Summary: you and Steve crossed a line and Steve has broken your heart in the proces, or did he?
Warnings: (in my mind) set after s5, misunderstanding trope, best friends to lovers, allusions to smut, suggestive themes, angsty, but with a fluff (?) ending
Author's note: here you go friends. i had a hard time finalizing the end, so i hope you like it. if you have any requests, also lmk. divider by @cursed-carmine
Steve Harrington had been in your life for so long that you no longer remembered what it felt like before him.
Before the late-night drives with the windows down, Steveâs hand draped casually over the back of your seat.
Before movie marathons where you fell asleep halfway through and woke up with your cheek pressed into his shoulder.
Before the quiet, wordless understanding that came from surviving too much together in a town that refused to stay normal.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years of always.
You were there when he broke his arm and pretended it didnât hurt.
You were there when he pretended he didnât care about Nancy anymore.
You were there when the world cracked open and monsters spilled out and Steve decided, somewhere along the way, that protecting people was simply who he was.
And Steve was there for you, too.
For heartbreaks. For family arguments. For the nights when the anxiety wouldnât let you sleep and he sat on the floor beside your bed, back against the mattress, promising you werenât alone.
Best friends.
That word followed you everywhere, clung to you like a label you couldnât peel off. Steveâs best friend. Safe. Untouchable. Not chosen.
And somewhere, quietly, painfully, you fell in love with him.
You never meant to. It just⊠happened. Slowly. Like water wearing away stone.
You learned to live with it. Learned to tuck it away. Learned to smile when he flirted with other girls, learned to laugh when he asked your advice, learned to swallow the ache when he left your apartment smelling like someone elseâs perfume.
You told yourself this was enough.
Until the night it wasnât.
It was one of those nights where everything felt off-balance from the start.
Too much to drink. Too much laughing. Too many old memories brought up like they were harmless, like they didnât carry weight. Steve was already sprawled on your couch, shoes kicked off, hair messier than usual, eyes soft in that way that made your chest tighten.
âYou ever think about how weird it is,â he said, staring at the ceiling, âthat weâre still⊠us?â
You knew what he meant. Still here. Still together. Still always.
âYeah,â you replied quietly. âSometimes.â
He turned his head to look at you. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your pulse stutter.
âYouâre the only person who never left,â he said. âNot really.â
Your heart ached at the simplicity of it.
The moment stretched. Stretched too far.
You donât remember who moved first.
Maybe it was you leaning in because the space between you suddenly felt unbearable.
Maybe it was him turning fully toward you, eyes flicking to your mouth like heâd been thinking about it longer than heâd ever admit.
The kiss was soft at first. Uncertain. Like both of you were waiting for the other to pull back and say we shouldnât.
Neither of you did.
It felt like crossing a line youâd both been skirting for years. Familiar and terrifying and intoxicating all at once. Steveâs hand curled into your shirt like he was afraid youâd disappear if he let go. Your fingers threaded through his hair, muscle memory guiding you like youâd done this a thousand times in another life.
âHey,â you whispered, breathless, forehead pressed to his. âWe donât have toââ
âI want this,â he said immediately, voice rough. âI want you.â
Those words alone couldâve shattered you.
So you let it happen.
It was tender. Careful. Charged with something neither of you were brave enough to name.
Steve touched you like he already knew you, because he did. Like every laugh, every tear, every shared secret lived just under his skin. And for a moment, you let yourself believe this meant something more.
That maybe heâd finally seen you.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Your senses were overloaded, his breath against your neck, the weight of him, the rhythm of his body against yours, the way he whispered your name like it mattered.
And thenâ
It happened.
Steve murmured something under his breath, voice low, broken, tangled in the moment.
A name.
Not yours.
At least⊠you thought it wasnât.
Your body went cold in an instant.
The room seemed to tilt, reality snapping back into place with brutal clarity. Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs as the meaning settled in, heavy and unforgiving.
Of course.
This wasnât about you. It never was.
You were the convenient constant. The safe place. The person he could reach for when he felt lonely, overwhelmed, drunk on old feelings that didnât belong to you.
You pulled back so suddenly it startled him.
âHeyâ wait, whatâs wrong?â Steve asked, concern flooding his face.
But you couldnât look at him. If you did, you might break completely.
âI canât,â you said, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. âI canât do this.â
Confusion flickered across his expression. âDid I do something?â
You laughed softly, bitterly. âYou tell me.â
Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly scrambling. âIâI donât understand.â
âYou said her name,â you whispered.
Silence.
The kind that screams.
Steveâs face drained of color. âWhat? No, I...â
âYou donât have to explain,â you cut in quickly, pain spilling over. âI get it. I shouldâve known better.â
You stood, instantly feeling empty without him, hands trembling as you grabbed your sweater. Everything felt too loud, too sharp, too real.
âThis was a mistake,â you said, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. âIâm sorry I crossed that line.â
Steve reached for you, panic clear in his eyes. âWait, please. Youâre not a mistake.â
You shook your head, tears finally blurring your vision. âIâve always been just your friend, Steve. Tonight just⊠confirmed it.â
You didnât wait for his response.
You couldnât.
You avoided him.
At first, it was easy enough.
