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ijustmissyouraccenths · 25 days ago

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It’s You: Part 2

Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.

Content Warning: Smut

Word Count: 13.9k

Part one

The gallery was still humming with conversation and the clinking of wine glasses, but Y/N couldn’t hear any of it. Not really. Her eyes kept drifting back to the painting—the painting of her. And Harry, who now stood a few feet away, speaking with a couple dressed in all black, barely looking her way since he’d shown it to her.

She felt unsteady, like something in her had shifted and she didn’t quite know how to hold it.

After a few more minutes, she made her way outside for air. The cool night air hit her skin like a wave. She leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, mind spinning. She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel—flattered? Exposed? Seen in a way that scared her a little?

A few minutes passed before she heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t have to look to know it was him.

“You disappeared,” Harry said quietly, stopping beside her.

“I needed air,” she replied, not looking at him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Was it too much?”

Y/N’s heart twisted. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just… I didn’t know you saw me like that.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither did I. Not at first.”

She finally turned to face him, her voice quieter now. “So why didn’t you say anything before tonight? Why show me that without a word for days?”

He looked at her, and for once, his expression wasn’t guarded. It was raw. Honest. “Because I didn’t know what this was. Or what you wanted it to be.”

Y/N blinked, throat tight. “And now?”

Harry held her gaze. “Now I want you to tell me if I crossed a line. If I went too far. Because if I did, I’ll take the painting down.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “You didn’t cross a line. You just made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”

The silence between them was heavy but full of meaning.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

They stood like that for a long moment, not touching, not moving—just two people trying to make sense of the space between them.

Y/N slammed her apartment door behind her and kicked off her boots, her heart still thudding from everything that had unfolded just hours ago. The painting. Her painting. And Harry standing beside it like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just peeled back a layer of her she didn’t even know was visible.

Harper and Lila hadn’t stopped staring when they saw it��she could still hear Lila whispering “Is that—? Oh my god, it’s YOU.” And she hadn’t even answered, just stood there, stunned, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in her chest.

Now, curled up on her couch still in her outfit of the night, she opened their group chat.

Y/N:

I still can’t believe he painted me.

Lila:

Girl. I can’t believe you didn’t faint.

That was some Jane Austen meets indie film moment.

Harper:

Honestly? I’m still a little breathless. He really captured you.

Like, not just how you look—but you. Your expression, your energy. It was… a lot.

Y/N:

Yeah. Tell me about it. It felt like standing there naked in front of a room full of strangers.

And he just stood there, watching me react to it.

Lila:

That man is OBSESSED with you.

That was not casual. That was “I’ve memorized your every expression” energy.

Harper:

And then the two of you outside? What happened? You vanished.

Y/N:

He followed me. Asked if it was too much. Said he’d take it down if I wanted him to.

Lila:

STOP.

So he’s hot, mysterious, talented, and emotionally responsible??

Harper:

You’ve pulled the full fictional love interest arc.

I hate you (lovingly).

Y/N:

It just… caught me off guard. We barely talk about feelings. We barely even talked after we had sex.

And now this painting exists. Like it means something more than we’ve admitted.

Lila:

Because it does mean something more. You don’t paint someone like that unless they’ve gotten under your skin. And you’ve definitely gotten under his.

Harper:

And maybe you needed to see yourself the way he sees you. That painting? That’s how he feels, even if he hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N stared at the screen, rereading Harper’s words twice.

Y/N:

I don’t know what to do with all of this.

Lila:

You don’t have to do anything. Just don’t run from it.

Let it unfold.

Y/N let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass.

They were right. But it didn’t make the feeling any less terrifying.

She sent one last message before setting her phone down:

Y/N:

I think I’m in trouble.

She sat on the couch barely moving. The thought of sleep was nonexistent to her, not when she felt like this. It was just after midnight when Y/N found herself standing in the hallway outside his door. No text, no warning—just a growing heaviness in her chest and an ache in her ribs that wouldn’t let her sleep.

The gallery, the painting, the way he looked at her when he said “I’ll take it down if it’s too much”—it had all been playing on a loop in her head for hours. She couldn’t sit with it anymore. She needed to see him. To say something. To figure out what this actually was.

She hesitated for a moment, then finally knocked.

A long few seconds passed before the door cracked open, Harry blinking at her with sleepy, surprised eyes. He was in gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, his hair mussed like he’d been half-asleep on the couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her.

Y/N shifted on her feet. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Harry opened the door wider. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, the air between them already thick with tension—not angry or awkward, but heavy. Real.

He didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t try to find small talk. Instead, she turned to face him, arms crossed like she was bracing herself. “That painting… you said you didn’t know what this was.”

Harry nodded, watching her carefully. “I didn’t. Still don’t. Not exactly.”

“Well, I don’t either,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I know it meant something. You meant something when you painted it. So stop pretending like it didn’t.”

The honesty hit the air like a match against flint. Harry’s jaw flexed, and he stepped toward her slowly, stopping just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, voice low. “That painting—it’s the most honest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “Because I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Well,” she said, heart hammering, “I’m still here.”

Harry reached up, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made her chest ache. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Y/N closed the gap, resting her forehead against his chest, exhaling like she’d finally allowed herself to let go.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he’d been waiting for this moment all week.

Whatever this was—undefined, complicated, intense—it was real. And it was just beginning.

Harry’s arms were still wrapped loosely around her when he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, his voice like velvet.

She watched as he disappeared down the hall, the soft creak of a closet door opening in the background. When he returned, he held one of his shirts—a worn black tee that looked impossibly soft, sleeves slightly stretched, the kind that held onto a person’s scent. He stood in front of her, calm but unreadable.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Get undressed.”

Y/N’s breath caught—not from surprise, but from the sudden weight of the moment. There was no pressure in his tone, only quiet assurance. Like this wasn’t just about changing clothes—it was about trust. About letting herself be seen.

She nodded slowly and reached behind her to unzip the back of her jumpsuit, easing it off her shoulders and down her body. The room felt still, heavy with tension as she peeled the fabric down past her waist, letting it fall in a soft puddle around her feet. Her bra followed, slipping off with practiced ease, but she left her black panties on—something about the vulnerability already hung thick in the air.

Harry didn’t move, but his gaze swept over her like a slow tide, intense and quiet. He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t asking for anything more. He just… looked. And somehow, that made it more intimate than anything else could have.

She pulled his shirt over her head, letting it drape over her frame, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. The scent of him wrapped around her instantly—clean, musky, a little earthy.

His eyes lingered for one more second, then flicked toward the hallway. “Come on,” he said gently. “Get in my bed.”

Y/N nodded and padded past him, barefoot and warm all over, feeling the shift between them settle into something quiet but undeniable.

She slipped beneath his sheets, the cotton cool against her legs. And when she felt the mattress dip behind her moments later, she didn’t need to turn around to know—Harry wasn’t just letting her into his bed tonight.

He was letting her in.

Y/N nestled beneath the sheets, the warmth of Harry’s t-shirt and the residual buzz of everything they hadn’t said settling over her like a second blanket. The bed smelled like him—like cedar and laundry and something quietly masculine—and even though her heart was still racing, she felt her shoulders start to relax.

The mattress dipped as Harry climbed in behind her. He didn’t reach for her right away. For a few moments, they just lay there in the quiet, their breathing slowly syncing, the soft hush of the city outside muffled through the windows.

Then, gently, his hand found her waist beneath the covers. He didn’t pull, just rested it there, his thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of her shirt. It was tentative, thoughtful—like he was making sure she was still with him, still okay.

Y/N rolled to face him, their noses nearly brushing in the dim light.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “The painting… it wasn’t just about you. It was what you made me feel.”

She blinked, throat tight. “Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry hesitated, eyes searching hers. “Because it’s easier to paint than talk. But you… you make me want to try.”

That—those eight words—hit her harder than anything else had. Her chest cracked open a little more.

She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, then resting lightly at the base of his neck. “You don’t have to try with everyone,” she whispered. “But you can with me.”

He nodded, just once, then leaned forward and kissed her—not hungry or fast, but slow. Like a confession.

His hand stayed on her waist, his other finding the small of her back as she pressed closer. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, but it never turned frantic. It was warm and unhurried, the kind that made everything else fade away.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, Y/N felt his fingers skim down her spine.

“Stay tonight,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” she murmured back.

And with that, Harry pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping himself around her like he was holding something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

They didn’t speak again. There were no more questions, no more walls.

Just them, tangled up in silence, in warmth, in whatever this was becoming.

Morning crept in softly, sunlight slipping through the sheer curtains and casting golden lines across the room. The air was still, warm, and quiet—except for the sound of Harry breathing beside her.

Y/N blinked awake slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft light as she realized where she was. His bed. His shirt still on her body. His arm still draped lazily across her waist, his hand resting low on her stomach, as if he’d never stopped holding her.

For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, the weight of his presence so grounding it made her throat ache.

Everything from last night replayed in her mind—the quiet tension, the painting, the way he had looked at her like she was something sacred. She’d fallen asleep feeling seen. Still did.

Then she felt him shift behind her, his arm tightening just slightly, and his voice—still sleep-rough and low—cut through the silence.

“You’re still here.”

Y/N smiled faintly, keeping her eyes closed. “You sound surprised.”

“I kind of am,” he admitted, his lips brushing the back of her shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d still want to be here this morning.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” she said honestly, turning slowly to face him.

His green eyes were barely open, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. He looked softer in the daylight—hair a mess, features relaxed. Real. Human.

“You look different,” she murmured, studying him.

“Better or worse?” he asked, eyes flicking up to hers.

“Less grumpy,” she teased, fingers gently brushing over his collarbone.

He smirked, pulling her closer by the waist. “Give me a few minutes. I’m sure I’ll ruin that.”

Y/N laughed quietly, burying her face in his chest for a second. Then she pulled back enough to meet his gaze. “What happens now?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then said simply, “We don’t have to define it right now. But if you want to stay… I want you to.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

He pressed a slow kiss to her forehead, his hand still drawing lazy patterns against her hip. “Good.”

