering against her skin before joining the growing pile at her feet. Her breasts, freed from their confinement, felt heavy and swollen, her nipples tightening into hard, aching points under his silent, predatory stare.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, her movements feeling clumsy and graceless under his unwavering scrutiny. She shimmied the material down over her hips, the soft rustle of it pooling around her ankles sounding impossibly loud in the silent room. She stood there for a moment, clad only in her panties, the last thin barrier between her and complete vulnerability. 

His eyes dropped, lingering on the damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs. A fresh wave of heat washed over her, a mixture of shame and a fierce, undeniable pride.

She hooked her thumbs into the sides, her heart hammering against her ribs as she slowly, torturously, drew them down. The slick fabric clung for a second before peeling away, revealing her glistening, swollen folds. 

She kicked them aside, now utterly bare as she bent back over his desk like an offering on an altar.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise a stark contrast to the dangerous edge in his voice. He pushed off the door and walked towards her, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the hardwood floor.

He stood behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He placed a hand on the small of her back, pressing her down further, arching her spine until her ass was high in the air, her slick folds completely exposed to his view. "Count them," he ordered.

His hand came down, a sharp, stinging slap against her right ass cheek. The pain was immediate and shocking, a white-hot bloom of fire that made her gasp, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"One," she choked out, the word barely a whisper.

Before she could fully process the sensation, his hand struck her left cheek with equal force, the impact jarring her whole body. "Two."

The third spank landed right in the middle, the impact sending a jolt straight to her clit. "Three."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but they weren't from pain alone. With each stinging slap, a corresponding jolt of pleasure shot straight to her core. Her skin was on fire, her ass throbbing with a dull, delicious ache. She was so turned on she could feel her own wetness coating her inner thighs. She had never felt so used, so punished, or so incredibly alive.

He stood behind her, his presence a looming, powerful force. The air in the room was thick with tension and the lingering scent of her arousal. His hand came to rest on her throbbing, reddened ass cheek, his touch a cool balm against the heated skin. He kneaded it gently, his fingers digging into the flesh, a possessive claim.

"You took your punishment well," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But I'm not finished with you yet."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot and intimate. "I'm going to fuck you here," he whispered, his finger tracing the sensitive cleft between her cheeks, circling the tight, forbidden ring of muscle. "I'm going to claim every part of you. And you are going to stay perfectly still. Do you understand me?"

A shiver of fear and pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was new territory, a line they had never crossed. She could only manage a desperate, breathless nod.

"Stay still," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

She heard the sound of his zipper, the soft rustle of his trousers falling to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She felt him spit into his hand, heard the slick sound as he coated his hard length. Then, he was pressing against her, the thick head of his cock nudging against her tight entrance.

He pushed in slowly, agonizingly so. The pressure was intense, a burning stretch that bordered on pain. She cried out, her hands clenching into fists on the desk, her knuckles turning white. He was impossibly big, filling her in a way she had never been filled before.

"Relax," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. "Take it."

She forced herself to breathe, to yield to the intrusion. 

As she did, the pain began to morph into something else, a deep, dark, full-body pleasure that was overwhelming in its intensity. He began to move, his strokes slow and shallow at first, allowing her to adjust to the new sensation. Each thrust sent a jolt of electricity through her, a primal pleasure that was both shocking and intoxicating.

He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more confident, more demanding. The desk creaked in protest with each powerful thrust. She was lost in a haze of sensation, the pleasure building to an impossible crescendo. She could feel the orgasm coiling deep inside her, a tight, hot knot that was about to snap.

"I'm... I'm gonna come…," she gasped, her voice ragged.

Just as the first wave of her climax began to crest, he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness was a shock. A cry of protest escaped her lips before she could stop it. 

Before she could even process what was happening, he had flipped her over onto her back. She lay sprawled across his desk, her body still trembling from the denied orgasm.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock, slick with her juices, pressing against her drenched, aching core. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and wild with lust.

He thrust into her in one hard, deep stroke, filling her completely. The sensation was familiar yet amplified, a direct, intense pleasure after the dark, forbidden thrill of moments before. He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wide, and began to fuck her with a punishing, relentless rhythm.

This was no longer about punishment. This was about claiming. He was taking her, marking her as his, his hips slamming into hers with a force that made the desk shake. The denied orgasm came roaring back, stronger and more powerful than before.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained.

She forced her eyes open, her gaze locking with his. The sight of him, so lost in his own desire, his face contorted with pleasure, was what nearly sent her over the edge. 

The pleasure built to an impossible peak, a white-hot wave of ecstasy that was just about to crash over her. She could feel it, the tightening in her core, the tingling in her limbs. She was right there, teetering on the edge. Her hands flew up, desperate to cling to him, to pull him deeper, to push herself over that final precipice.

But he was faster.

His hands shot out, grabbing her wrists and pinning them down against the hard wood of the desk with an iron grip.

The movement was sudden, forceful, and it shattered her momentum.

He kept thrusting, his pace brutal, his own release imminent. With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into her.

The feeling of him cumming, the hot flood of his release, was what should have sent her spiraling. 

She was so close, just a fraction away. 

But as the last tremor of his orgasm subsided, he pulled out of her with a swift, abrupt motion.

He stood over her, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening with their combined fluids. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her trembling, desperate form.

"Did you really think I'd let you cum that easily?" he taunted, his voice a low, predatory purr. "After the little stunt you pulled today? Oh no, Y/N. You don't get to cum until I say you can."

He reached down, his fingers tracing a path through the mess on her inner thigh, gathering their slickness on his fingertips. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted them. "You taste delicious when you're desperate," he murmured.

"No," she whined, her voice a desperate, breathy plea. "Please...I was so close. I want to cum."

He loomed over her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and unreadable. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips. "You want to cum?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You don't get to cum. Not yet. You have to earn it."

He released her wrists and took a step back, his spent cock glistening. He looked down at her, sprawled and desperate on his desk. "On your knees," he commanded.

Her body moved on pure instinct, sliding off the desk and sinking to the floor in front of him. The cool hardwood was a stark contrast to the fire still raging under her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glassy, a chaotic mix of frustration, desperation, and utter submission.

"You didn't get to finish what you started in the auditorium," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "So you're going to finish it now. On your knees."

He didn't wait for her to initiate. His hand shot out, fisting in her hair, the grip possessive and unyielding. He used the hold to pull her head forward, tilting her face up until her neck was a long, vulnerable line. "Open."

Her lips parted instantly, a silent, willing offering. 

He guided the slick, swollen head of his cock to her mouth, not pushing in immediately, but smearing their combined fluids over her lips, marking her with the scent and taste of their fucking. "Taste what you did," he commanded. "Taste how bad you wanted this."

Then he fed her his length, sliding past her lips in one slow, deliberate thrust that filled her completely. The taste was musky and primal, his salt, her musk, a heady cocktail that made her head spin.

He didn't start slow nor did he give her a chance to take control. He set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, fucking her mouth with deep, hard thrusts that hit the back of her throat, making her gag and her eyes water. 

Saliva mixed with pre-cum dribbled down her chin, a messy testament to his possession.

"That's it," he growled, his hips pumping, the sound of his flesh hitting her mouth obscene in the quiet room. "Take it. Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be on your knees for me, choking on my cock."

The ache between her legs was a physical torment, a deep, throbbing need that demanded attention. Desperate for any friction, for any relief, her hand slid down her stomach, her fingers finding her swollen, sensitive clit and beginning to rub in frantic, desperate circles.

She had barely made contact when his grip in her hair tightened painfully, a sharp, corrective sting that made her cry out around his mouthful of cock.

He thrust deep, forcing his cock past her resistance and down her throat, cutting off her air in a rush. 

Her eyes flew open, watering instantly as she choked around him, her body's convulsive grip massaging his length. He held her there for a terrifying, exhilarating second, a display of absolute dominance, before pulling back just enough to let her suck in a ragged, desperate gasp for air.

"Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?" he snarled, his voice laced with ice and fire. He smacked her cheek, not hard, but a sharp, stinging reminder of his control. "This isn't for you. This is for me. This mouth is mine to use. You don't get to cum until I say so. Now put your hands behind your back and don't move them again."

Trembling, a fresh wave of dark arousal washing over her so strong it made her dizzy, she laced her fingers together behind her back, arching her spine and presenting herself for his use. She was completely surrendered, a vessel for his pleasure.

He rewarded her obedience by resuming his brutal pace, using her mouth without mercy. 

The promise of her own release felt more distant and more coveted than ever before, a forbidden fruit she could only earn through his complete satisfaction. 

With her hands locked behind her back, she surrendered completely to his rhythm. He used her mouth without mercy, his groans growing louder, his thrusts more erratic. 

She could feel him swelling, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. With a final, guttural moan, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, taking everything he gave her, the act of submission a final, intoxicating thrill.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. He slowly pulled out of her mouth, his grip on her hair softening into a gentle caress. He looked down at her, his expression a complex mix of satisfaction and something softer, something that looked like awe.

He reached down, his hands gentle now, and helped her up off the floor. As soon as she was standing, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

He pulled back just enough to capture her lips again, his kiss possessive and searing, tasting of their shared essence. It wasn't a kiss of dominance or punishment this time; it was deep, passionate, and filled with a fierce, undeniable affection that made her chest ache.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers. "Perhaps," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "you have earned your reward."

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Y/N's face. The ache between her legs, the desperate need that had been building for hours, roared back to life. She didn't hesitate. 

In a swift, fluid motion, she pushed him. He was so taken aback by her sudden strength that he stumbled back, his legs hitting the edge of his desk. He lost his balance and fell back, his back flat on the polished wood before he could catch himself.

Before he could react, she was on him. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her knees pressing into the desk on either side of his thighs. She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her as she positioned herself over his already-hardening cock.

"God, Henry," she breathed, her voice a husky, desperate whisper as she sank down onto him, taking him in to the hilt. 

They both groaned at the sudden, intense fullness. 

"I am so turned on. I've been wet for you since the auditorium."

She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that made his eyes flutter shut. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "I love it when you're rough with me," she whispered, her voice a seductive caress. "I love it when you lose control because of me."