A missed call here. A late reply there. You told yourself you were just busy, just tired, just not ready.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
It became a routine, changing your routes through town, ducking into different aisles at Family Video, lingering longer than necessary anywhere Steve wasnât. It was easier to pretend you were busy than to face the look on his face when he realized heâd hurt you. Easier to swallow the ache alone than to risk hearing him say what you already believed.
I didnât mean it like that.
You misunderstood.
Youâre important to me, just not in that way.
You knew how those conversations went. Youâd lived through enough almosts to recognize the pattern. The gentle letdowns. The careful phrasing. The way people tried not to break something they never meant to hold in the first place.
So you stayed quiet.
Steve noticed immediately.
Robin noticed ten seconds after that.
She cornered him behind the Family Video counter one afternoon, arms crossed, eyes sharp. âOkay,â she said, voice low, âwhat did you do?â
Steve blinked at her. âWhat?â
âYou look like someone ran over your favorite pair of shoes and then reversed just to be petty,â she said. âAnd donât play dumb. You and her⊠Somethingâs wrong.â
He swallowed. Hard.
âShe wonât talk to me,â he said finally. âShe wonât even look at me.â
Robinâs expression shifted, less teasing, more serious. âSteve.â
Across the store, Dustin had been pretending, very poorly, to browse the horror section. He whipped around. âWait, is this about why she hasnât been hanging out with us?â
Steve stiffened. âYou noticed that too?â
Dustin snorted. âPlease. She skipped movie night and free pizza. Thatâs not normal behavior.â
Robinâs jaw tightened. âWhat happened?â
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
âWeââ He exhaled sharply. âWe crossed a line. And then I said something. Or, well⊠Mumbled something. And she thinks I said ermâ, someone elseâs name.â
Robin stared at him. âDid you?â
âNo!â Steve said immediately, panic flaring. âGod, no. I didnât. I swear I didnât.â
âThen why havenât you told her that?â Dustin asked, brows furrowed.
âI tried,â Steve said miserably. âShe wonât answer. She wonât listen.â
Robin softened just a little, but her voice stayed firm. âSteve⊠sheâs been in love with you forever.â
His head snapped up. âWhat?â
âDonât act shocked,â Robin said. âItâs painfully obvious. To literally everyone except you.â
Dustin nodded. âYeah, man. Youâre kind of an idiot.â
Steve dragged a hand down his face. âI didnât know,â he whispered. âI thought⊠I thought I was protecting her. Keeping things safe.â
Robin sighed. âYou donât protect people by deciding their feelings for them.â
The words hit him like a punch.
Meanwhile, you were unraveling in your own quiet way.
Max noticed first, the way you laughed a little less, the way your eyes always seemed somewhere else. She didnât push, just sat beside you one afternoon and said, âYou donât have to talk, but youâre not as invisible as you think.â
Mike and El noticed next. He offered soda, long walks, gentle silences. She didnât mention Steve unless you did⊠which you didnât.
And every time his name almost slipped out, your chest tightened painfully. And what hurt even more was the pity in their eyes when they looked at you.
You know they didnât mean it like that, but in your head they were still kids, they didnât know any better.
Steve, on the other hand, was unraveling completely.
He couldnât stop replaying it: how quickly everything changed. One second you were with him, panting his name, your hands gripping his hair, the next you were frozen, retreating. The way your breath hitched. The way your eyes filled with pain like heâd reached into your chest and crushed something delicate and irreplaceable.
The way you walked out like heâd just broken something sacred.
He hadnât said another name.
He knew that.
Heâd mumbled, half-words, broken syllables, a sound caught in his throat because the reality of being with you had hit him all at once. Because suddenly it wasnât casual, wasnât safe, wasnât something he could laugh off the next morning.
It was everything. It meant everything.
And heâd panicked.
Steve Harrington had faced monsters from other dimensions, had gone toe-to-toe with things that shouldâve killed him and probably had, if his friends had not interfered, but nothing terrified him quite like the idea that he could lose you, not to death, not to distance, but to his own stupidity.
He wasnât good with words. Never had been.
And now, every second of silence felt like punishment.
And he deserved it.
But that didnât stop him from hoping, desperately, foolishly, that someday soon, youâd give him the chance to make it right.
He showed up at your door unannounced.
You knew it was him before you even looked. There was something about the knock, hesitant, uneven, like heâd raised his hand and lowered it again more than once before finally committing. Your heart jumped anyway, sharp and instinctive and unwelcome.
You stayed where you were, snuggled up in one of his hoodies on the couch.
The hallway light buzzed faintly above you. Your keys were still clenched in your hand, metal biting into your palm. On the other side of the door, you could hear him shift his weight, the soft scuff of his sneaker against the welcome mat.
âHey,â Steve said, voice muffled through the wood. âItâs me.â
As if it couldâve been anyone else.
âI know you probably donât want to see me,â he went on, words tumbling too fast now. âAnd I get it, I really do, but, please⊠can we just talk?â
You pressed your forehead briefly against the door, eyes squeezed shut. If you opened it, if you saw his face, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes always softened when they found you, you knew youâd fold. You always did.
So you stayed quiet.
Seconds dragged into minutes. The silence stretched until it felt cruel.
You heard him exhale, long and shaky.
âOkay,â he said softly, resignation creeping in. âOkay. Iâll⊠Iâll call you later.â
His footsteps retreated down the hallway. The sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have.
Later that evening, the answering machine clicked on.