They didn’t rush to get up. They didn’t need to

Sunlight had fully stretched across the room by the time Harry finally untangled himself from the sheets, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder before sitting up.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Y/N, still curled in the warmth of his bed, stretched her arms above her head with a sleepy smile. “Starving.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “I make a mean breakfast. Stay here, I’ll bring you something.”

But she was already sliding out of bed, tugging his shirt down a bit and padding barefoot into the apartment. “No way. I’m not letting you do all the work while I lounge around in your bed like some spoiled mystery muse.”

Harry gave her a smirk over his shoulder. “Mystery muse, huh? That’s a new one.”

He moved into the kitchen, starting to pull out eggs and a skillet while she wandered through the open living space. In the daylight, it all felt different—less broody, more lived-in. The walls were still moody gray, the shelves cluttered with art books and paintbrushes in chipped mugs, but there was life here. She could see it in the textures, the controlled chaos, the way every object felt chosen.

Her eyes landed on a small canvas leaning against the wall by a bookshelf. It wasn’t framed, and it looked unfinished, like something he’d tucked away and never meant to display. But it pulled at her immediately.

It was bold—brushed in deep, haunting colors that twisted and layered in on themselves, like smoke caught underwater. In the center, barely visible through the paint, was a figure curled in on itself, more emotion than detail. It felt heavier than anything else she’d seen of his.

Y/N crouched down to get a closer look. “Harry?” she called, her voice soft. “What’s this one?”

He paused, mid-chop, and glanced toward her. The moment he saw which piece she was pointing at, something in his expression shifted. Not closed off—but cautious.

“That one’s old,” he said after a pause, setting the knife down. “I never finished it.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of the canvas, careful not to touch the surface. “It’s… intense. It feels like grief.”

Harry wiped his hands on a towel and walked over slowly, standing behind her. “It is,” he said quietly. “I started it after my mom passed. It was the only thing I could make for months. Couldn’t bring myself to show it to anyone.”

Y/N looked up at him, surprised by the openness in his voice. “It’s stunning,” she said, meaning it. “Raw. It doesn’t feel incomplete to me.”

Harry let out a breath, crouching beside her. “It was never about finishing it. It just needed to… exist.”

They sat there for a moment, side by side on the floor, the skillet forgotten for now.

And for the first time, Y/N realized that while Harry may have been painting her into his life… he was also starting to let her in.

Y/N stayed quiet for a beat, her eyes lingering on the canvas, on the emotion poured into every brushstroke. She didn’t need to ask what it had cost him to make it—it was all right there in the paint. And sitting beside him now, in his t-shirt, barefoot and raw in the morning light, she felt something settle between them. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just real.

“You don’t show this side of yourself often,” she said softly, glancing at him.

Harry was quiet, his gaze on the floor. “No. Most people don’t want it.”

“I do,” she said, before she could second-guess the honesty. “I want to see all of it.”

He looked at her then, really looked, like he was weighing whether to believe her. Whatever he found in her eyes must’ve been enough, because he gave a quiet nod.

“I didn’t think I could let someone in again,” he admitted. “But then you showed up. Loud. Messy. Making everything feel… alive again.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to crash into your life, you know.”

Harry tilted his head, that faint smirk returning. “I think you did. And I think I needed it.”

A pause hung between them, thick with something unspoken.

Then he stood, reaching down to pull her up with him. “Come on,” he said. “Before I burn breakfast and give you a real reason to leave.”

She let him pull her to her feet, laughing softly. “You really think bad eggs would scare me off now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “They’d scare me off.”

They walked back to the kitchen, shoulders bumping, hands brushing. Harry went back to the stove, and this time, Y/N stayed close—leaning against the counter, watching him move, quietly wondering how this man who once barely looked her way had ended up here, in a space that already felt different just by having her in it.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because even in the soft glow of morning, after all the walls had come down, she wasn’t sure if they were still just figuring this out—or if they were already halfway in.

After breakfast—surprisingly not burnt, though Harry insisted on calling the eggs “aggressively rustic”—Y/N lingered for a while in the calm warmth of his apartment. They washed the dishes together in a sleepy rhythm, brushing shoulders, trading quiet glances. It felt domestic in a way that was almost too comfortable, too soon.

Eventually, she pulled her jacket on over his t-shirt, still wearing it beneath as she stood by the door.

“I should head back,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I’ve got laundry, meal prep… all the thrilling realities of being an adult.”

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You could leave the shirt, you know.”

She smirked as she opened the door. “You could try taking it off me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tempt me.”

She lingered for a beat, then stepped out into the hallway. “Thanks for breakfast,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“Thanks for staying,” he replied, voice lower now.

When she reached her own apartment, the silence was immediate—no music, no conversation, no lingering scent of coffee and warm cinnamon toast. Just her. And the soft thud of her heart still pacing to the rhythm of the night before.

She tossed her keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off her jacket, and exhaled.

Back to reality.

The next hour was spent in a quiet whirlwind of laundry, jotting down her weekly to-do list, and tossing together a grocery plan she’d probably ignore. She moved through her small space with purpose, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the gallery, the painting, his hands on her waist, the way he looked at her like she was something he didn’t quite know how to hold, but wanted to anyway.

There was something grounding about being home. But it also made the whole thing with Harry feel almost unreal, like a fever dream that had followed her back from a night she couldn’t quite define.

Still wearing his shirt, now paired with a pair of old sweatpants, Y/N paused by her window, sipping lukewarm coffee. The city moved on outside, people living their ordinary lives.

And here she was, standing in the middle of hers, wondering what came next.

Because Harry Styles—the grumpy, guarded, unexpectedly tender art gallery owner—was no longer just the neighbor she teased or passed in the mailroom.

He was something else now.

Something more.

It was Tuesday morning when her phone buzzed—right as she was standing in her kitchen, hair in a messy bun, staring blankly at the fridge and wondering if coffee could count as breakfast again.

The text was from Harry.

Harry:

You busy tonight?

Y/N blinked at the screen, warmth blooming in her chest before she could talk herself down. It had been a couple days since she’d left his apartment—quiet ones, normal ones. She hadn’t seen him around the building, and aside from a few playful Instagram likes and a “you made it home alive?” text, he’d been giving her space.

Which, weirdly, she appreciated. But she hadn’t stopped thinking about him either.

She typed back quickly.

Y/N:

Define “busy.” If it involves real pants, probably yes.

He replied a second later.

Harry:

No pants required. Might even encourage that.

But mostly I was wondering if you’d want to help me start organizing the next show at the gallery.

She smirked, chewing her lip.

Y/N:

Are you inviting me to work or inviting me to flirt while pretending to work?

Harry:

Yes.

She laughed out loud and leaned against the counter, thumbs flying.

Y/N:

Fine. I’m in. What’s the dress code? And don’t say “grungy creative chic,” I don’t own anything with paint stains on purpose.

Harry:

Wear something you can move in. There’s lifting. And maybe pizza.

And I’ll owe you one.

Y/N:

I like the sound of pizza and emotional debt. Text me the time.

Harry:

7. Front door. Don’t be late. Unless it’s a dramatic entrance.

Y/N:

With me, is there any other kind?

She set her phone down, heart buzzing a little too fast for 9 a.m.

It wasn’t a date.

It was just helping him.

But still, she caught herself opening her closet a few hours later and thinking, What do you wear when you’re about to hang art with the guy who painted your soul into a canvas?

At exactly 7:03 p.m., Y/N pushed open the glass door of the gallery, the bell above chiming softly as the early evening light filtered in behind her. The space looked different without the crowd—quiet, a little messy, and full of possibility. Framed canvases leaned against walls, packing materials and tools scattered across the floor.

And standing in the middle of it all, clipboard in one hand and sleeves rolled up, was Harry.

He looked up as she walked in, and the corner of his mouth immediately twitched into a smirk.

“Well,” he said, eyeing her slowly from head to toe, “you look like you should be harvesting peaches in Georgia.”

Y/N glanced down at her outfit—a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls over a fitted black tank top, her hair twisted up in a clip, and paint-splattered Converse on her feet. She raised an eyebrow, smirking right back.

“Excuse me, but this is high fashion in the functional art world,” she replied, tossing her bag onto a nearby bench. “And don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Harry said, stepping toward her. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you in something with actual pockets.”

“Pockets and emotional stability,” she quipped, patting her front pouch. “I’m a new woman.”

Harry chuckled, his gaze softening slightly. “You look good.”

The compliment hit her like a quiet note in a still room. Simple. Warm. Unexpectedly sincere.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice a little quieter now. “You ready to put me to work?”

He handed her a roll of painter’s tape and nodded toward a stack of bubble-wrapped frames near the far wall. “Always.”

As she walked past him to get started, he reached out and tugged gently at the strap of her overalls.

“You sure you’re not here to flirt while pretending to work?” he murmured low against her ear.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

A few hours passed in a blur of laughter, rearranging artwork, measuring tape arguments, and the occasional accidental graze of fingers as they passed tools back and forth. Music played softly from an old speaker in the corner—Fleetwood Mac giving way to Miley Cyrus, then something ambient and wordless that matched the growing stillness of the gallery as night set in.

Y/N had just finished helping Harry hang one of the larger canvases when she wandered toward the back of the studio space, brushing dust off her hands. That’s when she saw it—half tucked near a supply shelf, a pottery wheel. The base was covered in dried clay, clearly used but currently dormant.

She turned to him, eyes lighting up. “No way. You have a wheel?”

Harry looked up from where he was sketching a quick layout note. “Yeah. I don’t just paint, you know.”

She crouched down beside it, brushing her fingers along the edge of the basin. “I’ve always wanted to try this. Like, really try it. The messy, ‘Ghost’ movie kind of way.”

He set his pencil down and smirked. “I’m not recreating Ghost with you.”

She laughed. “Relax, Swayze. I didn’t say I needed a soundtrack and a tragic love story. I just think it looks… kind of meditative.”