She rocked her hips, riding him with a growing confidence, her hands tangled in his hair. "I love the way you looked at me when you were punishing me," she continued, her words a litany of praise and desire. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel inside me."

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her own dark with a lust that matched his. She held his gaze, her movements never ceasing. "And I love you, Henry," she whispered, the words raw and vulnerable despite how rough he was with her earlier. "I love you so much."

Henry’s eyes snapped open, the depth of his emotion warring with the raw lust in his gaze. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her soft skin, anchoring her as he surged upward, meeting her thrust for thrust. "Then take what you want," he growled, his voice breaking. "Take me."

She didn't need telling twice. She rode him harder, her hips snapping forward with renewed urgency. The friction was maddening, the sensation of being filled completely by him driving her wild. She threw her head back, her hair cascading down her back, as she surrendered to the rhythm.

He reached up, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which were already hard and sensitive. He pulled one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, sending jolts of electricity straight to her core. He suckled on her, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her cry out.

"More," she begged, her voice breathless. "Please, Henry."

He released her breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and hungry. He sat up slightly, his mouth moving to the other one, his teeth grazing the nipple, his tongue licking the sensitive flesh. He nipped at it, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

He took her breast into his mouth again, his tongue swirling around the peak, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, up and down, back and forth, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. 

She was on the edge, her body trembling, her eyes rolling back as she rode him faster.

He pulled back, his hands leaving her breasts, and he looked at her, his eyes dark and wild. "You're so beautiful like this," he he said, his voice strained. "So beautiful…”

She gasped, the words sending her over the edge. With a loud cry, she came, her body shuddering, her inner muscles clamping down tight around him, milking him for all he was worth.

Henry groaned, the sensation of her tight pussy clenching around him was too much. He thrust upward, burying himself deep, and with a soft groan, he came as well, his hot seed spurting deep inside her, filling her completely.

They collapsed onto the desk, a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs, both spent and panting. The smell of sex filled the air, a heady, intoxicating mix of their bodies. He pulled her closer, holding her tight against his chest, his lips pressed against her forehead.

They stayed there for a while, catching their breath in the quiet that followed, no audience, no stage lights, no footsteps outside a classroom door. Just the low hum of the apartment, the desk beneath them, Henry’s arms locked around her like he was making a point he didn’t trust words to hold.

His mouth pressed to her forehead again, lingering.

Then, quietly, Henry murmured, “I love you.”

She lifted her head slightly, still close enough to feel his breath. “Say it again,” she whispered.

Henry’s hand smoothed along her back, slow, grounding. “I love you.”

The words landed like aftercare all by themselves.

Y/N swallowed and let her forehead rest against his shoulder for a second, letting her eyes close. Then she pulled back just enough to look at him properly, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, expression soft but searching.

“Were you actually mad?” she asked, voice quiet. “About what I did in the auditorium?”

Henry’s gaze held hers for a beat. He didn’t dodge it.

“No,” he said. Then, after a breath, he corrected himself with more honesty. “I was mad. But not at you.”

Y/N’s brows knit. “Then why—”

Henry exhaled, tiredness visible in the way his eyes narrowed briefly, like he’d been holding a whole day inside his body. “Because my day was long,” he admitted. “Because it was stressful. Because the least stressful part of my day was you…and I didn’t even get to—“

“Come?” she asked softly with her brows raised slightly.

His jaw flexed once. “…Yes. And relieve my stress, so I took it out on you.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. “Henry…”

“I shouldn’t have,” he added immediately, voice firm. “Not like that.”

Y/N watched him for a second, then her mouth curved, slow, warmed by something private. “I’m glad you took it out on me in a healthy way.”

Henry blinked. “Healthy?”

Y/N nodded, absolutely sincere. “Yes.”

His expression shifted into that familiar mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. “You have a very flexible definition of healthy.”

Y/N smiled wider. “I’m just saying…you’re hot when you’re mad.”

Henry’s eyes darkened slightly at that, but his voice stayed controlled. “You’re encouraging bad behavior.”

“Maybe,” she said, then added softly, “but I like you like that. I love your sweet side in bed but getting angrily fucked is incredible.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, a sound that was more air than noise. He shifted slightly, the movement causing a pleasant aftershock to ripple through her. He didn't look away from her, his gaze intense and searching.

He paused, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I'm also mad at myself. For wanting it this much. For losing control like that. For wanting to do it all over again right now."

His eyes dropped to her lips for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "But you're right," he admitted, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a raw honesty. "There's a part of me that... enjoys it. That enjoys the chaos you bring. The way you make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff."

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a breath from hers. "And the sweet side in bed..." he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "That's for you. This... this angry, desperate need... that's all for me. Because of you."

He closed the final distance, kissing her softly, a stark contrast to the frantic intensity from before. It was a slow, deep, and deliberate kiss, a silent confirmation that he was hers, in every possible way.

Henry’s gaze held hers the moment she pulled back from the kiss, and something in it softened, tension bleeding out of him in real time, replaced by something steadier. He pressed a kiss to her hairline again, calmer now.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Y/N answered. “You just… felt like you.”

Henry’s throat moved as he swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”

Y/N’s fingers touched his jaw, gentle. “It is when you come back to me after.”

Henry went still at that. Then he nodded once, as if he was taking it as a rule.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with the kind of closeness that made the room feel smaller in a good way.

Eventually Henry shifted, careful. “Come here.”

Y/N tried to move, and the second her weight shifted off him, her legs protested.

She made a small sound of surprise and grabbed the edge of the desk for balance. “Oh my God.”

Henry’s hand came to her waist instantly, steadying her. “Easy.”

“My legs are…” she inhaled, laughing weakly, “…jello.”

Henry’s mouth nearly twitched into a smirk. “Yes.”

Y/N shot him a look. “Don’t sound pleased.”

Henry didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

He guided her down carefully, feet finding the floor, her knees wobbling like she’d run a marathon she hadn’t trained for. Henry kept one hand at her back, the other ready to catch her if she tipped.

When she finally stood upright, she looked up at him with that sleepy, satisfied softness that always made him look briefly ruined.

Henry smoothed a thumb once along her side, grounding her again. “Come shower,” he said.

Y/N blinked slowly. “Together?”

Henry’s eyes flicked to hers. “If you want.”

Y/N’s mouth curved. “I always want.”

Henry gave her a look that said he was trying very hard to be a responsible adult and failing.

Then he took her hand, firm, sure, and led her away from the desk and toward the bathroom, the rest of the apartment quiet behind them.

And for once, the night didn’t feel like something they were stealing.

It felt like something they were keeping.

. . .

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. . .

Second period had barely settled into its rhythm when the knock came at the classroom door.

Y/N looked up automatically, pen still in hand, half listening as her history professor droned on about postwar policy and trade routes. Most of the class didn’t notice the secretary standing in the doorway right away, but Y/N did, something in the woman’s posture too formal, too specific, immediately pulling at her nerves.

The professor paused mid sentence. “Yes?”

The secretary stepped inside just enough to be heard. “Sorry to interrupt. I need Y/N in the office. She has a phone call.”

A few heads turned.

Y/N’s stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt.

A phone call.

Not a note. Not a message. A call.

She sat frozen for half a second, her fingers tightening around her pen.

The professor glanced toward her. “Go ahead.”

Y/N swallowed and nodded, already pushing her chair back. “Sorry.”

Her voice sounded normal.

That almost made it worse.

She crossed the room with every pair of eyes on her for exactly two seconds before everyone lost interest and went back to class. The door shut behind her with a soft click, and just like that the hallway was too quiet.

The secretary didn’t say much as she led her toward the office.

“Line two,” she said, gesturing toward the phone at the end of the counter when they got there. “You can take it there.”

Y/N nodded again, mouth dry.

She already knew.

Before she picked up the receiver, before she even touched the cord, she knew.

She pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end. A breath.

Then her father’s voice.

Not warm. Not angry right away. Just clipped in that awful, measured way that somehow always felt worse, like he had already decided what she was before she said a single word.

Y/N’s spine went stiff.

Her free hand slowly closed around the edge of the counter.

“Hi, Dad.”

Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

Whatever he said first made her expression flicker, just slightly. Not enough for anyone watching casually to notice it, but enough that if someone had been paying attention they would have seen it: the immediate tightening around her eyes, the way her shoulders drew inward by an inch.

She glanced toward the office doorway, then turned her body away from the front desk, as if she could hide the conversation just by facing a different wall.

“No, I—” she started, then stopped.

Listened.

Her fingers tightened harder around the counter.

“I didn’t know—“ she said quietly.

Another pause.

Her face lost color.

The secretary at the desk looked up briefly, then back down at her paperwork, either politely pretending not to notice or very much noticing and choosing mercy.

Y/N’s breathing changed.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just shallower.

“No,” she said again. “That’s not what happened. I’m sorry.”

She listened.

Her jaw clenched.

The hand holding the receiver shifted, pressing it tighter to her ear as though if she held it hard enough she could force the words to hit less.

Her father kept talking.

Y/N stared at the cinderblock wall across from her, eyes fixed and glassy, seeing absolutely none of it.

“I said I’m sorry,” she murmured.

The words sounded automatic. Old. Worn into her.

Another stretch of silence while he spoke.

Her throat worked when she swallowed. Once. Then again.

“I’m not having attitude. No, I know,” she said. “I know.”

A beat.

Then, softer, more shaken now, “Please don’t do that.”

Whatever came back at her made her straighten, like she had been slapped without contact.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out for a second.

When she finally spoke again, it was only two words.

“Not fair.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

The secretary looked up again.

Y/N turned even farther toward the wall now, her back almost fully to the room, one arm crossing tightly over her stomach.

Her father’s voice kept coming through the line, relentless in its steadiness.

Y/N’s face pinched. Her brows pulled together, her mouth tightening as she fought to keep it from trembling. The effort showed everywhere else instead, in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the way her knees locked, in the tiny tremor that moved through the hand gripping the cord.

“I never said that,” she whispered.

A pause.

Then, “No.”

Longer pause.

She nodded once, then realized he couldn’t see it. “No,” she repeated, this time with less strength.