You were in the kitchen, pretending to wash a mug that was already clean, when his voice filled the apartment.
âHey,â he said, quieter now. Stripped bare of bravado. âItâs me. Again. I, uh⊠please. Just talk to me. Iâll explain. I swear. I know I hurt you, and I hate that I did, but I didnât say what you think I said. I need you to know that.â
There was a pause. You could almost see him rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the wall like he always did when he was nervous.
âYou matter to me,â he added, voice cracking. âMore than you know.â
The machine clicked off.
You stood there long after, staring at nothing, heart pounding like it didnât know where to settle. Eventually, you crossed the room and rewound the tape.
You listened once more.
Then you erased it.
The next day, there was a note slipped under your door. Folded once. Your name written in Steveâs messy handwriting, letters leaning slightly to the right like they always did.
I messed up.
Please donât shut me out.
I didnât say another name. I swear.
You read it until the paper softened between your fingers. Then you folded it back up and tucked it into a drawer you tried not to open too often.
More notes followed over the next few days. Never demanding. Never angry. Just⊠there.
Iâll wait.
I miss you.
Iâm here when youâre ready.
You didnât answer any of them.
Because none of it changed the truth as you saw it.
Steve had always cared. He cared deeply, recklessly, with a kind of intensity that made people feel seen and safe. That was who he was. That was why everyone loved him.
But caring wasnât the same as choosing.
And you were so tired of hoping for something heâd never promised you.
You loved him.
You had loved him quietly, patiently, painfullyâfor longer than you could remember. Loved him through other girls, through almosts and half-moments that never tipped into more.
And loving him hurt too much.
Too much to open the door.
Too much to keep replaying his voice.
Too much to survive another almost.
So you left the notes unanswered.
And you let the silence sit between you, heavy, aching, and unresolved.
Steve caught you outside the grocery store just as you were juggling bags and keys, already half-thinking about how quickly you could get home without running into anyone you werenât ready to see.
Too late.
âHey,â he said, gentle, like he was afraid the word itself might send you bolting.
Your shoulders tensed immediately. You didnât look at him at first. âI donât want to do this, Steve.â
âI know,â he said quickly. âI justâplease. Donât run.â
You turned then, arms crossing defensively, grocery bags rustling between you like a flimsy shield. âWhat do you want?â
The way he flinched at your tone almost made you regret it. Almost.
âI just want to talk,â he said. âI want to explain.â
You shook your head. âYou already did. I heard enough.â
âThatâs the thing,â he said quietly. âI donât think you did.â
Your jaw tightened, your heart cracking. âI donât want to reopen this.â
He hesitated, clearly fighting himself, then nodded. âOkay.â
The acceptance caught you off guard.
âI wonât push,â he said. âI promise.â He took a step back, giving you space. âI just want you to know⊠that night wasnât about anyone else. And Iâll live with it if you never believe me. I just needed you to know I never meant to hurt you.â
You swallowed hard.
Steve looked at you one last time, eyes heavy with things he wasnât saying. âTake care of yourself,â he added softly.
Then he walked away.
You stood there longer than necessary, eyes tracing his every move, his words echoing louder than you wanted them to.
That night wasnât about anyone else.
You tried to shake it off. Told yourself it didnât matter. That it was too late.
But your mind betrayed you.
Because when you replayed that moment, really replayed it, you realized something you hadnât let yourself consider before. The sound heâd made hadnât been clear. Hadnât been sharp enough to be a name. It had been breathless. Broken. Almost cut off.
Like a thought interrupted.
Your mind just filled it in for you.
The certainty youâd clung to began to crack.
Steve didnât try to corner you again.
Instead, he showed up quietly, invisible.
A cup of coffee left outside your door one morning. Cold by the time you found it. Exactly how you liked it.
A grocery bag on your porch when you got home late one evening. Soup. Bread. Things you bought when you were too tired to take care of yourself properly. Your favorite cookies, the Dutch speculaas ones your oma used to make when she was visiting.
And even though these gestures cracked open your heart even more, there was still no pressure.
No expectations.
Just presence.
Days passed like that.
The ache didnât disappear, it dulled, settling into something quieter, something you could carry without it knocking the breath out of you every morning. You learned how to exist again. Not healed. Just⊠functioning.
And then one night, without fully deciding to, you opened the door when you heard the familiar creaking of your front porch.
Steve stood there like he hadnât let himself believe this moment would ever come.
âHey,â he said, careful.
âHey,â you replied.
You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.
He didnât move closer. Didnât touch you. Just stood in the middle of the room with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight, like he was bracing for impact.
âIâve been thinking,â you said slowly. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. âAbout that night.â
His breath hitched. âYeah?â
âA lot,â you added. âAnd I donât think⊠I donât think you said her name.â
He closed his eyes for a brief second, like relief physically hit him.
âI didnât,â he said quietly. âI swear. I was trying to say something else. I panicked and it came out wrong.â
You nodded once. âI know.â
The silence that followed wasnât comfortable, but it wasnât sharp either. It sat between you, heavy with everything neither of you quite knew how to touch yet.