Harry walked over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached. “You want to try it?”

Y/N looked up at him, almost surprised. “Can I?”

He nodded once, then pulled up a nearby stool, spinning it around to face the wheel. “Sit.”

She hesitated for a second, then settled onto the stool. He moved behind her, not hovering but close enough that she could feel the shift in the air between them. He reached around to the small shelf beside the wheel and grabbed a lump of clay, placing it in the center.

“Okay,” he said, voice quieter now. “Let your hands rest here.” He reached for her wrists gently, guiding them forward until her fingers hovered over the clay.

His touch lingered—light, steady, grounding.

“You have to center it first,” he continued, flipping the switch to start the wheel. It began to spin slowly. “Keep your hands firm. Don’t fight it, just stay with the movement.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the clay blur beneath her palms. Harry moved behind her, sliding in closer until his chest brushed lightly against her back. His hands ghosted over hers, adjusting her grip. His breath was warm near her neck, and the wheel wasn’t the only thing spinning now.

“You’re too stiff,” he murmured. “Relax your arms.”

“Hard to relax when someone’s breathing down my neck,” she muttered with a dry laugh.

“You’re doing great,” he said, ignoring her deflection.

And maybe it was the weight of his voice, or the heat of his chest behind her, but Y/N felt something ease inside her. The clay began to shift under her fingers, rising slightly as she moved with the spin.

Harry’s hands stayed over hers, guiding, never forcing.

“This part,” he said, his voice softer now, almost in her ear, “you let it take shape on its own. You don’t force the form. You feel it.”

Y/N blinked, heart hammering, clay slipping through her fingers like water and tension. “That sounds… familiar.”

He smiled against her hair, just barely. “Yeah. Thought you might notice that.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, her hands clay-covered, his presence all around her. When she finally pulled her hands away, her breath was shaky—not from the wheel, but from the way he was still looking at her like he wanted to mold her into something he could hold on to.

She turned on the stool to face him. “Okay,” she said, voice hushed. “That was… kind of amazing.”

Harry’s eyes searched hers. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

Y/N’s fingers were still streaked with clay, her chest rising and falling a little too fast as she sat facing him on the stool. The wheel had stopped spinning, but something else between them hadn’t.

Harry stood just inches from her now, hands in his back pockets like he was holding himself there on purpose—like if he moved even slightly forward, he wouldn’t stop.

“You really never tried that before?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “Nope. First time.”

“You were a natural,” he said.

Y/N smiled softly, eyes dropping to his chest for a beat before flicking back up to his face. “Pretty good teacher.”

He hummed in response, watching her for a moment that stretched a little longer than it should have. Her breath caught—just slightly—as the air between them thickened again.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward.

Before she could react, he reached up and brushed his thumb gently across her skin, wiping it away. His hand didn’t fall immediately. It lingered near her jaw, knuckles grazing lightly beneath her ear.

She didn’t pull away.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You always like teaching people like that?”

His lips twitched at the corner. “No.”

“So I’m special?”

Harry leaned in just a fraction—not enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the restraint.

“You always have been,” he said.

Her throat tightened, and she didn’t know whether to close the distance or stay perfectly still. His hand dropped slowly from her face, and the loss of it sent a pulse through her.

“I should wash my hands,” she said, more to break the silence than anything else.

He nodded, but didn’t step away. “Bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, nodding toward the back hallway.

Y/N slid off the stool, brushing past him gently, and headed toward the sink. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her cheek, his breath near her collarbone.

She turned the faucet on and let the cold water rush over her hands, watching the clay swirl away down the drain like everything she was trying not to say.

Behind her, she could feel him still watching.

And though neither of them had said it aloud—not yet—it was clear now:

Whatever this was becoming, it wasn’t casual.

It was careful.

It was slow.

The moment passed like smoke—lingering but untouchable. Y/N returned to the main space, hands clean, heart still pacing a little too fast. She didn’t say anything as she rejoined Harry, and he didn’t comment on it either. Instead, he handed her a wrapped canvas without a word, and they quietly picked up where they left off.

The soft hum of a playlist filled the space again, the two of them working in easy rhythm—measuring, hanging, stepping back, adjusting. The gallery took shape little by little as the night stretched on, until finally, Harry set down his level, dusted his palms on his jeans, and said, “That’s it. We’re done.”

Y/N stepped back from the wall where she’d just hung the final piece and let out a breath. “Really?”

He nodded. “Show’s built. You’re officially hired.”

She laughed, letting her shoulders drop. “Do I get paid in sarcastic commentary and wine again?”

Harry pulled his phone from his back pocket, already typing something out. “Tonight? You get pizza.”

Her eyes lit up. “God, marry me.”

He gave her a side glance, smirking. “Let me feed you first. Then we’ll negotiate.”

She watched as he tapped a few times on the screen, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“It’ll be here in twenty,” he said.

“Is that a promise?”

“Better,” he replied. “It’s a delivery tracker.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She sank onto one of the low benches near the wall and stretched out her legs, exhaling. “I forgot how good this kind of tired feels. Like the creative kind. Not the soul-sucking email-at-9-p.m. kind.”

Harry grabbed two bottles of water from a small mini fridge tucked in the corner and handed her one. “Welcome to the artist’s high,” he said, sitting beside her. “It’s real.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, their shoulders just barely brushing. The gallery, once chaotic, now looked purposeful. Curated. Ready.

And yet, somehow, it felt more intimate now that it was finished. Like they’d built something together—something more than just a show.

Y/N glanced over at him, watching the way his gaze roamed the space with quiet pride.

“Hey,” she said, nudging him slightly. “You did something really incredible here.”

He looked at her, his expression softer in the warm, low light.

“So did you,” he said.

And there it was again—that feeling.

They stayed side by side on the bench, their knees barely touching, the hum of the gallery soft around them. It felt like a liminal space—finished work behind them, warm pizza on the way, and something unspoken simmering between them.

Y/N took a long sip of her water, tilting her head toward him. “Okay, be honest,” she said. “What would you have done if I’d dropped that massive piece earlier while hanging it?”

Harry looked at her, straight-faced. “I would’ve told you to get out and never speak to me again.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Harsh.”

Then he smirked. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Y/N nudged him with her elbow. “You know you would’ve forgiven me the second I brought you a cappuccino and an apology playlist.”

“Only if the playlist was good,” he said, turning toward her. “I don’t suffer through sad girl acoustic nonsense just because you feel guilty.”

She grinned. “Noted. I’ll keep the moody indie to a minimum.”

Harry stretched his legs out, glancing up at the ceiling. “You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly, voice a little quieter now.

“Yeah?” she asked, tone light. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable again. “I thought you were going to be loud, nosy, annoying.”

“Accurate,” she said, nodding. “And yet…”

“And yet,” he repeated, giving her a sideways glance. “You make the place feel different.”

Before she could answer, the door buzzed.

Harry stood and headed for the front, muttering over his shoulder, “Saved by the pizza guy.”

Y/N smiled, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

She watched him open the door and exchange a few words with the delivery guy, the smell of garlic and melted cheese wafting in seconds later. He carried the box in triumphantly, holding it out like an offering.

“Feast, my muse.”

She rolled her eyes but took the box, setting it on the small table nearby. “Flattery will get you extra slices.”

He handed her a stack of napkins and two paper plates. “Flattery is all I’ve got.”

She caught his eye, a little too long, a little too openly.

“Not all,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t answer, just gave her the smallest smile, and sat back down beside her as they opened the box.

They each grabbed a slice, steam curling up as they folded the greasy crust in half and leaned over their plates. For a few minutes, it was just quiet chewing and occasional muffled groans of approval.

“Oh my god,” Y/N mumbled, mouth half full. “This is criminally good. Are you sure you’re not secretly a pizza snob?”

Harry wiped his hand on a napkin and leaned back, watching her with a smirk. “I’ve lived many lives.”

She laughed, taking another bite. “Yeah, I bet. You’ve got that vibe.”

“What vibe?”

“That whole ‘I’ve done mysterious things and don’t talk about them’ vibe,” she said with mock drama. “Like maybe you studied sculpture in Italy and had a love affair with a woman named Alessandra who broke your heart and turned you into a brooding creative.”

Harry gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You have a very vivid imagination.”

“I have to,” she said with a shrug. “You’re so quiet I have to fill in the blanks somehow.”

He reached for another slice. “For the record, I’ve never dated anyone named Alessandra.”

“Mm,” she said, licking tomato sauce off her thumb. “But you didn’t deny the brooding part.”

“Hard to deny when you keep calling me out like this.”

She grinned and leaned in slightly, eyes dancing. “Don’t worry. I like it. Makes me feel like I’m in a slow-burn romance novel.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think this is slow?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his tone. He didn’t sound defensive—just intrigued. Amused.

“A little,” she said carefully. “But in a good way.”

He set his plate down and leaned toward her, elbows on his knees, his voice lower now. “That night at my place… you didn’t seem like you wanted slow.”

Her breath caught, but she kept her eyes on him. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

The question hung there, heavier than she expected.

She set her own plate down, brushing a stray crumb from her lap. “Okay,” she said softly, “maybe not.”

Harry leaned in just a little more, close enough now that she could feel his breath when he spoke. “You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmured, “or are you finally gonna kiss me again?”

Y/N smiled, heart fluttering. “Oh, I’m definitely still teasing you.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

It started slow, just a brush of lips—soft, easy, unhurried. But when Harry’s hand slid around the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, it deepened—growing warmer, closer, fuller. He tasted faintly of pepperoni and red pepper flakes, and somehow it just made it better.

She shifted on the bench, her knees bumping into his, and he tugged her closer, the pizza forgotten entirely now.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’ve got marinara on your lip.”

She grinned. “You gonna wipe it off?”

Harry kissed her again instead—slow and deliberate, and just a little smug.