Her eyes were burning now. She blinked hard and fast, once, twice, trying to force everything back.

Whatever he said next did it.

The first tear didn’t fall, but it gathered quickly enough that she had to look down.

Her voice dropped so low it almost disappeared. “I’m trying.”

Another pause.

A worse one.

Because this time she didn’t answer right away.

Her shoulders lifted with one sharp inhale and stayed there too long before she let the breath back out.

When she spoke, it was barely a voice at all.

“I know she is.”

The secretary stopped typing.

Y/N’s fingers dug into her side through her sweater.

No more explanations now. No more trying to defend herself. Just short, quiet responses, each one sounding like it was being pulled out of her against her will.

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Fine.”

Another.

“Yeah.”

Her face had gone still in the way it always did when she was trying not to completely come apart in public. The stillness was worse than crying. It looked learned.

She listened for one last stretch, eyes locked on the floor now, lashes wet.

Then she said, with frightening calm, “I have to go.”

Her father was still talking when she pulled the receiver away from her ear.

She stared at it for half a second.

Then she set it back in the cradle without another word.

Not a goodbye.

Not an I love you.

Nothing.

The office was quiet except for the faint sounds of the school around it, phones ringing somewhere deeper in the building, a copier starting up, footsteps in the hall.

Y/N stood there with her hand still resting on the phone as if she had forgotten to move it.

Then she looked down at it, blinked once, and wiped quickly under one eye with the heel of her hand.

The secretary looked up, gentler this time. “Do you need a pass back to class?”

Y/N turned her head.

For a second, she looked like she didn’t understand the question.

Then she nodded too fast. “Yeah. Sure.”

The secretary reached for a slip, but Y/N was already backing away.

“Actually,” she said, voice tight. “I’m okay.”

She wasn’t.

That much was obvious.

But the secretary either knew better than to stop her or had seen enough college girls try to hold themselves together to understand that interference would only make it worse.

Y/N left the office quickly, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, the other curled into her palm so tightly her nails bit crescent moons into her skin.

She should have turned left.

Left would have taken her back to history. Back to fluorescent lights and lecture notes and the normal shape of the day.

Instead, when she reached the end of the hall, she turned right.

Fast.

Head down.

Like if she moved quickly enough, no one would stop her. No one would ask. No one would see the way her mouth had gone tight and bloodless, the way her eyes kept filling no matter how hard she blinked.

She kept walking.

Past the stairwell.

Past the common area.

Past the hall that would have led her back to class.

She didn’t know where she was going yet.

She only knew she couldn’t sit under bright lights and pretend she was still listening to a lecture after whatever had just been ripped open inside her.

By the time she rounded the next corner, her breathing had gone thin and shaky.

And still, she kept moving, quietly, quickly, in the wrong direction.

. . . 

By fourth period, Nancy had started to feel it.

Not panic. Not yet.

Just that small, nagging wrongness that sat between her shoulders and refused to leave. She hadn’t felt this feeling in a while. Not since Hawkins…Not since Barb…

She slid into her usual seat in Henry Creel’s class, dropping her notebook on the desk and shrugging off her coat with one distracted motion. Around her, students filtered in by twos and threes, the room filling with the ordinary noise of backpacks thudding to the floor, chairs scraping, and low conversations about quizzes and deadlines.

Nancy kept one eye on the door.

At first, she didn’t think much of it.

Y/N was late sometimes, not often, but enough to make it believable. And Nancy hadn’t seen her during lunch, sure, but she had brushed that off almost immediately. Y/N had vanished for McDonald’s before. She had disappeared off campus for fries and a Coke and come back acting like nothing happened.

So Nancy had told herself it was that.

Only now the room kept filling, and Y/N still wasn’t there.

Nancy glanced at the clock.

Then at the door again.

Then back down at her notebook, pretending to flip to the right page while her attention stayed completely fixed on the hallway beyond the classroom.

More students came in.

Still no Y/N.

A strange tightness started building in her chest.

Henry was at the front of the room, arranging papers with his usual care, his face composed in that distant, intellectual way he wore for class. He looked exactly the same as always at first glance, controlled, orderly, impossible to read if you didn’t know where to look.

Nancy knew where to look now.

And she caught the moment he noticed.

It wasn’t immediate. He let his eyes skim the room the way he always did before starting, checking who was present, who was half asleep, who already looked confused before he had said a word.

Then his gaze reached Y/N’s seat.

And stopped.

Only for a second.

But Nancy saw it.

The stillness. The tiny pause too long to be casual. The way his eyes flicked back there again like he thought maybe he had missed her somehow.

The seat stayed empty.

Henry’s jaw tightened.

Nancy’s stomach dipped.

He started class anyway.

Of course he did.

“Open your books,” he said, voice even, the same measured tone he used every day. “Page—”

But something in it was off by a fraction. Not enough that the rest of the class would notice. Enough that Nancy did.

She stopped pretending to look at her notes and looked up fully.

Henry was speaking, moving through the introduction, chalk in hand, but his attention kept drifting. Every few minutes his eyes cut back toward the door, toward the empty seat, toward Nancy.

The first time their eyes met, Nancy’s expression hardened immediately.

Because her first thought, the instinctive, furious, protective thought, was simple:

What did you do now?

Henry saw it on her face.

Nancy didn’t bother hiding it.

Her brows narrowed, her chin lifting slightly in challenge, suspicion written all over her before he had even asked a question.

Henry’s gaze held hers for one beat too long.

He knew exactly what she was thinking.

And the fact that he didn’t immediately look away made Nancy’s pulse kick harder.

Because he looked concerned too.

Not guilty.

Concerned.

That shifted something.

Not enough to erase her suspicion, but enough to make it wobble.

Henry turned back to the board, wrote out the first key term, and continued the lecture like a man trying to force routine over unease. But the room had changed for Nancy now. Every scrape of a chair, every muffled laugh from the hall outside, every second that passed without Y/N slipping in late made the air feel tighter.

Nancy glanced at the empty seat again.

Her pen tapped once against her notebook.

Then twice.

Henry asked a question to the room. Someone in the second row answered. He nodded automatically, but his eyes drifted to the door again almost at once.

Nancy noticed that too.

And suddenly lunch didn’t feel like a harmless missed sighting anymore.

Now it felt like a gap.

A big one.

She hadn’t seen Y/N between classes, hadn’t heard from her, hadn’t gotten a scribbled note or a whispered excuse or even one of Y/N’s annoying little comments in the hall.

Nothing.

Nancy’s fingers tightened around her pen.

Henry turned from the board, gaze moving across the room again, and when it reached Nancy this time, there was no question in it anymore.

Just silent acknowledgment.

He was worried.

And because he was worried, Nancy’s own concern sharpened fast.

Her suspicion didn’t vanish. It just shifted shape. From what did you do to where is she.

The lecture kept going, but Nancy barely heard a word of it.

She stared at her notebook without writing, eyes flicking from the page to the door to Henry and back again, every minute making the empty seat look wronger.

By the time twenty minutes had passed, she wasn’t irritated anymore.

She was afraid to admit she was afraid.

And at the front of the room, Henry Creel, who never lost the shape of a class and never let anything personal show, kept looking at one empty desk like it was the only thing he could see.

. . . 

The bell rang, and the room emptied in waves.

Students packed up fast, voices rising, chairs scraping, papers shoving into bags. Nancy didn’t move. She stayed in her seat with her notebook still open, eyes fixed on Henry while the rest of the class filed around her.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Henry gathered the last of his papers into a stack, his movements neat but tighter than usual, attention split between the desk in front of him and the empty one where Y/N should have been all hour.

Nancy waited until the last student slipped out and the hallway noise swallowed the room.

Then she stood.

She didn’t ease into it. She didn’t soften it.

She walked straight to the front and stopped at his desk.

“What did you do?”

Henry looked up immediately.

Nancy’s voice was low but sharp enough to cut. “She’s gone, Creel. So what did you do this time?”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t do anything.”

Nancy crossed her arms. “That’s not comforting.”

Henry set the papers down. “Have you seen her?”

The question threw Nancy off for half a beat, not because of the words but because of how quickly he asked them. No defense. No irritation. Just direct concern.

Still, she didn’t let up.

“No,” Nancy snapped. “Which is exactly why I’m asking you.”

Henry came out from behind the desk. “When did you last see her?”

Nancy’s face stayed hard, but her thoughts started moving faster now, shifting from blame to timeline.

“This morning,” she said. “She got up before me. She was getting ready when I woke up.” Nancy frowned, replaying it. “She said she was going to get coffee.”

Henry’s eyes sharpened. “And after that?”

“I didn’t see her at lunch,” Nancy admitted, more frustrated now. “I figured she went off campus or got McDonald’s or something.” Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t think—”

She stopped.

Henry finished it for her anyway. “That something was wrong.”

Nancy hated that he sounded as worried as she felt.

She looked toward the door, already calculating where to start, what buildings to check, whether Y/N would hide in the library or the dorm or somewhere worse.

“I’m skipping my last period,” Nancy said abruptly. “I’m going to look for her.”

Henry stepped forward at once. “No.”

Nancy’s head snapped back toward him. “No?”

“I can look,” he said. His tone was controlled but urgent under the surface. “You shouldn’t miss class.”

Nancy stared at him like he had lost his mind.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Miss Wheeler—”

She cut him off immediately. “Don’t ‘Miss Wheeler’ me.”

Henry exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to stay calm. “I don’t want you missing your education over this.”

Nancy laughed once, short, disbelieving, irritated. “My education?”

“Yes.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“And I’m aware of that,” Henry said, voice tightening.

“Then act like it,” Nancy shot back.

He went still.

Nancy stepped closer, anger and fear making her voice shake just enough to show through. “You think I care about one class right now?”

Henry’s jaw flexed. “I’m saying I can look for her.”

“And I’m saying I’m going,” Nancy replied. “So unless you plan on physically stopping me, this conversation is over.”

For a second they just looked at each other, both stubborn, both frightened, both too proud to admit how bad this suddenly felt.

Then Nancy turned and grabbed her bag.

“I’m checking the dorm first,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “Then the student center. Then the library.”