âBut knowing that,â you continued, shaking your head, forcing yourself to keep going, âdoesnât undo how it felt.â
Steveâs head dipped immediately, seeking eye contact. âI know.â
âYou still hurt me,â you said, more firmly now. âI gave you the most vulnerable part of myself and still walked away feeling small. Replaceable. Like Iâd finally been stupid enough to hope for something that was never mine.â
âI know,â he repeated, voice rough. He didnât argue. Didnât soften it. âI know I did that.â
You swallowed, looking at his face, the way how his face fell, how sad he looked. âI know the grown-up thing wouldâve been to talk it throughâto clear up the confusion. But we didnât. And even though I feel guilty about that, I still need some time.â
âI donât expect you to be ready,â he said quietly, his hand trembling. âI donât expect anything.â
You studied him, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he looked older somehow, worn thin in a way you hadnât seen before.
âIâm willing to try,â you said finally. âBut you really have to work for this.â
His eyes lifted to yours, earnest and steady. âI will. However long it takes.â
You nodded once, a small smile already forming. âOkay.â
He seemed to hesitate then, like something was pressing against his ribs, something heâd been holding back.
And thenâ
âI love you.â
Steve looked startled by his own admission.
The words landed⊠hard, wrong? Not gentle, not careful. They hit you straight in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs.
âWhat?â you breathed.
Steve froze, clearly realizing how hard theyâd landed, but he didnât take them back.
âI didnât plan to say it like that,â he admitted, his hand raking through his hair. âOr even tonight. But you deserve the truth, even if it scares you.â
You stared at him, heart pounding. âSteveââ
âI know,â he said quickly. âI know it doesnât fix anything. I know it doesnât erase the hurt. And I know you donât owe me anything just because I feel this way.â
He swallowed hard.
âBut these last few weeks? They were the worst weeks of my life.â
You blinked, a startled laugh caught in your throat. âYouâve fought monsters in another dimension.â
He nodded. âYeah. And Iâd do it again without thinking.â His voice cracked despite himself. âBut thinking I lost you because I was too scared to say what Iâve felt for years? That was worse.â
The room felt suddenly too small.
âI wasnât ready for that,â you admitted, voice trembling.
âI know,â he said softly. âIâm not asking you to say it back. I just couldnât keep pretending anymore.â
Your chest ached, not with fear this time, but with something fragile and overwhelming.
You crossed the space between you before you could think better of it.
The kiss was tentative. Careful. A question more than a promise.
Steve went still for half a second, like he was afraid this was another almost, before his hands came up to your waist, gentle, grounding, like he was anchoring himself to something real.
The kiss deepened just slightly.
Not desperate.
Relieved.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, breath warm between you, both of you a little unsteady.
âI love you, too.â You whispered against his lips, feeling him still once more. âBut⊠This doesnât mean everythingâs fixed.â
âI know,â he said immediately, his hands squeezing your sides gently.
âBut it means Iâm not walking away,â you added.
His smile was small. Real. âThatâs all I was hoping for.â
âI love you,â he murmured.
You let yourself smile once more, leaning into him. âDitto.â
And with these confessions, you both started a new chapter of your lives.
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synapse: after smoking purple palm tree delight with nancy, y/n walks into the mandatory assembly feeling far too relaxed for how public everything is
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, cannabis usage, stoned!reader, handjob, spanking, blowjob, penetrative sex (p in v and anal), riding, orgasm denial
a/n: thanks everyone who voted on what kind of smut would be written! i was genuinely so surprised the most vanilla choice had the most votes. in the end, i combined a (but tried to make less vanilla), and dâso enjoy. It was 10,000 words. ALSOO sorry if some lines were repeated, itâs 3:47 am while writing this and I couldnât care less about any mistakes
PART FIFTEEN IS LINKED HERE
. . .
The dorm room had the curtains pulled and the blanket draped over both of them like they were hiding from the world on purpose.
Which, technically, they were.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor with a large blanket pooled over her shoulders, the bong set carefully between her and Nancy like it was an important centerpiece. The little bag of beautiful Purple Palm Tree Delight sat off to the side with the rest of her âsupplies,â 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.
âI cannot believe,â Nancy said, voice flat, âthat you talked me into skipping fifth period.â
Y/N blinked slowly, very calm, very pleased with herself. âI didnât talk you into it.â
Nancyâs eyes narrowed. âYes, you did.â
Y/N shrugged like it was obvious. âYou were already emotionally exhausted and you hate that class.â
âI hate my calculus class,â Nancy corrected, âbut I love my GPA.â
Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the blanket slide a little down her back more. âThen consider this an investment in your mental health.â
Nancy stared at her. âThatâs not how school works.â
Y/N smiled and nudged the bong and lighter a little closer to Nancy. âYouâre holding it like itâs going to bite you.â
Nancy muttered, âIt does bite me,â but she took it anyway with the careful seriousness of someone handling contraband.
Y/N watched her with open satisfaction. âI prefer you high,â she announced.
Nancy rolled her eyes. âOkay, fine. Iâm⊠tolerable.â
Y/N smiled sweetly. âExactly. When you drink you get do your âbullshit, bullshitâ babbles and you get really sad.â
Nancyâs face tightened. âI do not get sad.â
Y/N lifted her eyebrows.
Nancy sighed. âI get⊠reflective.â
âAnd then you whine,â Y/N said.
âI do not whine,â Nancy snapped.