The kiss lingered, slow and teasing, until Y/N pulled back just slightly—her lips still tingling, her breath shallow. She looked at him, eyes bright, smile hovering on the edge of something deeper.

“I think you like the teasing,” she murmured, voice low.

Harry’s fingers were still resting at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing gently along her jawline. “You’re not wrong,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “But don’t get cocky.”

“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head, her knees now angled toward his. “That sounds like a challenge.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth again, but he didn’t lean in this time. Instead, he let the space stretch—just enough to make her breath hitch. Just enough to make her ache.

“You always like pushing?” he asked softly.

“Only when I know someone’s going to push back.”

He gave a quiet laugh, eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’ve got that look. Like you want to see how far you can get before someone snaps.”

She leaned in closer, lips hovering just a whisper from his, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

“And are you close to snapping, Harry?”

The silence that followed was heavy. He didn’t answer, not right away. He just studied her—really studied her—as if he were deciding something. Like he was measuring the air between them, the weight of what would happen if he gave in.

Then he leaned in so close his lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath warm and slow.

“You don’t want me to snap.”

A chill ran down her spine, her entire body suddenly still—stilled by the tension in his voice, by the way he hadn’t touched her any further, by the unbearable pause he left behind.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again. Her voice was steady, but low, tight with anticipation. “I think I do.”

Harry exhaled hard through his nose, like he was grounding himself. His jaw clenched once before he stood up abruptly, backing away and dragging a hand through his hair.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, half to himself, pacing toward the center of the gallery.

Y/N watched him—heart pounding, lips parted.

“And you like it,” she said, not as a question.

He turned toward her, his expression unreadable now. Controlled. But his eyes… they were anything but calm.

“I really, really do,” he said.

Y/N stood slowly, her body buzzing with the kind of electricity that made her skin feel too tight. Her eyes never left Harry as he stood across the room, his hands braced on the edge of a display table, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady himself.

She took a step toward him. Then another.

“You keep walking toward me like that,” he said without looking up, “and I’m not going to be able to keep pretending I don’t want to touch you again.”

She didn’t stop.

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said softly.

That made him look up. His gaze locked with hers, sharp and unguarded now, like all the tension he’d tried to smother was right there at the surface, barely contained.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, voice lower now, like it cost him something to say it.

Y/N reached him, closing the space until she was standing just in front of him. Not touching—not yet—but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“I think I do,” she said. “And I think you’ve been waiting for me to ask.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, a slow drag of breath like he was still holding onto some kind of self-control. His fingers flexed against the table, knuckles white.

“You want me to lose control?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Y/N looked up at him, her voice calm, certain. “Only if you’re going to do it with me.”

That was all it took.

He moved fast, but not rough. One hand slipped to her jaw, the other to her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth met hers again—this time deeper, hungrier, like the weeks of tension between them had finally cracked open.

She gasped into the kiss, hands finding the front of his shirt, clutching the fabric as he backed her gently into the wall behind them. His body pressed into hers, his hips aligning with hers in a way that made her head spin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, his lips grazing down her neck.

She shook her head, breathless. “I’m not going to.”

His hands gripped her hips tighter, his touch hot and grounding. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Y/N’s fingers slid up his chest, curling around the back of his neck. “Then show me.”

Harry groaned quietly, his restraint thinning with every second. But even in the heat of it, his movements were careful—intentional—as if the tension wasn’t just about lust, but about all the unsaid things still hanging between them.

And maybe that was what made it burn hotter.

Harry’s mouth was back on hers, but this time there was no hesitation—just fire. The kind that came from restraint snapping, from knowing exactly who you wanted and finally being allowed to have them.

His hands roamed her body like he was memorizing it—over her hips, her waist, her back—pulling her tighter against him with a hunger that made her knees weak. She gasped into his mouth, and he caught it, deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers in a slow, devastating rhythm.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping underneath to find skin—hot, firm, tense beneath her touch. He hissed softly when her nails dragged up his stomach, his hips pressing into hers in return. Every movement was deliberate, every shift of weight, every brush of breath.

“Say it,” he murmured against her mouth, voice rough and low. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she whispered, already breathless. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Harry reached behind her thighs and lifted her effortlessly, her back pressing against the cool wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. She clutched his shoulders, dizzy from how easily he handled her, from how right it felt to be held like this.

He kissed her harder now—his lips demanding, his grip tightening—like he was unraveling everything they’d both been holding back.

Y/N moaned into the kiss, her body arching into his, and he growled softly at the sound, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp again.

The world shrank to the heat between them—the friction of denim and cotton, the electric drag of his mouth on her throat, the low groan he let out when she bit gently at his jaw.

“Not here,” he said against her skin, voice barely controlled. “I need you somewhere I can take my time.”

Her answer was a desperate nod as he carried her down the gallery hallway, their mouths finding each other again between whispered curses and stifled laughter.

And when he set her down inside the dim back room, closing the door behind them, there was no space left for questions.

Only touch.

Only them.

Harry set her down carefully, his hands not leaving her body for a second. The back room was dark except for a small amber-toned lamp glowing in the corner, casting everything in soft, golden warmth. It was quiet here. Removed. Like the rest of the world had been left out in the gallery.

They stood chest to chest, breathing heavily, their foreheads brushing as if neither one of them wanted to break the closeness.

He cupped her face gently, the same hands that had moved with such certainty just moments before now holding her like something fragile. His thumb swept across her cheek as his eyes searched hers.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough but steady. “I need you to say it again.”

“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again—slower now, deeper—his hands sliding under her overalls, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at her hips. She tugged at his shirt and he let her lift it over his head, revealing his chest, his inked skin glowing faintly in the soft light.

She ran her hands across his stomach, up his chest, over his shoulders. Every inch of him was warm and firm and real—no longer the guarded neighbor, but him, here, undone in front of her.

He made quick work of her straps, dragging the overalls down her arms and letting them fall to her waist. His mouth followed the path of bare skin he uncovered—pressing soft, heated kisses along her collarbone, then lower.

His fingers dipped beneath the band of her underwear, hesitating just once—giving her one last chance to stop him. She kissed him instead, hungry and breathless, her hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

He groaned against her lips and pressed her back gently onto the cushioned bench in the corner, kneeling between her legs. His hands were everywhere—gripping, exploring, guiding—his touch reverent and firm, like he’d dreamed of this too many times to rush it now.

Y/N arched into him, her breath catching as he dragged his mouth down her neck again, whispering things she couldn’t quite hear but felt—in the way he moved, in the way he looked at her, like this wasn’t just want.

It was need.

It was craving.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Harry eased her down onto the bench, his hands hot and certain as they swept across her body. His touch was deliberate—fingers dragging slowly over her curves like he was memorizing every inch of her, tracing the places that made her breath catch, the spots that made her hips shift beneath him.

He hovered above her, his body a perfect weight between control and temptation. One arm braced beside her head, the other slid along her waist before dipping under the hem of her shirt—his shirt, oversized and thin, clinging to her in all the right ways. When his fingers brushed bare skin, she lifted her arms, wordlessly offering herself up as he pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.

He stared for a beat—like she was sacred. Like stripping her down didn’t make her smaller but somehow more powerful, more captivating. His gaze was reverent. Worshipful. Like he’d been starving for this, for her.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed, voice low, lips grazing hers.

“Then don’t stop,” she whispered, tugging him closer.

Their mouths met again, deeper this time. His kiss wasn’t just hungry—it was consuming. Tongue sliding against hers, his hand fisting in her hair. Her legs parted around him, thighs cradling his hips, inviting more. Wanting more.

His hands explored her—palming her breasts, brushing his thumbs over hardened nipples, coaxing soft sounds from her throat that only made him groan in response. His mouth followed soon after, dragging down her neck, then lower, slow and sure, until she was squirming beneath him.

“Harry,” she gasped, hips lifting instinctively.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against her skin, his breath hot as he pressed kisses along her stomach, then lower still. “If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t.”

He peeled her underwear down, eyes never leaving hers. She felt bared to him, open in every way—and yet she wasn’t nervous. His touch was gentle even as it was firm, teasing even as it made her ache.

When his mouth found her, she cried out, fingers threading into his curls. He worked her slowly, deliberately, taking his time like he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. She couldn’t think—only feel. Wave after wave built and crashed inside her as he drew it out, licking, sucking, moaning into her until she shattered.

And still, he didn’t rush.

When he moved back up her body, she caught his face in her hands, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and relief. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, and he let her, pushing his jeans down just enough to free himself. He was hard, hot, and heavy against her thigh, and when he pressed forward, she arched up to meet him, bodies aligning like they were made for this.

“Are you sure?” he murmured, voice almost ragged.

“Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”

He slid into her slowly, both of them gasping at the contact—how right it felt. He held still for a second, buried deep, forehead resting against hers, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even closer.

They moved together, rhythm building from a slow, grounding pulse into something deeper, hotter. He fucked her like he needed her—like this wasn’t just about lust but something more primal, more profound. Her name fell from his lips in a broken whisper, and she clung to him like she didn’t want to let go. Like she couldn’t.

When they finally collapsed together, chests heaving, limbs tangled, neither of them spoke right away. The silence was thick with everything that hadn’t been said—everything that had been felt.

Harry brushed the hair from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. “You okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

The stillness after was thick—not uncomfortable, but not exactly easy either. Y/N lay quietly for a moment, curled into the crook of Harry’s arm, listening to the low hum of the city outside the gallery’s back room window. The weight of what had just happened settled in her chest like warm gravity.

But reality crept back in slowly. The dim light. The distant sound of a car passing. The fact that they were tangled up, half dressed, on a bench in the back of his gallery with a few half-eaten slices of pizza growing cold in the front room.

She shifted slightly, glancing up at him. “We’re really going to pretend this bench was comfortable?”

Harry gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand brushing over her bare arm. “It was a terrible idea.”

“But effective,” she said under her breath, lips tugging into a crooked smile.

He smirked faintly, but the moment that followed felt… fragile.