Henry watched her move to the door, his expression taut with the effort of not following immediately.

“Nancy.”

She stopped without turning around.

“If you find her,” he said, voice lower now, “tell me.”

Nancy looked over her shoulder then, jaw clenched. “If I find her,” she said, “I’ll decide what to tell you.”

And then she was gone.

The door shut behind her, and the room dropped into a silence that felt wrong.

Henry stood there for two seconds. 

Then his eyes cut to the clock.

Two minutes until his last class of the day.

His whole body went tight.

He could not cancel now, not abruptly, not for no stated reason. A missing student and a male professor leaving his class schedule to go search for her would raise questions he could not afford, not when he didn’t even know what had happened yet.

That was the part that made him feel sick.

Because every instinct in him was already moving: find her, check the building, search the halls, stop pretending anything else mattered.

Instead, he had to stay.

He looked toward the door as if sheer force of will might pull her through it.

Nothing.

The hallway outside was already starting to fill with the next class. Voices. Footsteps. Backpacks brushing the frame.

Henry dragged a hand over his mouth, then straightened the papers on his desk with more force than necessary.

Two minutes.

He would get through the period. He would do it properly. He would not give anyone a reason to look too hard at his concern.

And the second that class ended, he would go looking for her.

He turned as the first student entered, his face already smoothing back into something acceptable, something professional.

But underneath it, the only thought in his head was Y/N.

Where she was.

Why she hadn’t come.

And why, despite everything he had tried to train himself out of feeling, the sight of her empty seat had left him rattled in a way he could no longer pretend was temporary.

. . . 

The second the last student left, Henry moved.

No lingering at the desk. No stacking papers into perfect piles. No extra minute to breathe and think and force himself into composure. He gathered his things quickly, too quickly for a man like him, slid his notes into his briefcase, and crossed toward the closet at the back of the classroom where he kept his jacket.

The room was quiet again at last. Empty. Still.

Or so he thought.

He opened the closet/turoring area, one hand already reaching for the sleeve of his coat, and heard it.

A small, sharp sound.

A sneeze.

He froze.

Not because it was loud. Because it was wrong. Too soft. Too close. Too human for a small empty room.

Henry turned slowly, jacket half in hand, his eyes sweeping the room. His desk. The windows. The front row. The shadowed corners near the bookshelves.

Nothing.

His grip tightened on the coat.

“Y/N?” he said, voice low, careful.

No answer.

He stepped away from the closet, the silence suddenly heavier than it had any right to be. His eyes moved over the room again, sharper this time. The desk at the front. The chair. The narrow strip of floor behind it.

Then he saw the edge of a shoe.

Henry’s whole body went still.

He crossed the room in three quick strides and looked down.

She was under his desk.

Curled in on herself in the small space beneath it, knees drawn tight to her chest, shoulders hunched, trying to make herself smaller than a person should ever have to be. Her bag was shoved beside her. Her hair had fallen forward in messy waves, and both of her hands flew up the second she realized he had found her, covering her face in immediate, panicked humiliation.

Not because she did not want him to know she was crying.

Because she did not want him to see how hard.

Henry stared for one stunned heartbeat.

Then his face changed completely.

Not alarm. Not irritation. Nothing sharp.

Just a kind of quiet devastation.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer this time.

She made a tiny sound behind her hands, halfway between a broken laugh and a sob. “Please don’t look at me.”

The sentence hit him like a blow.

He crouched immediately in front of the desk, not caring about the floor, his briefcase forgotten somewhere behind him.

“I’m looking at you,” he said quietly.

Her shoulders shook once. “That’s the problem.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. He lowered himself further, one knee to the floor now, trying to bring himself level with her without crowding her.

“You’ve been here this whole time?”

Y/N gave the smallest nod without lifting her head.

Henry glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at her, something close to horror passing through his eyes as he realized what that meant. How many hours. How many classes. How long she had sat in silence under his desk while the world kept moving above her. Or how she even got in here, more than likely during lunch when he wasn’t here.

His voice got even quieter.

“Why didn’t you come out?”

Y/N let out a shaky breath that sounded like it hurt. “Because people were here.”

Henry looked at the underside of the desk, the cramped darkness she had folded herself into, and then back at her hands still shielding her face.

“Y/N,” he said very carefully, “you don’t have to hide from me.”

She laughed again, but this time it cracked apart halfway through. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Henry went still.

That answer told him more than she meant to.

He didn’t reach for her right away. Didn’t touch her. He knew better now, knew that if he moved too fast, she would retreat farther into herself.

So he stayed where he was, crouched on the floor in front of his own desk, his voice the only thing he let reach her.

“Did something happen?”

No answer.

He watched her fingers press harder against her face, watched the way she curled tighter, and forced himself not to push.

“Was it today?” he asked instead.

A pause.

Then a small nod.

Henry’s eyes sharpened, pieces starting to arrange themselves: the empty seat, Nancy not seeing her after morning, the strange absence stretched over hours.

“Someone called,” he said, not really a question.

Her shoulders jerked faintly.

Another nod.

Henry’s mouth tightened. “Your parents.”

That one made her go completely still.

When she finally spoke, her voice was muffled badly by her own hands. “Can you please…?”

He swallowed.

“All right,” he said at once. “All right.”

Silence stretched.

The classroom felt too bright for this. Too open. Too ordinary.

Henry looked at her tucked beneath his desk like something frightened had crawled there to die quietly, and a cold, furious helplessness moved through him.

At her parents.

At himself.

At the fact that she had chosen this, the floor, the dark, the dust, hours alone, over letting anyone see her unravel.

“Did Nancy know?” he asked.

A small shake of her head.

“Did anyone?”

Another shake.

Henry closed his eyes for half a second. Of course not.

When he opened them again, his voice was steady. “Look at me.”

Y/N’s response was immediate. “No.”

“Y/N.”

“I said no.”

There was no heat in it. Just shame. Raw and exhausted and humiliatingly honest.

Henry shifted slightly closer, still outside the reach of the desk, still giving her space. “You think I’m going to see you crying and decide you’re unbearable.”

That made her hands tremble.

When she answered, it was barely a whisper. “I think I look awful.”

Henry’s expression tightened in a way she could not see.

“Move your hands.”

She shook her head.

He let out a slow breath, forcing patience over urgency. “Y/N, I’m not leaving you under here.”

That did it.

The sentence cracked something.

Her shoulders started shaking harder, and when she spoke again the words were thin and ragged. “I know I’m being stupid.”

“No,” Henry said immediately.

“I am.”

“No.”

She dragged one hand away from her face just long enough to wipe furiously at her cheek, then put it back. “You found me hiding under a desk like a child.”

Henry’s gaze did not soften with pity. It sharpened with something stronger.

“I found you hurt,” he said. “That is not the same thing.”

Y/N let out another shaking breath.

For a moment she said nothing at all.

Then, very quietly, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And that one almost undid him.

Henry rested one hand lightly against the leg of the desk, not touching her, just anchoring himself there.

“You could have come to me.”

Y/N’s laugh this time was small and miserable. “I did.”

He stilled.

She lowered one hand from her face at last, not completely, just enough that he could catch a glimpse of red rimmed eyes, blotched cheeks, damp lashes. She looked wrecked. Young. Hurt in a way that reached far beyond a single afternoon.

“I came here,” she whispered. “Didn’t I?”

Henry looked at her, really looked, and something inside him gave way.

He knew now. There was a reason why she never talked about her life fully before Emerson. His voice turned almost unbearably gentle.

“What did they say to you?”

Y/N’s mouth trembled. She shut her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it out loud,” she corrected, voice breaking. “If I say it out loud, it’s real.”

Henry took that in and nodded once. “All right.”

He stayed there with her in the quiet.

No demands. No lecture. No attempt to fix it with some perfect sentence.

Just him kneeling on the floor in front of her hiding place, waiting until the room stopped feeling like a trap.

After a while, her breathing eased just enough that the words started slipping out anyway.

“They always know exactly what to say,” she whispered.

Henry’s jaw tightened.

Y/N dropped her hands completely now, but she kept her eyes turned down, refusing to let him see too much at once. “It’s like…” She swallowed hard. “It’s like they don’t even have to yell anymore. They just…” Her fingers curled against her sleeve, twisting the fabric. “They just remind me of everything I’m not.”

Henry’s chest felt tight.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “No, because the worst part is I’m old enough that I should be over it. I should be normal when they call.” Her mouth pulled tight, angry with herself now. “Instead one phone call and I’m hiding under furniture because I’m ashamed of myself.”

“You are not overreacting.”

She gave him a look then, brief and pained. “How would you know?”

Because he had seen fear before. Because he knew what it looked like when damage lived in someone longer than the hand that caused it. Because he knew what it meant to learn smallness as survival.

But he didn’t say all of that.

He only said, “Because this does not look like drama.”

Y/N’s eyes stung fresh at the calm certainty in his voice.

She looked away again. “I don’t know how to go back out there,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to walk out of here and be normal.”

Henry didn’t hesitate this time.

“Then don’t.”

She blinked and looked at him.

His expression was steady. Serious.

“You don’t have to be normal for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to pull yourself together before I help you out from under this desk.”

Her throat worked hard as she swallowed.

“Come here,” he said.

He didn’t mean out. Not yet. He meant closer. Trust me. Let me in.

Y/N hesitated only a second before shifting forward on numb legs, awkward in the cramped space. Henry reached in then, not suddenly, not grabbing, just offering both hands.

She looked at them.

Then placed hers in his.

And the second he felt how cold her fingers were, his face changed again.

Very gently, he helped her crawl out from beneath the desk.

The moment she cleared it fully and tried to sit back on her heels, embarrassed and small and clearly prepared to apologize again, Henry didn’t let her.

He pulled her into him.

Not hard. Not like possession.

Like shelter.

Y/N broke instantly.

The first sob that came out against his shoulder was muffled and ugly and entirely real. Henry held her tighter, one hand at the back of her head, the other around her shaking body, as if he could physically keep the rest of the world from reaching her for a minute.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, though they both knew she wasn’t. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since that phone call in the office, Y/N let herself stop pretending she could hold her own weight.