âAnd act like the whole world is against you,â Y/Nâs smile widened. âNot to mention, you cried at that movie we saw a couple months back.âÂ
Nancyâs face went instantly red. âYou cried too!â
âI lived Wil Wheatonâs life in that movie,â she said, grabbing the bong again. âParents thought writing was a waste of time.â
Nancy pointed at her. âFirst of all, his name was Gordieââ
âI donât care.â Y/N took a hit and exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. âAll I know is youâre my River Phoenix to my Wil Wheaton.â
Nancy made a strangled sound. âOh my god, Riverâs name was Chris. And Wil wasââ
âIâm trying to have a sentimental moment, dammit.â
Nancy stared at her for a beat, still pink in the cheeks, then sighed like she was being forced into emotional vulnerability at gunpoint.
âFine,â she muttered. âGo ahead. Sentimentalize.â
Y/Nâs eyes lit up. âThank you.â
Nancy rolled her eyes, but her voice softened anyway. âYouâre still wrong. Itâs Gordie and Chris.â
Y/N waved a hand dismissively, blanket sliding down her shoulder. âDetails. Not important.â
âTheyâre literally the only important part,â Nancy said, but she was smiling now, small, reluctant.
Y/N leaned closer, lowering her voice like it was some sacred confession. âYou get it, though.â
Nancy blinked. âGet what?â
âThe whole thing,â Y/N said, gesturing vaguely with the bong like it was a microphone. âBeing young andâŠnot really feeling safe at home. Feeling like nobody believes in you until you leave. Having your one person.â
Nancyâs expression shifted, the teasing fading into something more careful. âY/NâŠâ
Y/N shrugged like she didnât care, but her eyes were too bright for it. âIâm just saying. Youâre my one person.â
Nancyâs mouth opened, then closed again like she was offended by the softness trying to happen.
âYouâre high,â Nancy said finally.
Y/N nodded. âYes.â
âAnd dramatic.â
âAlso yes.â
Nancy huffed, then reached under the blanket and nudged Y/Nâs knee with hers. âFine. If weâre doing thisâŠâ
Y/Nâs eyes widened. âWe are doing this?â
Nancy looked away, voice quieter. âYou can be my⊠whatever. Too. I guess.â
Y/N grinned. âYour Wil Wheaton.â
Nancy groaned. âNo. Absolutely not. Never say that again.â
Y/N laughed. âOkay, okayâŠyour Gordie.â
Nancy pointed at her, satisfied. âThatâs better.â
Y/Nâs smile softened. âSo weâre agreed.â
Nancy sighed like she hated agreements. âWeâre agreed.â
Nancy took another hit just to avoid the argument and handed it back, eyes slightly watery. âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet,â Y/N said, taking it, âIâm your best friend.â
Nancy muttered, âAgainst my will.â
Y/N leaned her head back against the bedframe behind them, letting the smoke curl up under the blanket. Her voice went dreamy. âThis is so cozy.â
Nancy stared at her. âWe are literally hotboxing our dorm room.â
Y/N nodded. âCozy.â
Nancy opened her mouth, then closed it, because she didnât 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 âa personal insult,â and Y/N listened with the kind of intense seriousness that only happened when she was high.
âOn the whole system,â Y/N corrected, nodding like sheâd cracked the code of society. âThe man is oppressing you.â
Nancy stared at her for three seconds, then snorted. âYou are so annoying.â
Y/N grinned. âIâm right.â
Nancy leaned back and murmured, âMaybe.â
Y/N laughed, then suddenly sat upright like sheâd been struck by lightning.
Nancy squinted. âWhy are you moving like that?â
Y/N poked her head out of the blanket and blinked at the clock on the wall.
Her eyes widened.
âOh my God.â
Nancyâs face tightened. âWhat?â
âWe have an assembly,â Y/N whispered urgently.
Nancy stared. âWe do not.â
Y/N pointed at the clock like it was a courtroom exhibit. âAfter our last period that weâŠdidnât go to.â
Nancyâs mouth fell open slightly. âOh my God.â
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. âThis is your fault.â
Y/N tilted her head while squeezing drops into her eyes. âHow?â
âYouâre the one who said âmental health investment,ââ Nancy snapped, grabbing her perfume off her desk.
Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to clear the redness. âIt is mental health.â
Nancy sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it aggressively like that would erase all evidence. âIf we get caught, Iâm blaming you.â
Y/N capped the eye drops and handed them to Nancy. âHere. Fix your eyeballs.â
Nancy took them, grumbling. âMy eyeballs are fine.â
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.
âThis is why I prefer you high,â Y/N said, fanning faster. âYou get productive.â
Nancy shot her a look. âI hate you.â
Y/N grinned. âNo you donât.â
Nancy sprayed perfume again. âIf anyone asks, we were cleaning.â
Y/N nodded solemnly. âWe were cleaning ourâŠvibes.â
Nancy stared at her. âStop talking.â
Y/N grabbed her bag, still blinking rapidly. âOkay, mom.â
Nancy shoved her notebook into her tote, then paused and looked at Y/N over the top of it. âIf we walk into that assembly smelling like a hippieâs dream, Iâm ending our friendship.â
Y/N pointed at the perfume cloud. âThatâs why youâre here.â
Nancy rolled her eyes and grabbed Y/Nâs sleeve. âCome on. Move. Before they lock the doors.â
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 couldnât help thinking:
This was the best kind of trouble.
. . .Â
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.