Y/N sat up slowly, reaching for her shirt and slipping it over her head, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. The intimacy between them still hung in the air, but now it was layered with something new—uncertainty, maybe. Or the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Harry stood and pulled his shirt back on, running a hand through his hair before reaching for a roll of paper towels on a nearby shelf. He handed one to her without meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking it.

He nodded, then rubbed the back of his neck. “We should probably… finish cleaning up. Lock up soon.”

There it was.

The shift.

Y/N nodded, swallowing the knot that rose in her throat. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

They dressed in silence, save for the occasional shuffle or zip. The room that had felt like a world of its own an hour ago now felt too quiet, too small.

Harry grabbed the empty pizza box and the napkins from earlier. “I’ll toss this,” he said, already heading toward the door.

Y/N lingered a second, tugging on her boots, trying to decide what to do with the tension coiling under her ribs. Part of her wanted to ask what this meant. Another part didn’t want to risk hearing the answer.

When she walked back out into the gallery, Harry was stacking chairs near the wall, calm and methodical, like he needed the routine to ground him.

“Do you want help?” she asked.

He paused, glanced at her, then gave a soft shrug. “Sure.”

And so they moved in quiet tandem—rearranging furniture, switching off lights, pretending like their bodies hadn’t just been wrapped around each other in the dark.

Pretending like they weren’t both waiting for someone to say something.

They finished the last of the cleanup in near silence, the clatter of chair legs and the soft creak of wood against tile filling the space where words wouldn’t go. Y/N tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket as Harry flipped the gallery’s lights off one by one, casting the room into gentle shadow.

By the time they reached the front door, the air outside had cooled. The streets were quiet, the buzz of the city dimming down to the low hum of night.

Harry locked the door behind them, the metallic click echoing in the stillness. Y/N stood beside him on the sidewalk, arms folded over her chest—not cold, just unsure what to do with them.

He turned to her, the gallery now behind him, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I’ve got a few more things to finish up in the back,” he said. “Paperwork. Inventory stuff.”

She nodded, looking up at him. “Right. Of course.”

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to hers for half a second before drifting away again. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around the building.”

The words hit her like a soft thud—gentle, but impossible to miss.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a small smile. “See you around.”

They stood there for one more breath of stillness before she turned and walked toward her car, her shoes quiet against the pavement. She didn’t look back, didn’t ask if this was the part where things were supposed to change—or if they already had.

Harry stayed at the door, watching her go. Not calling out. Not explaining.

And maybe that was the most honest part of it.

Because some things weren’t defined in the moment—they just were.

Unspoken. Lingering.

And still unfinished.

It had been four days.

Four days since the gallery.

Four days since the kiss, the heat, the quiet shift that followed.

Four days of silence from Harry.

Y/N hadn’t texted him. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to be the first to break the tension—but really, it was because she didn’t know what she’d say if she did.

Now, juggling a grocery bag and her keys, she stepped off the elevator onto their floor and turned down the hall toward her apartment. She didn’t expect to see anyone—definitely not him—but as she rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock, one hand holding a canvas bag. He looked up the second he heard her, and for a moment, they both froze.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey,” she echoed, shifting the weight of the groceries on her hip. “Trouble with the lock?”

He held up the keys. “It hates me.”

Y/N gave a small smile, the awkwardness thick between them but not unbearable.

They stood there for a second too long—neither making a move to keep walking.

Harry broke the silence first. “You been good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Busy. You?”

He gave a small shrug. “Same.”

The silence stretched again. Not heavy—but loaded.

Y/N shifted, finally moving toward her door. “Well… see you around, then.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t move to unlock his door. “Y/N,” he called quietly before she reached hers.

She turned back.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

She stared at him for a beat. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wanted to. I still do.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Then say it.”

Harry hesitated, then took a small step toward her. “Can we… not pretend it didn’t mean something?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face—but underneath that, something softer. Relief. Warmth. Something that had been waiting.

“I wasn’t pretending,” she said. “I was just waiting for you to mean it out loud.”

He nodded slowly. “I do.”

There it was. Simple. Uneasy. True.

And maybe still uncertain—but not silent anymore.

Y/N hesitated by her door, keys still in hand, groceries forgotten. Harry stood just a few steps away, his words still echoing quietly between them.

“I do.”

That should’ve been the end of the conversation—awkward hallway moment, followed by days of thinking about it again. But instead, she found herself speaking before she could overthink it.

“You want to come in?” she asked, tilting her head toward her door. “I bought too much pasta. You can help me feel less like I have a carb problem.”

Harry looked at her for a second—like he wasn’t sure if she was serious, like he was still caught in his own head. But then he gave a small, crooked smile.

“Only if I get to judge your sauce,” he said.

“Deal.”

They stepped into her apartment a few minutes later, the soft click of the door behind them oddly grounding. Y/N set the groceries down and flicked on the lights, trying not to overthink the fact that he was here, in her space, again—but this time without the haze of heat or distraction.

She unpacked silently while he leaned against the counter, watching her. The weight of whatever had been lingering between them still hung in the air, but softer now. Like it was ready to be unwrapped, not pushed away.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said again after a moment. “I just… felt weird. Not about you, but about me.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Weird how?”

“I’ve never let something happen that fast,” he said, eyes focused on the corner of the countertop. “And I didn’t want you to think it was just…” He trailed off.

“A one-time thing?” she finished.

He nodded once.

She set the pasta down, crossing her arms. “Did you want it to be?”

His eyes met hers immediately. “No.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it felt like the right kind. The kind where something important was settling.

“I didn’t either,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t sure where you were. And I wasn’t going to chase you through the hallway if you didn’t want to talk.”

“I did want to talk,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to say any of it without messing it up.”

She smiled gently, stepping closer. “Then just say it badly. Say it honestly. Say it however. But don’t say nothing.”

Harry let out a soft breath, then nodded. “Okay.”

They stood in the quiet for a few seconds more, the kind of quiet that felt okay now—like they could breathe in it.

Then Y/N bumped her shoulder into his gently. “Now sit down and be quiet while I cook, or I’ll burn the garlic on purpose.”

He gave a soft laugh and leaned against the counter beside her. “See? Already making threats. We’re back to normal.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “Not normal. Just… honest.”

And maybe that was the most intimate thing they’d done all week.

Y/N stirred the sauce slowly, the scent of garlic and basil filling the small kitchen. The moment between them had settled into something quieter—light jokes, soft glances, the kind of closeness that came from shared silence more than shared words.

Harry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. Not in the casual way someone watches a friend cook, but with that same low-burning intensity he always carried, like he was holding back something far more dangerous than a comment about seasoning.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah,” he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then dragged slowly back up to meet her gaze. “Because you look good like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, voice softer now.

Harry pushed off the counter and crossed the small space between them until he was just behind her. Not touching. Just there.

“Like you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “Like I could wrap my hand around your throat and leave marks only I get to see.”

Her breath caught, sauce forgotten.

“And I’d ruin you,” he added, even lower now, “if you’d let me.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his, heart thudding. “You think I wouldn’t let you?”

Harry stepped closer, the heat of his body against her back now, his hand brushing her hip. “I think you’d let me pretend I’m in control,” he said, “right until you decided to take it from me.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her fingers tightening around the wooden spoon. “And what if I like the idea of being ruined a little?”

His hand slid from her hip to her waist, gripping firmly, grounding her.

“Then tell me to ruin you.”

She turned fully to face him now, back against the counter, eyes locked with his. “You already are.”

There was no kiss. Not yet. Just heat. Just space charged with every word, every breath between them—closer than they had any right to be, and still not close enough.

“Harry,” she said, her voice almost trembling now.

But he didn’t move.

He just looked at her like he was memorizing her all over again. Like the next time he touched her, it wouldn’t be soft.

It would be deliberate.

And she’d beg for it.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first—she just looked at him. Her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling faster now, like her body already knew what was coming even if her mind hadn’t caught up.

Then, slowly, she reached up and slid her fingers along the collar of his shirt, curling them just enough to pull him closer.

Harry didn’t resist.

Their mouths met in a rush—nothing soft about it. This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t slow. It was hungry. Like the silence between them had been a dam, and now it had finally cracked open, spilling out all the want they’d swallowed for days.

His hands gripped her waist, then her back, then her hips—like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted everywhere. She moaned into his mouth, the sound desperate and low, and he groaned in return, deep in his throat like it was pulled from somewhere primal.

He walked her backward blindly until her thighs hit the edge of the kitchen table, scattering a box of pasta and a wooden spoon. Neither of them cared.

“I’ve been trying to be patient,” he said, voice strained, his lips brushing hers between breaths. “But you—”

“You don’t have to be,” she whispered, fingers already tugging his shirt from his jeans.

He kissed her again—deeper this time, with a groan that vibrated through her bones—and then his hands were everywhere. Under her shirt. Against her ribs. Sliding up her back. He lifted her onto the table like she weighed nothing, stepping between her legs as she wrapped them around his hips, pulling him impossibly close.

The table creaked beneath them, but neither of them moved to stop it. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him there as his mouth traveled along her neck, her shoulder, biting down just enough to make her gasp.

She arched into him, her voice raw in his ear. “Touch me.”

His breath stuttered. His hand slid between them, slow, sure. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispered, almost trembling. “All of you. Like you said. Ruin me.”

Something in him broke at that.

He pulled her against him so tightly it felt like there was no line between where she ended and he began. His mouth found hers again, and this time it was rougher, deeper. Like he was trying to consume her. And she let him.

Because this wasn’t just heat.

It was everything they hadn’t said.

Everything they felt.

And in that moment—pressed against the table, hands frantic, lips bruised and searching—they weren’t neighbors. They weren’t taking it slow. They weren’t teasing.

They were coming undone.

The room had fallen still again, the air heavy with heat and something unspoken—something tender beneath the wreckage of what just happened.

The pasta sat forgotten on the counter. A spoon had rolled onto the floor. Her shirt was somewhere behind her. And Harry was breathing hard, standing between her legs, one hand still wrapped around her thigh, the other braced against the table like he needed it to stay upright.