For a while, all Y/N could do was cry into him.

Not neatly. Not the kind of crying that made a girl look delicate and heartbreakingly pretty. It was raw and uneven and humiliating in the way real grief always was, her face pressed into his shoulder, breath breaking apart every few seconds, fingers twisted hard in the front of his shirt like if she let go, she might come apart with it.

Henry didn’t rush her.

He stayed kneeling on the classroom floor, one arm wrapped around her back, the other steady at the base of her neck, holding her close without trying to quiet her too soon. The room around them had gone dim with late afternoon light, the windows turning gray, the building finally settling into that emptier hush after classes were done.

When Y/N finally tried to pull back, it wasn’t because she was composed.

It was because she was embarrassed.

Henry saw it instantly, the way she wiped at her face too hard, the way she looked down instead of at him, the way her mouth tightened like she already hated herself for saying as much as she had.

“You don’t have to stop,” he said quietly.

“I do,” she whispered.

“No.”

Y/N shook her head and laughed once, brokenly. “You say that now.”

Henry’s brows pulled together. “What does that mean?”

She stared at the floorboards between them. For a second he thought she might shut down again.

Then the words started coming.

Slowly at first, dragged out of somewhere deep and sore.

“My parents,” she said, voice rough, “they have this way of talking to me where it doesn’t even sound cruel if you repeat it later.” She swallowed hard. “That’s the part that makes you feel insane. Because if I told somebody exactly what they said, it would just sound like they were disappointed. Or worried. Or trying to help.”

Henry stayed completely still.

Y/N kept her eyes down. “But they know how to say things so it gets under your skin. They know exactly where to aim.” Her fingers tightened in her lap. “It’s never just one thing. It’s everything all at once. Every version of me they’ve ever decided is wrong.”

Henry’s jaw tightened.

“They called me out of class,” she said, like she still couldn’t believe that part. “And it was my dad. Not even my mom. My dad. Which should have told me immediately it was going to be bad.”

Her voice wavered. She pressed her lips together, trying to steady it.

“He started talking about my cousin.”

Henry’s expression shifted slightly, attention sharpening.

Y/N blinked hard. “She’s like five years younger. They practically raised her,” she said. “Her birth dad didn’t care enough to keep her, and her mom had too many kids already to focus on, so mine stepped in.” Her mouth twisted, not with meanness but with old hurt. 

Henry said nothing.

“She was little,” Y/N whispered. “And it wasn’t her fault. I know that. I know it wasn’t her fault.”

Her eyes filled again anyway.

“But they were softer with her,” she said. “Always. Softer, prouder, louder. Everything she did was special. Everything she touched turned into this huge thing they had to tell everybody about. Her grades. Her awards. Her little school projects. The way she dressed. The way she smiled.” Y/N laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “She could breathe and they’d act like she’d invented air. And if she needed something, suddenly it became my problem too. Go get your special cousin some dinner, send your cousin some money, do this for her, help her with that. Like I was supposed to keep proving I loved her while they kept proving they loved her more.”

Henry closed his eyes for the briefest second.

“And I did things too,” she said more quietly now, because that was somehow the part that hurt most. “I got good grades too. I worked hard too. I was there too.” Her voice cracked. “But with me it was always, nice, Y/N. Good job, Y/N. And then right back to her. Right back to what she did better. Or sweeter. Or easier.”

The classroom felt too small for the ache in her voice.

“She used to follow me around when she was little,” Y/N said, staring at some point far away now. “She’d want to sit by me, hold my hand, copy what I was doing. She loved me.” Her face twisted. “And I loved her too, which is what makes me feel so disgusting, because sometimes I still think…”

She stopped.

Henry’s voice was very quiet. “Think what?”

Y/N’s eyes shut.

When she spoke again, it came out so low he almost didn’t hear it.

“Sometimes I wish she didn’t exist.”

The silence after that was brutal.

Y/N covered her face again immediately, ashamed before the words had even fully left her mouth. “I know,” she said fast, voice cracking apart. “I know that’s horrible. I know it. She was just a kid, she didn’t do anything wrong, and I know that, I know…”

“Y/N.”

“No, let me say it, because if I don’t say it all then it just stays ugly in my head,” she rushed on, tears slipping through her fingers. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. I don’t. I just…” Her shoulders shook hard again. “I just wish I’d never had to stand there and watch them love somebody louder than they loved me.”

That one landed like a knife.

Henry inhaled slowly through his nose, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

Y/N dragged her hands down from her face, cheeks wet and red, and looked at him with the kind of naked hurt he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget.

“He called to tell me what she did,” she whispered. “What she achieved. She’s fifteen and got in some early college program already. How proud they are. And then he started in on me. How I don’t call enough. How I’ve changed. How I’m selfish. How I only care about my own life now. How she would never talk to them like this. How she appreciates them. How she makes them proud.”

Her breath hitched hard.

“And all I could think was, of course she does. Of course she does, because when she succeeds, they celebrate her. When I succeed, they look for what I’ll ruin next.”

Henry’s hand tightened at her back.

Y/N laughed once, helpless and broken. “Do you know what the worst part is?”

He didn’t answer.

She did anyway.

“I still want them to choose me.”

That nearly undid him.

“I’m grown,” she whispered. “I live here. I make my own choices. I know better. And I still hear one phone call and suddenly I’m fifteen again, trying to say the right thing, trying to sound grateful enough, easy enough, good enough that maybe this time I’ll be the daughter they’re proud of first.”

Tears were sliding freely now, and she didn’t even try to stop them.

“I don’t know how to be enough,” she said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know what version of me is enough for anyone to keep. I don’t know how to be the girl people don’t get tired of. I don’t know how to be the one they pick when there’s another option.”

Henry’s face changed.

Something sharp and pained crossed it because he knew exactly what came next before she even said it.

Y/N looked down at her hands, voice barely holding.

“I think if people have a better choice, they take it,” she admitted. “I think they always take it. Someone easier. Someone less complicated. Someone who doesn’t cry in closets and hide under desks.” Her mouth trembled. “And maybe that’s dramatic, but it keeps happening, so at some point it stops feeling dramatic and starts feeling true.”

Henry went very still.

Because he had done it too.

Not in the same way. Not with the same cruelty. But he had still stepped back. Still chosen distance. Still let her believe, even for a little while, that she was the person people left when things got hard.

And now she was sitting on his classroom floor, shattered open in front of him, confirming every fear he had about the damage he’d done.

“Y/N,” he said, but his voice came out rough.

She shook her head miserably. “I know how I sound.”

“No,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t.”

She laughed bitterly. “Like somebody who isn’t enough.”

His expression hardened, not at her, but at the sentence itself.

“No.”

She looked up, startled by the force of it.

Henry shifted closer, both hands coming up to hold her face this time, forcing her gently but completely to look at him. His thumbs were warm against her wet cheeks.

“You are not second,” he said.

The words landed between them hard and clear.

Y/N blinked at him, breath catching.

Henry’s eyes did not move from hers. “Do you hear me?”

She shook her head once, not in defiance, in disbelief.

He held her face more firmly. “You are not second. Not to her. Not to anyone. Their failure to see you properly is not proof that you were lesser. It is proof that they failed you.”

Her mouth trembled harder. “Henry…”

“No.” His voice broke slightly on her name, then steadied again. “You should never have had to compete for love. Not in your own family. Not in your own home. A child should not have to learn how to earn softness by suffering.”

That one made her eyes flood all over again.

“You are not difficult to love,” he said. “You are not too much. You are not the person people put down and come back to when the better choice disappears.”

Y/N let out a shaking breath. “How do you know?”

And there it was.

The question that carried everything.

Her parents. Her cousin. Her fear. Him.

Henry felt something inside him finally give way.

Because he knew.

He knew because he had almost added to it. Because he had seen what his absence had done to her face. Because he had heard her say she thought people always chose someone else if given the chance, and he could still remember the day he had made her believe that.

His gaze held hers. He did not look away.

“I know,” he said quietly, “because I was wrong once.”

Y/N went still.

Henry swallowed. “I thought I was protecting you when I pushed you away. I thought if I hurt you first, I could keep the rest of the world from doing worse.”

A tear slid down her cheek under his thumb.

“And all I did,” he said, voice lower now, almost harsh with his own self disgust, “was prove your worst fear right. I made you feel chosen and then I withdrew it. I made myself another person who taught you that you would be left if things became complicated.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Henry’s eyes burned with the intensity of what he was trying not to lose control of.

“I will regret that for the rest of my life.”

She stared at him, breath held.

And then, because he could not let her sit there and keep believing that being loved was something she had to earn through pain, he said the thing he had been holding back too long.

“I love you.”

The words did not come out polished.

They came out true.

Y/N froze.

Her whole face changed, not brightening, not softening, just going stunned and open and almost frightened by the force of it.

Henry didn’t look away.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, but no less certain. “And I should have said it before now.”

Y/N’s eyes searched his like she was trying to find the crack in the sentence, the weakness, the pity.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Henry’s brows drew together. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that because I’m crying,” she said, voice shaking harder now. “Please don’t say it because I’m a mess right now. Don’t say it because you feel bad for me.”

“This is not pity.”

“You don’t have to fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you.”

Y/N’s head shook helplessly. “Then why now?”

Henry’s answer came immediately.

“Because it is true now,” he said. “It was true before. And because you deserve to hear it without having to guess.”

Tears kept spilling down her face. She still looked like she wanted to believe him and was terrified to.

“You don’t owe me that,” she whispered.

His hands stayed steady on her face.

“This is not something I owe you,” he said. “It is something I feel. There is a difference.”

She stared at him, chest rising too fast.

Henry moved one thumb slowly under her eye, wiping away a tear. “I love you,” he said a third time, and now the words sounded less like confession than a promise. “Not because you are crying. Not because I’m sorry. Not because I think you need to hear something pretty.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I love you because you are you. In every room. In every mood. On your best day and on the ones that bring you to the floor.”

That broke something in her.

Y/N leaned into his hands, eyes squeezed shut for one second like the tenderness physically hurt.

When she spoke again, it was tiny. “You really mean it?”