âOkay,â Nancy muttered, glancing ahead at the auditorium building. âWe can still do this.â
Y/N nodded solemnly. âWe can do this.â
Nancy shot her a look. âDo not say it like youâre giving a speech.â
Nancyâs mouth tightened. âYou were focused when you called perfume âair makeupâ thirty seconds ago.â
âThat was accurate,â Y/N insisted. âBecause it covers⊠the airâs face.â
Nancy stared forward. âStop talking. Youâre going to get us caught.â
Y/N leaned closer as they walked, voice dropping conspiratorially. âWhat if the auditorium has likeâŠsmell detectors?â
Nancyâs head snapped toward her. âIt doesnât.â
âHow do you know?â
âBecause smell detectors arenât a thing,â Nancy hissed.
Y/N considered that deeply, then nodded like Nancy had just explained a scientific theorem. âOkay. But what if someone can smell fear?â
Nancyâs expression went flat. âThey can. And you smell like it.â
Y/N gasped. âRude.â
Nancy pointed a finger at her without slowing down. âIf you say one more sentence that starts with âwhat if,â Iâm leaving you.â
Y/Nâs eyes widened, then she whispered, very seriously, âWhat if I leave you?â
Nancy blinked. âYou canât. You donât know directions.â
Y/N stopped walking for half a second just to look offended. âFuck, I hate when sheâs right.â
Nancy grabbed her sleeve and dragged her forward again.
âCome on,â Nancy muttered. âWeâre going to walk in and act like we belong.â
âWe do belong,â Y/N said, nodding. âWe pay tuition.â
Nancy whispered through her teeth, âJust shush.â
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, âThese doors are intimidating.â
Nancyâs brows knit. âTheyâre doors.â
âWhat if the door swing at me really fast and knocks me out?â Y/N insisted.
Nancy exhaled slowly. âYouâre not allowed to speak once we go in.â
Y/N nodded. âOkay.â
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:Â END-OF-YEAR PREPARATION ASSEMBLYÂ in bold institutional lettering that looked like it hated joy.
Nancy leaned toward Y/N and whispered, âThis is my nightmare.â
Y/N whispered back, âThis is my nightmare too.â
Nancy blinked. âThat was normal. Iâm proud of you.â
Y/N smiled, then immediately ruined it by whispering, âWhat if everyoneâs brains sync up in here.â
Nancyâs face dropped. âOh my God.â
âIâm just saying,â Y/N murmured, âthis many people in one room? Thatâs a lot of thoughts.â
Nancy grabbed her elbow. âStop. Youâre going to spiral.â
They moved down the side aisle, and thatâs when Nancy stiffened.
Because the stage wasnât 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 werenât 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 heâd never once been touched by chaos. He looked like he belonged on a stage in front of an audience, which made Y/Nâs 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 nowâstoned, sleep-deprived, and emotionally fragileâto decide Henry Creel in a tie was the most offensive thing sheâd ever seen.
It wasnât 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/Nâs mouth went dry.
Not from nerves.
From a thought she did not ask for.
Nancyâs hand tightened around Y/Nâs elbow. âOh, great,â she muttered. âYour favorite authority figure.â
Y/N didnât 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.
Nancyâs gaze flicked from Henry to the table to the sea of students. âYou know youâre going to have to sit up there,â she whispered.
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.
Nancyâs eyes narrowed. âAnd you are currentlyâŠ.â
Y/N blinked slowly. âI am currently.â
Nancy exhaled, pained. âYouâre stoned.â
Y/N nodded once. âYes.â
And apparently horny, her brain added, because it hated her.
Nancy made a sound that was half prayer, half threat. âOkay. We can still do this.â
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, âWhat if I wave at him and my arm falls off?â
Nancyâs face twisted. âWhy would your arm fall off?â
âBecause,â Y/N whispered, âthis is stressful.â
Also because he looks like a man who could ruin her life in two languages, her brain supplied.
Nancy grabbed her shoulders gently, firmly. âListen 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.â
Y/N nodded, eyes wide. âOkay.â
âAnd,â Nancy added, eyes narrowing, âyou will not stare at him like youâre about to climb him.â
Y/N blinked. âNancy.â
Nancyâs voice dropped. âIâm serious.â
Y/N whispered, âIâm not going to climb him.â
Nancy stared at her. âYouâre thinking it.â
Y/N frowned. âIâm not thinking it.â
Nancy sighed. âYouâre thinking it.â
Y/N leaned closer and whispered, âIâm thinking⊠about the concept of climbing. Like hiking.â
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. âDepartmental assistant?â
Y/N swallowed. âYes.â
The staff member handed her a folder and a small stack of handouts with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies header. âThese go out after the assembly. Sit at the table with your faculty marshal.â
Y/N nodded, gripping the folder like it was a life raft.
Nancy stopped at the bottom of the steps, eyes on her.
âYouâve got this,â Nancy whispered.
Y/N looked back down at her. âDo I?â
Nancyâs mouth tightened. âYes. And if you donât, just remember: youâre smarter than half this room.â
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 sheâd 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 wasnât vibrating internally.
Henry leaned a fraction closer, voice low enough that the microphones wouldnât pick it up even if they were on.
âYouâre here,â he murmured.
Y/N nodded. âIâm here.â
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. âAre you all right?â
Y/N blinked at him very earnestly and whispered, âI am so normal right now.â
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 didnât smile.