Y/N leaned into him, her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Not after that.

He rested his chin against the top of her head. Neither of them spoke.

Her heart was still racing, and not just from the physical high—it was the weight of what had just passed between them. Because that wasn’t casual. That wasn’t just lust. That was raw, and real, and terrifying in the way that made her want to both run and stay at the same time.

Harry finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “Y/N.”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

He looked at her like he wanted to say something important. But all that came out was, “That was…”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

They stared at each other for a moment, silent, stripped of the tension that had once built everything between them.

He ran his thumb slowly along her knee, grounding himself in the feel of her skin. “I meant it,” he said. “When I said it wasn’t just that night. Or this.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I know,” she said softly. “Me too.”

He exhaled, brushing his hand along her cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice softened even more. “You scare the hell out of me.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “Good. You should be scared. I bite.”

He smiled, barely, then leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Not her lips. Not again.

Then he stepped back just enough to help her down from the table, their hands still laced for a moment too long before she bent to grab her shirt from the floor.

They dressed in silence again, but it wasn’t awkward this time—it was full. Full of something new and heavy and bright all at once. Something that didn’t need defining just yet.

When she handed him a towel to wipe down the table, he took it with a smirk. “So… pasta?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Definitely ruined the sauce.”

“You ruined me,” he muttered under his breath, and she caught it.

She didn’t respond.

She just walked past him, fingers brushing his as she said, “Let’s eat anyway.”

And he followed—quiet, wrecked, and maybe already a little bit hers.

The days blurred together, soft and hazy and full of quiet moments that felt like stolen time.

Harry would show up at her door with a bottle of wine and a crooked smile. Sometimes she’d end up at his place, curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, her legs draped over his lap. And almost always, one of them would end up pressed against a wall or tangled in the sheets—breathless, hands gripping, lips searching like they couldn’t not touch.

It was easy. Familiar. Addictive.

But never once had either of them said the word “relationship.” Or “dating.” Or even “us.”

Which is exactly why Y/N found herself pacing her living room on a Tuesday night, staring at her phone with a furrowed brow and a nervous pit in her stomach.

Finally, she opened her group chat.

Y/N:

Okay. So. Please tell me it’s not crazy that I still have no idea what’s going on with Harry.

Lila:

Omg HERE we go.

Are we finally addressing the hot sex haze you’ve been floating in?

Harper:

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Drop the details. Are we in too-deep territory?

Y/N:

We’ve been… seeing each other. Not just once. Not just a hookup.

It’s like we hang out, we sleep together, he stays over sometimes…

but we’ve never talked about what this is. Or what we want it to be.

Lila:

Y/N. Babe. That’s not nothing.

If he’s coming back, staying over, showing up for more than sex—it means something.

Harper:

Have you thought about asking him directly?

Y/N:

Yes. Constantly.

But what if I ask and ruin it? What if he doesn’t want what I do?

Lila:

But isn’t not knowing already ruining it?

Harper:

You’re not asking for a proposal. You’re asking for clarity.

And you deserve that.

Y/N read their replies twice, then sat down slowly, her thumbs hovering above her screen. She knew they were right. She knew she couldn’t keep riding this line between casual and committed without knowing where he stood.

But the truth was… she was scared.

Scared of what would happen if she asked.

The laundry basket dug into her hip as Y/N walked barefoot down the hallway, still warm from the dryer. Her oversized tee clung slightly to her side from the heat of the clothes inside. It was late—close to midnight—and the building was quiet, lights dimmed, the kind of hush that made everything feel softer.

As she turned the corner to her apartment, she nearly walked straight into him.

Harry.

He stood outside his door, barefoot, holding a half-finished glass of red wine, his black hoodie hanging loose over his frame. His eyes flicked up from the phone in his hand—and when he saw her, something in his face changed. Warmer. Softer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little rough from the quiet.

“Hey,” she replied, slightly breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

He looked her over once, slow and easy. “Laundry night?”

She held up the basket. “As glamorous as it gets.”

Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped aside slightly, nodding toward his door. “You want to come in? I’ve got wine. The good kind. The kind you pretend you only drink one glass of and then accidentally finish the bottle.”

Y/N hesitated for only half a second, then gave a crooked smile. “Twist my arm.”

He opened the door and let her in. The lights were low—just one lamp on in the corner, casting the apartment in that familiar golden glow. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table, two glasses, a record playing something soft and instrumental in the background.

It felt intimate. But not planned.

She set her laundry basket down near the door and slid onto the couch. He poured her a glass and handed it over before settling beside her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers just barely brushing her shoulder.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded, sipping the wine. “Long week.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the tension not uncomfortable—but present. Lingering like it always did with them now. Like the question neither of them had asked was sitting there between the glasses and the silence, waiting to be said aloud.

The wine made everything feel warmer. Softer. Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath her, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She wasn’t drunk, not really—just loose enough that her thoughts were slipping closer to her mouth.

Harry was beside her, one arm still resting along the back of the couch. Every now and then, his fingers brushed her shoulder, absentminded. Familiar. Like they’d done this a hundred times.

But she was quieter than usual. No teasing, no casual sarcasm. Just silence.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “You’ve barely said anything since we sat down.”

She hesitated, staring into her glass like the right answer might be floating somewhere in the swirl of merlot.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, after a beat: “I’m just tired.”

Harry turned slightly, studying her. “You sure?”

Y/N gave him a small smile. “You’re not even grumpy right now. I don’t want to be the one to ruin it.”

That made his brow furrow. “Ruin what?”

She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes. “Us.”

The word hung there—bare, trembling.

“I mean, not us us,” she rushed to add, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Just… whatever this is. I don’t want to mess it up. But I’m also kind of losing my mind trying to figure out what it actually is.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I keep thinking maybe I should just ask,” she continued, voice softer now, “but then I picture you getting that broody, quiet look and pulling away, and I just… don’t. Because I don’t want to ruin something that’s good.”

A silence stretched out between them—thick with vulnerability and that fragile hum of maybe-something-more.

Harry set his glass down carefully, then reached for hers and did the same. When he turned to her again, he was closer—his knee brushing hers, his voice low and steady.

“You’re not going to ruin anything,” he said. “And I’m not pulling away.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“I know I haven’t said much,” he went on, “and I’ve probably made this more confusing than it needed to be. But I’m not here for casual.”

Y/N’s eyes searched his, her heart in her throat.

“I don’t always know how to say what I want,” he admitted, “but I know I want you. Not just late at night. Not just when it’s convenient.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve wanted to say something for a while,” he added. “I just didn’t want to say it wrong.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

He gave a faint smile. “You kind of said it for both of us.”

Then, quieter still, he added, “Is that okay?”

Y/N nodded, something in her chest loosening. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s really okay.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with the kind of ease that only comes when you know it’s more.

And in that moment, she didn’t feel confused.

She just felt chosen.

Harry’s thumb traced soft circles over her knuckles as the quiet stretched, comfortable now—no longer heavy with what wasn’t said, but filled with the warmth of everything that finally had been.

Then he pulled his hand away gently and stood up.

“I want to give you something,” he said, voice almost shy.

Y/N watched him walk across the room, barefoot and a little flushed, as he opened one of the wooden cabinets near his kitchen counter. He rifled through for a moment before turning around with something in his hands—small, rounded, and painted in muted tones of deep green and soft blue, like sea glass.

A vase. Delicate, imperfect in the most beautiful way. Swirled with color, thumbprints still subtly visible in the shape of its curve. It looked like it had been loved.

Harry brought it over and placed it gently in her hands.

She blinked down at it, smiling. “Harry… it’s really beautiful. What is it?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time all night. “You remember that night at the gallery? When you were messing around with the pottery wheel?”

She glanced up, heart flipping.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I remember.”

It hit her all at once—a flash of memory: her hands caked in clay, his arms around her, guiding her movements, his voice low in her ear as he taught her how to shape something from nothing.

“I kept it,” he said. “The piece you made. After you left, I fixed it up a little. Smoothed the shape, made sure it didn’t collapse in the kiln. Painted it. Fired it properly.”

Y/N stared down at the vase in her hands, something tightening behind her ribs.

“You saved it?” she asked, looking up at him, her voice catching slightly.

Harry shrugged, eyes softer now. “You said you’d never done it before. I figured you should get to keep your first piece.”

Her throat tightened. She ran her fingers over the glaze, touched by how intentional it felt—not just the object, but the gesture. The way he’d taken something she hadn’t even thought twice about and turned it into this.

Into something permanent.

“You’re kind of ruining your whole ‘emotionally unavailable’ vibe,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

He laughed under his breath, then sat beside her again. “Yeah, well. You’re ruining my ‘grumpy loner’ brand, so I guess we’re even.”

Y/N looked at the vase once more before setting it carefully on the table and curling back into his side, her head against his shoulder.

“I love it,” she said.

And she meant the vase.

But maybe… she meant more.

384 notes · View notes

springwitch8 · 1 year ago

Text

flowers and firsts (melissa schemmenti x fem!reader)

summary: being the gracious friend you are, you offer to share your weed with melissa and jacob for a fun friday night at their place. when jacob goes to bed, things get heated between you and your favorite coworker.

warnings: smut (18+), consensual high sex, recreational marijuana use (be responsible), strap-ons, praise kink, vibrators, soft melissa, stoner reader, attempts at comedy (it's a fun fic guys), mario kart 8 GONE SEXUAL

notes: happy 4/20. this wasn't requested, but my OCD is beating the fuck out of me rn and writing it brought me comfort. let me know what you think. much love from your favorite slutty stoner 💚

"i know kids are curious, but eighth grade is a bit early to try weed, right?" jacob bounced his leg anxiously as he raised the question to his friends in the teachers' lounge. one of his students had just been suspended for bringing marijuana to school, and jacob was characteristically worried about the kid.