Henry’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”

She shook her head once, not in denial this time, just in disbelief that had nowhere else to go.

Then she folded into him.

Not elegant. Not cautious. She just collapsed forward, arms wrapping around him as if her body knew before her mind did that this was where she wanted to be held. Henry caught her instantly, pulling her into his lap, holding her so close it felt protective and desperate at once.

She cried again, but differently now.

Less like she was falling apart. More like something had finally been reached.

Henry held her through all of it, one hand in her hair, one at her back, his cheek resting against her temple.

He didn’t ask if she believed him yet.

He didn’t need her to answer on command.

He just stayed.

He stayed when her breathing stuttered. He stayed when she went quiet. He stayed when she whispered against his shoulder, “I don’t know how to stop feeling like people leave.”

And he answered, “Then don’t stop tonight. Just let me stay.”

So she did.

Minutes passed, maybe longer. The classroom dimmed further around them, the outside world going gray and distant. At some point her crying eased into hiccuping breaths, then into exhausted silence.

She was still curled against him when she finally spoke again.

“I want to believe you.”

Henry kissed the top of her head.

“You don’t have to force it,” he said. “You only have to let me prove it.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened once in his shirt.

And though she didn’t say I believe you yet, she stopped hiding her face.

She stopped trying to make herself smaller.

She let him see all of it, the swollen eyes, the tear streaked cheeks, the old hurt, the shame.

And Henry, still on the floor with her in his arms, looked at her like there was nothing in the world he would rather hold.

. . . 

By the time they got to Henry’s apartment, the worst of the crying had passed.

Not because the hurt was gone. Just because her body had finally run out of room for it.

Everything after the classroom felt blurred around the edges. Y/N barely remembered standing up from the floor, barely remembered Henry helping her into her coat, barely remembered the walk through the nearly empty building. She remembered the cold outside only because it hit her face and made her eyes sting all over again. She remembered the quiet ride more by feeling than by detail, Henry’s hand steady on the wheel, his voice low once or twice asking if she was all right, her own answers so soft they hardly counted.

Mostly, she remembered how heavy her eyes felt.

How wrung out she was.

How badly she wanted to lie down somewhere safe and let her mind go dark for a while.

By the time Henry unlocked his apartment, she was moving on instinct alone.

She stepped inside slowly, almost numb, her bag still hanging from one shoulder because she didn’t have the energy to take it off. The apartment was warm, dim, familiar in a way that made the exhaustion in her bones feel even stronger.

Henry shut the door behind them quietly.

“You should sit down,” he said.

Y/N nodded, but before she moved toward the couch, she stopped.

“Nancy.”

Henry looked at her.

“I have to call her,” Y/N said, voice hoarse from hours of crying. “She was looking for me.”

Something in Henry’s expression tightened with understanding. He crossed to the small table by the wall and picked up the landline receiver, then handed it to her without a word.

Y/N took it with both hands.

Her fingers felt clumsy as she dialed the dorm line from memory. She had to do it twice because she pressed one number wrong the first time.

"Hello, Emerson Hall residence line," a bored voice. 

“Nancy Wheeler, please,” she said softly.

When Nancy answered, she didn’t even say hello.

“Where are you?”

Not yelling, exactly. Not dramatic. Just sharp, controlled, and too fast, like she’d been holding her breath for hours and didn’t know what to do with it now that the phone finally rang.

Y/N closed her eyes for a second and leaned her hip against the wall, guilt hitting harder than the call from her father had.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “Nancy, I’m okay.”

There was a beat on the other end. Then a quick exhale.

“Okay,” Nancy said, but the word didn’t sound like relief yet. It sounded like she was testing it. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Y/N whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Nancy didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quieter but tighter around the edges, like she was forcing the anger into a shape she could control.

“You can’t just disappear,” she said. “It’s not…” She stopped, then tried again, more clipped. “It’s not smart.”

Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. I just… something happened.”

Another pause.

“Are you hurt?” Nancy asked, suddenly all business.

“No,” Y/N said. “I’m not hurt.”

Nancy let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. “Good.”

Y/N’s throat tightened anyway, because the relief in that single word was too real.

“I looked in the dorm,” Nancy said, voice brisk again like she needed structure. “Then the student center. Then the library. And I checked the cafeteria like an idiot because I thought maybe you’d done something impulsive and were pretending it was normal.”

Y/N’s mouth trembled. “I’m sorry.”

Nancy’s tone softened, just a fraction. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything Nancy wasn’t saying.

Y/N adjusted her grip on the receiver, her fingers tight around it. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, that didn’t work,” Nancy replied, flat.

Y/N let out a weak, tiny laugh, and it cracked into something close to a breathy sob. “I know.”

Nancy went quiet again. Y/N could hear something in the background, a muffled shift, like Nancy had sat down hard or braced a hand on her desk.

Then Nancy said, a little slower, “Are you alone?”

Y/N glanced across the room.

Henry was in the kitchen, giving her privacy without leaving entirely. He had his back turned, moving quietly, probably getting her water, maybe tea, maybe just doing something with his hands because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“I’m at Henry’s,” Y/N said softly.

A beat.

“Of course you are,” Nancy said, dry in the way she always got when her feelings were too close to the surface.

Despite everything, Y/N managed another small laugh.

Nancy didn’t laugh back. She just asked, direct and precise, “Are you safe?”

Y/N looked at Henry again, the way he stayed close without hovering, the way he hadn’t left her even when she’d been impossible to hold.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m safe.”

Nancy exhaled, sharp and relieved. “Okay.”

Another pause.

Y/N swallowed. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Nancy’s voice went quiet enough that Y/N almost missed it. “You did.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was just true.

Y/N’s eyes stung again.

“I know,” she whispered.

Nancy didn’t fill the silence with jokes this time. She just let it sit there, and Y/N realized that Nancy was doing what she always did when something hurt too much.

She was keeping her voice steady so she wouldn’t break.

“People don’t just vanish,” Nancy said, almost to herself. Then, like she hated that she’d said it, she corrected quickly, “I mean, they do, obviously. But you can’t do that to me, okay? Not without telling me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

The words weren’t about rules or responsibility. They were about a wound that had never healed right.

Barb.

Y/N could hear it now in the way Nancy’s voice had gone smaller without warning. In the way she’d said “tell me” like it was a plea and not a demand.

“Nancy,” Y/N said softly.

There was a pause.

Then Nancy cleared her throat, the sound sharp. “I’m fine,” she said immediately, which was the most obvious lie Nancy Wheeler ever told.

Y/N blinked hard and looked down at the floor.

“I’m not Barb,” she said quietly. Not defensive. Just careful. “But I get it.”

Nancy didn’t answer at first.

When she finally did, her voice sounded like she’d shoved something down. “Good.”

Y/N held the receiver tighter. “I’m sorry. For making you feel that again.”

Nancy went quiet. Then: “Yeah.”

Not forgiving. Not punishing. Just acknowledging.

Y/N breathed out slowly. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“You better,” Nancy said, and the edge of her voice returned just enough to feel like her. “And next time you leave a note. Or call. Or something. I don’t care if it’s dramatic. Leave something.”

“I will,” Y/N promised.

Nancy hesitated, then added, quieter, “If you need to not be in the dorm tonight, that’s fine. Just… tell me. Okay?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Okay.”

Another pause.

Then Nancy said, like she was trying to make it normal again, “So what happened? You sick or something?”

Y/N almost smiled. Nancy’s version of tenderness was pretending she didn’t have any.

“Something like that,” Y/N said softly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Nancy made a small sound of annoyance. “Of course you will.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you, though.”

“For what?”

“For looking for me so fast,” Y/N said. “For noticing.”

Nancy scoffed, but it didn’t have any real bite. “Yeah. Well. Someone has to.”

Y/N’s eyes stung again.

“Nancy,” she said, voice gentler, “try to be a little less intense on Henry.”

That got a sharper inhale from the other end.

“Excuse me?” Nancy said, immediate suspicion.

Y/N let out a tired huff of a laugh. “I’m serious.”

Nancy’s tone turned flat. “After today, that’s your takeaway?”

“No,” Y/N said softly. “But… he didn’t leave. He helped.”

Nancy was quiet for a second too long.

Then she said carefully, “He better keep doing that.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I think he will.”

Nancy didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll decide that later.”

“That’s fair.”

Nancy exhaled, and Y/N could hear the exhaustion in it now too. “Go lie down.”

“I’m going to,” Y/N said, eyelids heavy again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Nancy echoed, firm. “And you answer if I call.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight,” Nancy said, and it came out gruff like she didn’t trust softness.

“Goodnight, Nancy.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost reluctant: “Goodnight.”

The line clicked dead.

Y/N lowered the receiver slowly and set it back in the cradle. For a second she just stood there, staring at the phone like she had used up the last of her strength in the call.

Then Henry was beside her.

Not speaking right away. Just there.

His hand came to the back of her neck gently, warm and grounding.

“She angry?” he asked quietly.

Y/N leaned into the touch without thinking. “She was scared.”

Henry nodded once. He understood that.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes still swollen, face tired, voice small. “Her old friend died in her hometown, it messed her up more than she lets on.”

Henry’s gaze softened. “Yes.”

Y/N swallowed. “I’m going to tell her everything tomorrow.”

He brushed his thumb once under her ear. “Good.”

Y/N let her eyes close for a second, swaying a little with the exhaustion.

“Come rest,” Henry said.

And this time, when he guided her toward the couch and then the bedroom beyond it, Y/N let herself follow without apology, too tired to pretend she could carry herself alone, and for once not feeling like she had to.

Henry guided her to the bed with one hand at the small of her back, slow and careful, like he thought if he moved too quickly she might shatter again.

Y/N sat down on the edge of the mattress first, then drew her legs up and folded into herself, arms wrapping around her knees. The lamp on the nightstand was on low, casting the room in warm gold, but it didn’t quite reach the corners. It made everything feel smaller. Safer. Like the rest of the world had been shut out for a little while.

Henry stayed standing for a moment, watching her.

Not in a way that made her feel observed.

In a way that made it obvious he was waiting to see what she needed before he assumed anything.