He simply said, with calm precision, âYouâre late.â
Y/N whispered back, âTime is a social construct.â
Henryâs 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, âStay still.â
Y/N nodded so seriously it was almost painful. âOkay.â
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:Â If he touches my thigh under this table, Iâm 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.Â
But Henryâs knee shifted slightly under the table, brushing hers once, small, grounding, electric:Â Iâm here. I know what youâre thinking.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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:Â Stop. Not here.
But the weed and the power had made her bold. She didn't pull away. Instead, she waited, her hand still.Â
A beat passed. Then another.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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."
Henryâs 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 himâ
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 sheâd 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.Â
He flinched, his eyes wide with panic as he looked around. Dr. Albright was glancing his way, a concerned look on her face.Â
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.
. . .Â
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 theyâd 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.
âŠWhere 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.Â
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.
âY/N,â he murmured. âCan I speak to you for a moment?â
She turned, disoriented, and saw his expression.
Not professor-neutral.
Not gentle.
Something darker. Controlled. Tight.
Y/Nâs 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 youâre 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/Nâs face the second they stepped outside.
It sobered her a little.
Not enough.
Henry didnât 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.
âAre you out of your mind?â he said quietly.
Y/N blinked up at him. She shouldâve felt embarrassed. She shouldâve felt guilty.
Instead she felt that familiar flicker of defianceâŠand of course, arousal.
âIt was an assembly,â she said, as if that explained anything.
Henryâs hand stayed on her arm, his fingers tense. âThat,â he said, voice low and dangerous, âwas the most reckless thing youâve ever done.â
Y/Nâs lips parted in a slow, dazed smile. âYou didnât seem to hate it.â
Henryâs eyes narrowed.
He leaned in slightly, and his voice dropped even lower. âYou donât get to confuse my lack of immediate reaction with approval.â
Y/N tilted her head, eyes bright and unfocused in that stoned way that made her brave.
âBut youâre stillââ she started, then stopped, her gaze dipping briefly before she looked back up at his face with a teasing softness. âYouâre still not exactly⊠angry.â
Henryâs jaw flexed. He stepped closer, and Y/N could feel the tension in him, the way his control was barely holding.
âDonât,â he warned.
Y/N swallowed, her pulse picking up. âDonât what?â
âDonât stand there and pretend you didnât know exactly what you were doing,â Henry said. âAll the little stunts. The teasing. The games Iâve been letting you get away with.â His eyes sharpened. âThat was the worst possible place to take it.â
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.
. . .Â
The drive was a blur of motion and sound. Y/Nâs 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. Iâll be right there.â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 comeâŠ," 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
She was so close, just a fraction away.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
They both groaned at the sudden, intense fullness.Â
"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."
Henryâs 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.Â
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 beautifulâŠâ
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, Henryâs arms locked around her like he was making a point he didnât trust words to hold.
His mouth pressed to her forehead again, lingering.
Then, quietly, Henry murmured, âI love you.â
She lifted her head slightly, still close enough to feel his breath. âSay it again,â she whispered.
Henryâs hand smoothed along her back, slow, grounding. âI love you.â
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.
âWere you actually mad?â she asked, voice quiet. âAbout what I did in the auditorium?â
Henryâs gaze held hers for a beat. He didnât dodge it.
âNo,â he said. Then, after a breath, he corrected himself with more honesty. âI was mad. But not at you.â
Y/Nâs brows knit. âThen whyââ
Henry exhaled, tiredness visible in the way his eyes narrowed briefly, like heâd been holding a whole day inside his body. âBecause my day was long,â he admitted. âBecause it was stressful. Because the least stressful part of my day was youâŠand I didnât even get toââ
âCome?â she asked softly with her brows raised slightly.
His jaw flexed once. ââŠYes. And relieve my stress, so I took it out on you.â
Y/Nâs eyes softened. âHenryâŠâ
âI shouldnât have,â he added immediately, voice firm. âNot like that.â
Y/N watched him for a second, then her mouth curved, slow, warmed by something private. âIâm glad you took it out on me in a healthy way.â
Henry blinked. âHealthy?â
Y/N nodded, absolutely sincere. âYes.â
His expression shifted into that familiar mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. âYou have a very flexible definition of healthy.â
Y/N smiled wider. âIâm just sayingâŠyouâre hot when youâre mad.â
Henryâs eyes darkened slightly at that, but his voice stayed controlled. âYouâre encouraging bad behavior.â
âMaybe,â she said, then added softly, âbut I like you like that. I love your sweet side in bed but getting angrily fucked is incredible.â
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.
Henryâs 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.
âI donât want to scare you,â he said quietly.
âYou didnât,â Y/N answered. âYou just⊠felt like you.â
Henryâs throat moved as he swallowed. âThatâs not always a good thing.â
Y/Nâs fingers touched his jaw, gentle. âIt is when you come back to me after.â
Henry went still at that. Then he nodded once, as if he was taking it as a rule.
The silence that followed wasnât awkward. It was heavy with the kind of closeness that made the room feel smaller in a good way.
Eventually Henry shifted, careful. âCome here.â
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. âOh my God.â
Henryâs hand came to her waist instantly, steadying her. âEasy.â
âMy legs areâŠâ she inhaled, laughing weakly, ââŠjello.â
Henryâs mouth nearly twitched into a smirk. âYes.â
Y/N shot him a look. âDonât sound pleased.â
Henry didnât answer, which was answer enough.