"i started in tenth grade, but teenagers are growin' up younger and younger these days," melissa responded. barbara raised her eyebrows in shock, and melissa reacted with an amused half-smile. "like trouble over here. when was your first time, hon?"

you tried to ignore the innuendo as melissa invited you into the conversation. you had been hired to teach the third grade a few months ago. you and melissa had a rapport from the first moment you walked into the lounge. every time you were in a room together, you made each other laugh. melissa made you feel at ease in your new workplace, and you felt lucky to have her.

because you both got along so well, ava often paired you up for team-building exercises and combined-class activities. the two of you weren't exactly close friends yet, but you had chemistry. that much was obvious to everyone at abbott.

"tenth grade for me, too," you answered between sips of your morning coffee. "a friend and i did it in the bathroom before art class. good memories."

"what, did you have some kinda fancy vape pen?" melissa cocked an eyebrow at you.

"i wouldn't call it fancy, but yeah, we mostly smoked carts," you explained. "bought 'em from the upperclassmen in the parking lot before school. i'm pretty sure they weren't pure weed, though. we had to be smoking battery acid, or plastic or something."

"god, your generation is weird. smokin' chemicals out of a flash drive," melissa said, gesturing wildly to convey her amazement. "the first time i got high was in detention. my buddy steve would sneak in and bring us cigarettes and blunts. they all looked the same, so we played russian roulette with it. now everybody walks around with those neon devices in their pockets."

"i can't tell if you're being serious or if you're referencing the breakfast club," you giggled, nudging the redhead's shoulder jokingly as you sat down next to her.

"ha ha, very funny, little miss," melissa deadpanned. you had asked her to stop calling you "kid" a few weeks ago. she respected your wishes by coming up with all sorts of endearing synonyms to call you instead. "what about you, jacob? you used to vape—ever experimented with mary jane?"

"or mark john?" you added. melissa snorted and gave you a playful swat on the arm.

"no, actually, i haven't," jacob said, rolling his eyes at your quip. "i didn't have many friends in high school or college, and after that i had to be drug tested regularly for teachers without borders. i never got the chance."

"well, if you ever feel like trying something new, i have plenty to share," you offered. "can't have you over at my place, though; every time i bring guests around, my crazy neighbor thinks they're cia operatives."

everyone in the room except melissa gave you a shocked look. barbara looked especially aghast, her brightly painted lips curled into an 'o' shape.

"damn, i thought janine was the only after-school stoner here. what a pleasant surprise!" ava broke the silence.

"i suppose i would partake given one of those weed pens you mentioned," jacob said to you. "the only thing i've been vaping lately is air, and it gets stale after a while."

"oh no, i haven't used a cart since high school," you clarified. "if you're smoking with me, you're smoking. don't worry, it's easy. just like vaping, but better in every way."

"first of all, no smoke circle is happening under my roof without me." melissa chimed in, looking at you with a silent question in her eyes. you nodded—of course you wanted her there. "and second, where do you even get the weed? if you buy the legal stuff from new york or massachusetts, you're not bringin' it to my house."

"i wouldn't dream of it," you affirmed. "i only smoke authentic philly weed. don't worry about it; i got a guy."

---

that friday night, you showed up on melissa's doorstep wearing a casual t-shirt dress, with a tote bag full of goodies slung over your shoulder. jacob was the one to answer the door.

"hey! come on in, melissa's making pizza," he said cheerfully, a bit jittery with anticipation.

you followed jacob inside and found melissa leaning over the kitchen island, smiling fondly at you. she was wearing sweatpants and a loose-fitting striped shirt, with her hair loose and a bit messy from cooking. she looked radiant and comfortable.

"you know, the pizza will taste better if we smoke before dinner," you proposed.

"bold of you to assume my pizza could taste any better," melissa joked back.

"i'm game," jacob said. "i want the full marijuana experience."

"in that case, help me set up," you said to the history teacher. "i want you to see how everything works."

you laid the contents of your tote bag out on the island countertop: a ziploc baggie full of flower, a little purple grinder, a holographic pink bowl, and a yellow lighter with white flowers on it.

"jacob, this is a grinder," you said, uncapping the grinder and opening the ziploc bag. "we're gonna use it to break up the flower into little pieces."

"oh wow, that is... pungent," jacob remarked. he watched as you ground up the weed, then handed the pink glass bowl to him.

"and this is a bowl, or a pipe if you're lame," you said. "you wanna do the honors?"

jacob grinned and reached into the grinder, bouncing excitedly on his heels. you put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. he filled the bowl, looking to you for approval several times while he did it.

"awesome, we're ready," you said. melissa placed her pizza in the oven and joined the circle.

"let's take it out on the patio," melissa suggested.

she led you and jacob out to the patio, a small ledge overlooking the city with three chairs conveniently set up in a tight circle. it was 7pm and the sun had just begun its descent, casting philadelphia in an orange glow.

the three of you sat down. you held the bowl up to your lips and moved to light it, but melissa snatched the lighter from your hand. she leaned in and held the flame to the bowl, her face inches from yours. you tried to concentrate on the task at hand, rather than her painted lips or her vivid green eyes dancing all over you.

you took a long inhale of the smoke and blew it up toward the sky. melissa plucked the bowl out of your hand and took a hit. she held the smoke in her lungs for an impressive amount of time for someone who didn't smoke regularly. she passed the still-lit bowl to jacob.

as soon as jacob took his hit, you knew it was gonna hurt. he overestimated his own lung capacity, and he didn't even finish blowing the smoke out before he was coughing.

"happens to everybody, pal," melissa patted jacob's back to ease his pain.

"ugh!" jacob sputtered between coughs. "why didn't you guys tell me smoking hurts?"

---

several rotations later, the three of you were high. well, you and melissa were high; jacob was outright fried. not altogether unexpected, but funny as hell.

when melissa's pizza was done, you all resolved to eat outside so you could watch the sunset together.

"this is heavenly, mel," you moaned after a delicious bite of the pizza.

"ha!" jacob exclaimed, and you and melissa turned to him, confused. meeting melissa's gaze, he threw his arms up in the air—like he expected her to understand what he meant by that one noise. "she stole two syllables from your name. you can't just take syllables, y/n. they're not yours."

"since when do you care about private property rights?" you quipped back before turning your attention to melissa. "i'm serious though. this pizza is sooo good. like last-meal-on-death-row good."

"keep talkin' sweet like that, and you can call me whatever you want," melissa replied with a wink, sending a flood of warmth to your face.

"what were we talking about? just now?" jacob chimed in, his eyes wide and darting every which way.

"... i actually don't know," you said with a giggle. you tried to remember, you really did. but you could feel melissa's eyes on you, and you heard her words echoing in your head. and it was hard to focus on anything else.

"short term memory loss! add that to the list of things you guys didn't warn me about," jacob scoffed.

"jacob, eat your damn pizza," melissa cut in. a peaceful smile graced her lips as she stared out at the city skyline, now a twilight blue in the absence of the sun. "i've missed this feeling, everythin' all fuzzy and light. how are you holding up, lovebug?"

your heart fluttered at the endearing name. melissa, it seemed, wore her heart on her sleeve when she was high—judging by the adoring way she gazed at you while she awaited your response. maybe the weed was messing with your head, but you swore she'd never looked so beautiful.

her eyes lacked any trace of the fire you were used to seeing (though they were quite red). for once, she wasn't on guard. her plump lips curled around her wine glass as she took a sip of merlot, vocalizing her sensual appreciation with a hum.

her long auburn hair was tucked behind her ears, resting on her shoulders in loose waves instead of her preferred meticulous curls. you wanted to run your fingers through her locks, feel their softness and smell her shampoo.

entranced by the redhead, you forgot she had asked you a question. melissa tapped your knee in reminder.

"i feel perfect," was your soft reply. you were beaming brightly before the sentence even finished. rather than sitting in a chair, you felt like you were floating on a cloud. the colors of melissa's patio and the sky blended together in a beautiful, swirling mosaic. the sounds of the city were clear and pleasant as philly wound down for the night. "i'm so happy."

"glad to hear it, sunshine. but i'm pretty sure jacob is asleep," melissa chuckled and patted the man's shoulder. he didn't stir, remaining slumped and conked out in his chair. "he's been losin' sleep over the kid who got suspended. bending over backwards trying to keep 'em on track."

"oh gosh," you said sympathetically before patting jacob a bit more firmly than melissa had. "jacob, hey. c'mon, it's time for bed. get up, go get cozy."

your words were slurred and hushed, but they seemed to pierce the veil of jacob's slumber as he awoke with a start.

melissa stood behind jacob's chair, gently rocking it back and forth to bring him back to the conscious world.

"can't go to bed, we just started," jacob grumbled, but his eyes were still closed. he was dangerously close to falling asleep again.

"from the looks of it, you're either gonna spend the night sleepin' in this chair or in your bed, so get up," melissa said resolutely.

"yeah, and besides, there's always next time," you assured jacob as he stretched and groaned his way into an upright position. you made eye contact with melissa, and this time you winked.

---

after helping jacob into bed (his motor skills really deteriorated when he got high) and smoking another bowl together, you and melissa were ready to continue your night.

"alright, sweetheart, it's down to you and me," melissa said, sitting down next to you on the couch. "what do you wanna do?" you pondered the question, looking around the room for inspiration.

"oh my god, you have a nintendo switch?" you asked excitedly, gesturing to the black tablet plugged in next to the cable box.

"that's jacob's. he showed me one of the games on there—animal crossing, i think it was. i don't get it. why play a game if you can't win?"

"alright, i know what we have to do now," you said, walking over to jacob's game cabinet and pulling out mario kart 8. holding the case up for melissa to see, you grinned. "four races. whoever wins gets whatever she wants from the other."

you were distantly aware of the implications, but you were too high to reconsider what you'd proposed.

you figured melissa would want something from your thoroughly decorated classroom if she won. if you won, you'd ask her to make you a custom pizza.

"you have no idea what you just started, hon," melissa said with a confident smirk.

"may the best woman win."