Y/N looked down at her hands. They were still shaky if she paid too much attention.

For a second she thought maybe she was too tired to say anything else tonight. That maybe all the crying had wrung her dry enough that there was nothing left.

But then Henry sat beside her, not too close at first, and the quiet between them felt like an opening.

So she spoke.

“When I was little,” she said softly, “I used to run away.”

Henry didn’t interrupt.

Y/N gave a small shrug, eyes still fixed on the blanket bunched around her legs. “Not like… dramatically. Not forever. Just for a little while.” Her mouth twitched without humor. “Just long enough to breathe somewhere else.”

Henry leaned his forearms on his thighs, listening with his whole body.

“There was this tiny state amusement park,” she said. “Kind of sad, honestly. Not one of the big ones. Just… a little place.” Her fingers twisted together. “I figured out how to sneak in under one of the side gates.”

Henry’s brows drew together slightly, but he stayed quiet.

“I was a really introverted kid,” Y/N went on. “Like… really. I didn’t have people to run to. No best friend’s house. No neighbor I was close with. Nothing like that.” She swallowed. “So if things got bad, I just left by myself.”

That landed in the room and stayed there.

Henry’s jaw tightened, but still he said nothing.

Y/N drew in a slow breath. “The teacups were the only ride I ever got on by myself.”

Henry looked at her then, fully.

Y/N gave the smallest shake of her head, like she couldn’t believe she was admitting this out loud. “I’d get on and just spin myself. Hard. Round and round.” Her voice got quieter. “Until I got dizzy enough that I couldn’t think straight. Until I couldn’t hear them in my head as clearly.”

Henry’s face changed in that small, dangerous way it did when something got under his skin for real.

Y/N kept talking, because now that she’d started, stopping felt worse.

“It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” Henry said immediately.

She looked at him for a second, then back down again. “It does a little.”

“No,” he said, softer this time. “It doesn’t.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I’d just sit there by myself and spin in circles until I felt sick, and somehow that felt better than going home.” She let out a faint, shaky laugh. “I think because if the world was spinning hard enough, I didn’t have to feel one thing too clearly.”

Henry’s hands slowly clasped together between his knees. He was very still now.

Y/N blinked hard, eyes burning again. “And sometimes…” She stopped, pressed her lips together, and tried again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still there.”

The room went quiet.

Henry turned toward her more fully.

Y/N’s eyes were wet now, and she hated it, hated how easily this particular memory reached in and pulled something raw to the surface.

“I feel like I’m still in those stupid teacups,” she whispered. “Just spinning round and round in circles. Same feeling. Different year. Same panic. Same hurt. Same…” Her breath caught. “Same trying not to cry where anyone can see.”

Henry moved then, just a little closer.

Y/N looked up at him, and the tears she’d been trying to keep level slipped over.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

It came out smaller than everything else had. More childlike. More honest.

Henry’s expression tightened at once. “Of what?”

Y/N laughed once through the tears, but it broke apart immediately. “Of all of it.” She wiped angrily at her face. “Of never getting off that ride. Of always feeling like this. Of still being this upset over them when I should be older than it by now.” Her mouth trembled. “Of being too much for people. Of being hard to keep. Of… of waking up one day and realizing I’m still trying to prove I’m worth staying for.”

Henry’s face did something then, something that looked almost painful.

He reached for her slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

His hand came to the side of her face, thumb brushing under her eye, catching one of the tears there.

“You are not too much,” he said quietly.

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “You say that...”

“I know.”

“And I can still feel it anyway.”

Henry nodded once. “I know.”

She stared at him, helpless and exhausted and wanting so badly to believe every gentle thing he gave her.

Henry shifted closer still, until his knee touched the side of hers. His voice stayed low, steady.

“You are not still there.”

Y/N’s brows pulled together. “It feels like I am.”

“I know it does.” His thumb moved once against her cheek. “But you are here. With me. In our room. Tonight.” He was too focused on bringing her comfort, he didn’t even register that he said the words, ‘our room’, not ‘this room’ or ‘my room’.

Her breathing stuttered.

Henry held her gaze. “And you do not have to spin yourself sick to survive this one.”

That broke her all over again but quieter this time.

Not a collapse. Just tears slipping down because he had found the exact shape of it and answered it gently.

Y/N shook her head once, looking down. “I didn’t have anyone back then.”

Henry’s hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, warm and grounding.

“I know.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t really know what to do when I’m scared.”

Henry’s answer came without hesitation.

“Come to me.”

Y/N’s eyes lifted back to his.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften the sentence into something less serious. He meant it exactly as he said it.

“When it feels like that,” he said, “when it starts spinning again, you come to me.”

Y/N’s mouth trembled. “Henry—”

“No,” he said gently. “Listen to me.” His hand stayed steady at her neck. “You are not a child sneaking under a gate anymore. You are not alone with it anymore. And if you’re frightened, you do not have to disappear. You come to me.”

Her eyes closed for a second. Another tear slipped free.

When she opened them again, she looked smaller somehow, younger in the face, like all the armor had finally worn off.

“What if it’s too much?” she whispered.

“For who?”

“For you.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Y/N.”

She looked away again. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He shifted fully toward her then and cupped her face with both hands, making sure she saw him.

“You do not have to be easy to be loved,” he said quietly.

The words went straight through her.

Y/N stared at him, tears gathering again, but not from the same place as before.

Henry’s voice dropped lower. “You do not have to be simple. Or calm. Or unafraid. You do not have to make yourself smaller so someone will stay.” His thumbs brushed lightly at her cheeks. “And you do not have to survive by yourself just because you learned how.”

Y/N made a small, broken sound and leaned into his hands without thinking.

Henry let her.

Then he drew her forward until she folded into him, his arms wrapping around her as she tucked herself against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head once.

“You’re not there,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re here.”

Y/N clutched his shirt tighter.

And for the first time since she had started telling him about the teacups, about the gate, about the little girl with nowhere to go, the fear inside her eased, not gone, not fixed, but quieter.

Quieter because someone was finally holding still with her instead of making her spin alone.

Y/N rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, slow and tired, like even lifting her arms felt heavy now.

“I want to sleep,” she whispered.

Henry’s hand stayed at the back of her neck, warm and steady. “Okay.”

She let out a long breath and leaned back onto the bed with a soft, exhausted sigh. For a moment she stared at the ceiling, blinking through the last sting in her eyes, then turned her face toward him like she couldn’t bear the distance even for a second.

“Come here,” she murmured.

Henry didn’t hesitate.

He kicked off his shoes, set his jacket aside, set his glasses on the bedside table and laid down beside her. The bed dipped with his weight, the sheets shifting as he settled, still careful, still watching her like he was making sure she didn’t disappear the moment he blinked.

Y/N immediately reached for him.

Not frantic. Just certain.

She hooked her arm around his waist and pulled him closer until his shoulder was under her cheek and his chest was close enough that she could hear his heartbeat again. She pressed her forehead lightly into him and let her eyes close, her body finally giving itself permission to stop bracing.

Henry’s arm came around her, firm and protective. His hand moved slowly up and down her back in that same soothing rhythm, like he was teaching her nervous system something new.

The room fell quiet.

The lamp glowed low. The radiator clicked somewhere in the distance. Outside, the city kept moving without them.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Y/N’s breathing gradually evened out, deepening into that edge-of-sleep softness.

Henry didn’t move.

He stayed exactly where she put him.

After a while, Y/N shifted slightly, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as if she needed to confirm he was still there.

Henry’s voice came low, barely above a breath. “Are you all right?”

Y/N didn’t open her eyes. “I am now.”

Henry’s hand paused once at the middle of her back, then continued, gentler.

Another quiet stretch.

Y/N’s eyelids fluttered. She was almost gone to sleep when something in her chest tightened again, not fear this time. Something warmer. Something that felt like it had been waiting for the room to be dark enough to say it.

She swallowed.

Her voice came out as a whisper into his shoulder, so soft it almost didn’t count.

“I love you.”

Henry went still.

Not rigid. Not startled.

Just… utterly silent.

Y/N’s eyes stayed closed. She didn’t pull back to look at him. She couldn’t. If she looked at his face, she might take it back out of panic. She might laugh it off. She might pretend it was sleep talking.

So she stayed tucked into him and let the words exist.

Henry’s arm tightened around her, careful but unmistakable, pulling her closer as if the sentence had anchored him as much as it had exposed her.

His mouth brushed the top of her head, a kiss that lingered.

Then his voice came quiet and rough, close enough that she felt it more than heard it.

“Say it again.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, almost a laugh, almost a sob.

She didn’t lift her head.

She just whispered it once more, steadier this time, like she was choosing it on purpose.

“I love you.”

Henry exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“I love you too,” he murmured into her hair, and this time it didn’t sound like a confession forced out by fear.

It sounded like something he’d been carrying.

Y/N’s fingers loosened in his shirt, the tension easing out of her hand. Her mouth softened against his shoulder.

“Okay,” she breathed, half asleep already.

Henry’s hand smoothed once down her back. “Sleep.”

And with his arm around her and the words finally said in the dark, Y/N let her eyes stay closed and drifted into rest feeling, for the first time in a long time, like she wasn’t spinning alone.

. . .

taglist, •*o+**.

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A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!

The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside. 

You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.

By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.

When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.

The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.

The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.

The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.

The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.

Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.

You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.

Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.

“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.

Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”

“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”

“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.

“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.

“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”

“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”

“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”

“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”

The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.

“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”

You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.

“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”

A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.

It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.

In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.

During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.

Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.

Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.

You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.

It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.

“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”

That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.

“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.

You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.

When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.

Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.

He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.

The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.

That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”

Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.

Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.

It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.

At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.

You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.

And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.

You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.

During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there. 

Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.

The silence that followed was mortifying.

Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.

The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.

Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.

You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.

In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.

It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.

You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.

Every relationship has its ups and downs.

This is just a rough patch.

This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.

Apparently not.

The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.

One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.

Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.

Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?

“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.

“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.

“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.

The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.

“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”

“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”

You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.

“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.

“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.

Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.

“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.

“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.

“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”

You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.

“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.

“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”

“You think it’s better if we wait?”

The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.

The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”

Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.