He guided her down carefully, feet finding the floor, her knees wobbling like sheâd run a marathon she hadnât 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. âCome shower,â he said.
Y/N blinked slowly. âTogether?â
Henryâs eyes flicked to hers. âIf you want.â
Y/Nâs mouth curved. âI always want.â
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 didnât feel like something they were stealing.
âHey girls, come on in,â Eddie greets as he opens the door, stepping aside so the three of you could walk in.
âTeddy!â Tilly shouts, throwing herself into the manâs arms.
âTilly!â He mimics her wrapping her up in a tight hug, effortlessly pulling Hunny into his arms when she starts whining and making grabby hands at the man.
âHi y/n/n.â Milly greets still much more bashfully with her affection than the other two.
âHi, sweetness,â you greet, pulling the girl up into your arms to give her a hug.
âI hope you donât mind my uncle Wayne is visiting,â Eddie tells you as you set the older girls on the ground to say their hellos.
âNot at all. Iâm Y/N,â you smile at the man, offering a hand to shake.
âWayne,â he nods, shaking your hand firmly. âYou were right, she is pretty,â Wayne âwhispersâ too loudly on purpose based on the snicker he lets out as Eddieâs ears turn bright red.
âOkay!â Eddie shouts awkwardly. âMilly, why donât you take Wayne to go play?â
âCome on, Granddaddy Wayne, Tilly can make you a pretty princess!â The girls pull Wayne by a hand each to Milly's room.
âHeâs nice,â you smile at Eddie. He had told you heâd been raised by his uncle, so it makes you smile to know that heâs taken a grandfather role in Meliaâs life.
âYeah, heâs great,â Eddie agrees, still blushing furiously. âHeâs been dying to meet you guys; apparently we talk about you too much,â Eddie tells you with a chuckle as he moves over to the fridge, grabbing you both a water to sip on while you sit on the floor and entertain Hunny.
The baby in question decided she was content to sit in Eddieâs lap and play with his hair.
The two of you sit in comfortable silence watching The Price Is Right Rerunâs occasionally commenting on the show most people might find it uncomfortable, but you found it oddly comforting being able to fully relax around the man, not constantly worried about having something to say.
You only make it through an episode before Wayne is kicked out of the room because itâs now a girls-only zone.
âCome to join the banished?â Eddie pipes as he emerges from the hall.
Wayne grunts an answer, sitting on the couch beside Eddie's spot on the floor.
âCome on, Hunny, you got it,â you encourage the girl to walk without the help of the coffee table.
âSheâll get there,â Eddie says, laying a comforting hand on your shoulder at the sigh you let out when she lowers herself down to crawl to you instead.
âI know just donât want her to fall behind. Sheâll be 18 months old next month; most babies are walking by then,â you pick at your lip anxiously.
âNot Eddie,â Wayne pipes up from the couch, gaining both of your attentions. âYeah, he didnât walk till he was practically two, not because he couldnât; he was a lazy baby,â he finishes explaining, successfully making you giggle while Eddie glares at the man.
âYou being a Teddy Hun?â You ask, turning to the girl.
âTeddy Hun!â She mimics giggling with you.
You spend the next couple of hours asking Wayne for every Eddie story there is. Eddie would find it in himself to be annoyed if he wasnât absolutely reeling at the way you smile and giggle at each story Uncle tells.
âIt was really nice to meet you,â Wayne says, shaking your hand once more. He and Eddie hug, and he wraps Milly in a warm hug soon after.
âIt was nice to meet you, Granddaddy Wayne.â Tilly smiles brightly at the man.
You open your mouth to correct her, but the man just waves you off in an I-donât-mind gesture. âIt was nice to meet you too, Tilly. Thank you and Mils both for making me such a pretty princess.â The girls both beam at his words. His last goodbye is to Hunny perched on Eddieâs hip. âBye, tot,â the baby giggles as he ruffles her hair. âNow you walk soon, okay? Donât stress your mama out too bad.â
âMama, too bad,â Hunny mimics, giggling. Wayne claps Eddie on the shoulder one last time before taking his leave.
Yk what, the two wolves inside of me are now transforming into only one and I suddenly re-learned how to think in English so here is my stance in byler.
Robin discourse has heart touching and really true, will has to accept himself and love himself individually of someone elseâs love, but accepting himself doesnât meen accepting that he isnât going to get reciprocated is accepting that he wants to get reciprocated, that he is queer and he is different and that doesnât makes him weak nor anything bad. Also the whole comparison between Mike and Tammy is reasonable since robinâs point of view, because it does look like just a crush that will has on Mike and, well she doesnât fully know how Mike has been there since day one, is really close to will even if it is in a platonic way, how he was willâs first and best friend, she hasnât been there enough to see that Mike isnât necessarily a Tammy Thompson.
I still donât think that Byler not happening and the path that willâs story is going to take is more of an acceptance of himself without Mike loving him would be bad, and actually find it quite beautiful tbh. But the flashbacks kind of like change robinâs words, because it shows how in his best memories mike was there and itâs more of accepting that he loves mike and that he is queer more than accepting that mike doesnât loves him romantically (even tho I still stand that will accepting himself and kind of like saying bye to the idea of mike having to love him wouldnât be bad)
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