“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”

“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”

Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”

Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”

“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”

“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.

Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.

The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.

“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.

“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.

“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.

You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.

The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.

Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.

You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.

You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.

Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.

Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away. 

The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.

“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.

“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.

With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.

In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.

“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.

“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.

The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.

“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”

Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.

“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.

“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.

“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.

Since March.

He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.

The floor crumbles under your feet.

The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.

The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.

You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke. 

Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.

You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.

Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.

“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”

Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.

Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.

Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.

Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.

How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.

That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.

It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.

And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.

Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.

You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.

So he fell into another woman’s vagina.

Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.

He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.

After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?

You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.

The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.

How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?

It also means telling him about what happened.

The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.

Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.

You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.

Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.

When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.

“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.

“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”

You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.

“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.

“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”

You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.

“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.

“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”

He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”

You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.

When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”

“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”

Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.

“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”

The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.

Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.

You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.

“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.

He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.

Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.

“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.

“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.

Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.

“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”

You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.

“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.

“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”

Each word feels like biting broken glass.

From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.

Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.

His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.

Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.

Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.

“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”

“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”

Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”

Your jaw drops.

“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”

You shake your head, swallowing.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.

His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”

Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”

You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”

“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.

“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.

“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”

“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.

“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.

Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”

“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”

You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.

“You know I’m here for you. Always.”

He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”

“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”

“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”

Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.

“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.

“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”

You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”

He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.

Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.

A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.

The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.

Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?

Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.

When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.

Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.

“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.

“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages. 

“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.

Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.

You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.

Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.

Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.

The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.

The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...

It shouldn’t happen.

“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”

“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.

“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”

Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.

“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”

“If anything, I kissed you.”

“We both leaned in!”

Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”

“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”

A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.

“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.

“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.

“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.

“I…” 

“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.

“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.

“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”

He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.

“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”

“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.

Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along. 

“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.

You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.

His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.

When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths. 

Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection. 

“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.

“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.

When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?

This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal. 

“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.

“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—” 

“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.

There is a brief, meaningful pause.

“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips. 

“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.

“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.

Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.

“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”

You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”

“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”

A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.

It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should. 

You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest. 

“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up. 

“Are you oka—”

“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”

“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe. 

“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.

“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.

“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?” 

“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm. 

His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.

“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”

His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms. 

“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.

“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid. 

“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.” 

The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.

You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.

He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it. 

With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.

Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”

To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.

It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets. 

Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”

Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.

“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”

And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.

You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.

“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back. 

“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch. 

“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”

“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot. 

“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”

You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.

“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.   

“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.” 

“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”

You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does. 

“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.

“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now. 

“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.” 

Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.

“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.

You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.

“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers. 

It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip. 

“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.

“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.

“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected. 

Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.

He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.

“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.

“Want you to be the first.” You whisper. 

“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.

“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.

“Feeling alright, doll?”

“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”

Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.

“Bucky.” 

“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”

Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.

“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.

“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust. 

Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans. 

“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”

The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly. 

“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”

“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.

“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.

“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.

“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.

“Holy fuck.”

Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes. 

But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.

“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment. 

Everything feels more sensitive like this.  

You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.

You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.

Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.

You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.

“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.

“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.

“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.

“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.

“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.” 

Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.

Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.

“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength. 

“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up. 

“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well. 

“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster. 

“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”

"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.

“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.

“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure. 

“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.

“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”

With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.” 

His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.

“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.

Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.

“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.

You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips. 

“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.

“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.

“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo

. . .

Y/N woke up to the sound of furious scribbling.

Not soft scribbling, either. Nancy Wheeler scribbling. Sharp, aggressive pen strokes across paper, like she was personally offended by every sentence she’d written five minutes earlier. 

The dorm room was still gray with early morning, the kind of winter light that made everything look colder than it was. Nancy sat at her desk in her robe, one leg tucked under her, hair half pinned back in a way that meant she’d been up for a while. Her newspaper draft was spread out in front of her in loose pages, red pen flying over the margins.

Without looking up, Nancy said, “Morning.”

Then she kept editing.

Y/N blinked into the quiet.

For a second, she just lay there under her blanket, staring at Nancy’s back.

That was it?

No smile. No weirdly formal birthday speech. No dramatic “rise and shine.” Just… morning.

Y/N’s eyebrows pulled together.

She turned her head slowly toward the wall calendar pinned beside Nancy’s desk, eyes narrowing as she searched the date even though she already knew it.

Today.

It was definitely today.

Her birthday.

Y/N pushed herself up, hair a mess, sleep still heavy in her limbs, and stretched her arms over her head. The room smelled like ink, coffee, and paper, basically Nancy in scent form.

Nancy kept scribbling.

Y/N watched her for another beat, then asked carefully, “Is there… something you want to say to me?”

Nancy glanced over at her at last.

Her eyes flicked to Y/N’s face, and she said, completely deadpan, “You have drool on your chin.”

Y/N stared.

Nancy capped the pen for a second, leaned back in her chair, and added, “Did you dream about Creel again? Is that why you’re drooling?”

Y/N’s mouth fell open. “Nancy.”

“What?” Nancy asked, looking unfairly innocent. “I’m just trying to understand the moisture situation.”

Y/N wiped at her chin automatically, then realized she was being played with and glared. “You’re annoying.”

Nancy gave a tiny shrug and picked her pen back up. “That’s not new.”

Y/N kept staring at her.

Nancy kept editing.

The silence stretched just long enough to start hurting.

A small, stupid ache pressed at Y/N’s chest before she could stop it. It wasn’t even about presents, not really. It was the idea that Nancy, Nancy of all people, might actually have forgotten.

“Seriously?” Y/N asked, quieter this time.

Nancy made a little hum, like she was rearranging a paragraph in her head and not at all tuned into the emotional crisis happening three feet away. 

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She hated how quickly disappointment could make her feel twelve years old again.

“Wow,” she muttered, trying to sound sarcastic instead of wounded. “Okay.”

Nancy still didn’t look up.

Y/N swallowed hard and swung her legs out of bed. “Never mind.”

She stood, grabbing the edge of her blanket around herself like armor for half a second before letting it drop. Her face had already started doing that thing where it went still to protect itself.

It was fine.

It was just a birthday.

People forgot things.

People forgot her sometimes.

No big deal.

She moved toward the bathroom door, jaw tight, already trying to shrug it off before Nancy could see it landed.

Then—

“Y/N.”

Nancy’s voice stopped her before her hand hit the knob.

Y/N paused but didn’t turn around right away. “What?”

Nancy finally looked up fully.

Now there was that unmistakable Wheeler expression on her face, the one that mixed fondness with exasperation, like Y/N was being ridiculous but beloved while doing it.

“Happy birthday, idiot,” Nancy said.

Y/N turned.

Nancy’s mouth twitched. “You really thought I forgot?”

Y/N blinked, caught between relief and embarrassment and a lingering need to stay offended on principle. “You said good morning.”

“Yes,” Nancy said. “Because I wanted to watch you spiral for at least thirty seconds.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “You’re evil.”

Nancy grinned faintly. “Correct.”

Y/N pressed a hand to her chest. “I was hurt.”

“I know,” Nancy said, entirely too pleased with herself. Then her expression softened. “And I’d never forget your birthday.”

Something in Y/N’s shoulders loosened so fast it almost made her feel dizzy.

Nancy reached down beside her desk and pulled up a small wrapped package she had clearly hidden out of sight.

“And,” Nancy added, holding it out, “I got you something.”

Y/N stared at it. “You did?”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m holding an empty box for drama.”

Y/N laughed despite herself, the last bit of hurt melting out of her chest as she crossed the room. “Shut up.”

Nancy handed it to her with a look that tried very hard to be casual and failed. “Open it after you brush your teeth. You look like a Victorian child with consumption.”

Y/N clutched the gift to her chest, smiling now in a way she couldn’t hide. “You’re the worst.”

Nancy uncapped her pen again and looked back down at her paper. “And yet, I’m your favorite.”

Y/N stood there for another second, gift in hand, heart warmer than it had been a minute ago.

Then Nancy added, without looking up, “Also, if Creel doesn’t tell you happy birthday properly, I’m keying his car.”

Y/N snorted. “I don’t think he even has a car nice enough to key dramatically.”

Nancy’s mouth curved. “I’ll find a way.”

And just like that, the morning felt right again.

. . . 

Y/N came back from the shower wrapped in steam and wearing fresh clothes, hair damp and smelling faintly like Nancy’s strawberry shampoo because she had run out of her own again and never remembered to replace it.

The dorm room was warmer now, brighter. Nancy had changed into real clothes, though her newspaper draft was still spread across her desk in a mess of crossed out lines and scribbled arrows. She looked up the second Y/N stepped back into the room, trying very hard to act like she was not watching for her reaction.

The wrapped gift was sitting on Y/N’s bed where she had left it, waiting.

Nancy tapped her pen against the desk once. “Well?”

Y/N smiled despite herself and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the mattress with the package in her lap. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” Nancy said immediately.

Y/N glanced up. Nancy was absolutely staring.

“You are.”

Nancy rolled her eyes, offended by accuracy. “Open it.”

Y/N laughed softly under her breath and peeled back the paper carefully because Nancy had wrapped it with way too much tape and the kind of neatness that meant she had actually tried. Underneath was a small box, and inside that—

Y/N’s face changed immediately.

It was a silver bracelet. Not flashy, not huge, just simple and pretty, with a small charm hanging from it, delicate enough to feel personal instead of expensive. The kind of thing Y/N could wear every day and think of home, or this room, or the one person in Boston who would absolutely shoot someone for her and then insist she was overreacting.

For a second, Y/N just stared at it in her hands.

Nancy shifted in her chair, suddenly awkward in a way she almost never let herself be. “It’s not insanely nice or anything,” she said too quickly. “I just thought it looked like something you’d actually wear, and you’re impossible to shop for because half your personality is either leather jackets or emotional collapse—”

Y/N looked up at her with eyes already warming.

Nancy stopped.

“Oh no,” Nancy said immediately, pointing her pen at her. “Do not cry.”

Y/N let out a short laugh that sounded dangerously close to one. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Nancy said, narrowing her eyes. “Your face is doing that thing.”