---

how the hell was she so good at everything?

melissa had needed some time to warm up to the switch controls, complaining about how the little red rectangle was too small to hold comfortably. but she was a quick learner with skilled fingers, and soon she was absolutely demolishing you.

it also didn't help that your coordination escaped you when you were high. you had driven off of too many ledges to count.

"two wins in a row for luigi," melissa bragged as she crossed the finish line of the third race. "hope you're ready to give me whatever i want, princess. don't think i forgot about our bet."

"daisy won the first race," you pointed out calmly. "i can still bring it back. but you know what this last race has to be?"

"what?"

"rainbow road. it's the perfect final showdown course," you explained, navigating to the course with your controller.

"get ready to be mine for a night," melissa said lowly. god, you knew she was talking about the bet, but she knew damn well what she was doing. by this point your panties were almost uncomfortably wet.

you leaned into her unconsciously as the race countdown began. you both held your controllers tight, almost shoulder to shoulder.

3...

2... (you push down the gas pedal button)

1...

GO!!!

daisy took off with a boost of speed thanks to your timing. luigi had a false start as his engine blew out. you cheered, and melissa cursed.

"how the fuck do you do that?" she asked, exasperated.

"play the game!" you demanded without looking away from the screen.

the competition was intense. you and melissa weaved around curves, nearly fell off the road, passed and bumped each other. neither one of you spoke until lap 3.

coming up on one of the last turns of the last lap, your hands jerked and you swerved. reacting on instinct, you bent your arms dramatically in the other direction to overcorrect.

melissa's arm bumped into yours, sending your controller flying out of your hands.

"hey!" you said, thinking she was cheating.

"hey yourself," she said, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

if she was gonna play dirty, so were you. you thrust your arm forward to grab her controller. but she saw you coming from a mile away. effortlessly, she shifted the controller into her left hand alone and held it up and out of your reach.

desperately competitive (and stupid high), you launched yourself toward the controller. you'd stop at nothing to get even. before you could snatch it out of her grasp, though, your balance faltered. you fell out of your position and started to fall backwards off the couch.

melissa dropped the controller and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you back up before you could hurt yourself. there was only one problem with this heroic act.

you were in her lap now.

her hands remained clasped at the small of your back, and your balance shifted forward. you put your arms out for stability, and wrapped them around her neck.

"careful, don't hurt your pretty head," melissa cooed. the two of you stared at each other for a moment. she surged forward and pressed her lips to yours.

if sitting outside with her felt like floating, kissing her and feeling her body against yours felt like riding the ocean waves. but unlike the atlantic, she was warm. you relaxed into her warmth as her tongue licked into your mouth.

you felt her tongue everywhere. in response to her, you gave a few tentative kitten licks. she moaned, she moaned, and pulled back before giving you one last kiss on the lips.

she stared at you with heated eyes for a while before switching her focus to the tv.

"look, baby," she said smugly while gesturing to the tv screen, where luigi was driving victory laps after placing first on rainbow road. "i won. you remember what that means?"

it was a fair question, considering how many conversations you forgot happened tonight. still, you nodded shyly and bit your lip.

"smart girl," melissa praised. "can you guess what i want from you?"

you shook your head no with a frown. melissa beamed and kissed you on the forehead. then she leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"i wanna touch you everywhere. i wanna hear your pretty voice moan my name and see your face scrunch up when you come. i want you to feel me all over you, and i want you to spend the rest of your life craving that feeling," melissa said her piece all at once, as if revealing a long-buried secret to you and herself.

you swallowed.

"would you let me do that?"

you nodded, pressing your forehead against hers.

"i need to hear you say it," she said softly, so softly you almost missed it.

"i want you, melissa. i have since the day we met."

that was all the confirmation melissa needed to attack your face and neck with kisses.

"sorry, let me just," melissa said as she pulled away abruptly and reached for the tv remote. she changed it to cable mode and navigated to the jazz music channel. "there we go, perfect."

"you're ridiculous," you giggled upon seeing melissa's proud face.

"honey," she leaned in to nip at your ear before whispering, "watch your mouth. you wanna be on my good side tonight, trust me."

you shuddered and wiggled in her lap, aching for her touch. a slow grin spread across her face and her hands found your legs, running up your thighs and lightly dragging her nails along your skin. they soon made their way up your waist to your breasts, cupping and squeezing them. melissa even took two fingernails and circled your nipples teasingly, to which you squeaked.

"do you know how many times i thought about havin' you like this?" melissa whispered. her voice was sweet like molasses and flowed right through you. you could feel your nipples tingling where her fingers had been, swimming in a bubble of desire. "in my lap, all whiny and squirmy."

she pinched your nipple and you keened. you held your breath as her hands once again traveled to your thighs, making a beeline for your core.

"and now i got my angel in my arms," she said, gently spreading your legs for better access. you sucked in a breath and trembled when her palm caressed you through your panties. "but i gotta say, even in my imagination you were never this wet for me."

she punctuated the sentence by pressing her pointer finger on your clit through the fabric, drawing tiny circles. you gasped and hid your face in her neck. the high made every touch feel like it rippled through your whole body. the world felt like it had been knocked off its axis, and melissa was your new center of gravity.

"aw, don't be embarrassed, babygirl. it's cute you're so sensitive," melissa soothed, easing you out of the crook of her neck to face her again. she trailed her fingers down to swirl around your wetness under your panties. "let me take care of you, yeah?"

---

a few minutes later, you were spread out on melissa's bed, naked save for your (now useless) panties. she'd practically carried you to her room as you were baked and horny and unable to walk straight.

in spite of your writhing and needy whines, the redhead took her time to savor you. she kissed every inch of your torso before she even considered taking your panties off, mumbling sweet nothings between love bites.

when she finally pulled away to admire her work, the view did not disappoint. you were panting and covered in melissa's marks, and god, you were her favorite piece of art ever created. all hers.

"alright, sweet girl, i know," she cooed as you continued to plead for her touch with your best pout and puppy eyes. unable to resist you, melissa hooked two fingers in the waistband of your panties. "i'm gonna slip these off ya, okay? there, down they go."

melissa discreetly tucked the saturated material into her pocket. not as a trophy or proof of her conquest; rather, a token from the first of many magical nights with her girl. she would treasure it.

she wasted no time getting situated between your legs so she was face-to-face with your pussy. she inhaled deeply, basking in the heady aroma of your arousal. you overwhelmed her senses. everything she saw, everything she smelled, everything she felt, everything she thought—it was all one big, bottomless pool of you. and there was only one sense left for you to conquer.

the first drag of her tongue up your slit set you ablaze, flames licking from your core all the way to your extremities and your head. she let out a small noise of appreciation, and you felt it more than you heard it.

"you taste like fuckin' heaven," melissa rumbled between determined licks through your folds. her comment reminded you of the pizza, and you found yourself amused at how much things had changed in just a few hours.

"last-meal-on-death-row good?" you joked, and melissa seized the moment of levity to latch onto your clit. you cried out before remembering jacob was sleeping in the next room. you clapped a hand over your mouth.

"mhmmmmm," she moaned in agreement, and the vibrations on your bundle felt incredible. "but if you're still crackin' jokes, i'm not doin' my job."

with that, she shut you up completely. her tongue poked at your clit between harsh sucks. your back arched and melissa changed her strategy, prodding at your entrance with her tongue while her fingers took over on your clit. when her tongue penetrated you, you bit down on your hand to keep from screaming.

"i said i wanna hear you, remember?" melissa pulled out to chastise you.

"but jacob—" you managed.

"is passed out. he's dead to the world. now sing for me, angel," melissa's tongue dove back into your weeping cunt and lapped at your walls. you wailed her name.

"oh, mel, right—ahhh—there!" you mewled as her tongue teased your most sensitive spot. now that she'd located her target, melissa changed her play once again. two fingers replaced her tongue and crooked into your g-spot while her mouth returned to your clit. "close..."

melissa nodded her permission, her mouth busy with your button. with another hard roll of your clit between her lips and drive of her fingers into your sweet spot, you fell apart. you moaned and cried unbidden as she worked you through your orgasm, which felt twice as powerful thanks to the intoxication factor. your body shook in the grip of seemingly endless waves of heat.

your climax eventually died down and you squirmed away from melissa's touch. your mouth opened in dismay when instead of staying by your side, she stood up and disappeared into her closet.

after a short while, the older woman reappeared by your side. she was now nude and sporting a long, girthy strap-on. she placed a few other items on the nightstand, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the thick faux cock. unless it was to look at her gorgeous tits, which swung with her every move. she was a goddess.

"okay, sweets, i'm gonna spell this out nice and slow because i know your brain is a little messy right now," she said as she crawled on top of you. "i'm gonna fuck you with my strap. and i know it's so big, but i have this to help you take it."

melissa reached over to the nightstand and retrieved a green mini wand vibrator. her intentions were clear, and you gulped. the redhead peppered kisses all over your face in reassurance.

"now relax, little love. let me in," melissa instructed as the wand buzzed to life. she smeared your wetness around your clit with her fingers, then pulled back its hood to position the vibrator tightly against your nub. even the lowest setting was a shock at such a direct angle.

while you were distracted trying to adjust to the clitoral stimulation, melissa aligned the tip of the dildo with your entrance and pushed in. you both groaned, and you felt yourself stretch around the toy. melissa turned up the vibrations on your clit as she progressed to being fully seated inside you.

"that's a good girl, so brave," melissa cooed. you thrashed underneath her, the sensations overstimulating you. the pain of the intrusion staved off a powerful orgasm from the wand vibrator.

again, you wondered if the drugs were messing with your mind—the dildo felt indistinguishable from a part of mel's body, and you were full to the brim of her.

as she began to rock her hips back and forth, you saw her bite her lip. you assumed that the strap had some kind of clit attachment for her based on the telltale signs of pleasure.

melissa built up a steady rhythm and drank in your pathetic sounds of pleasure. her tits swung in your face with every thrust, and you made a mental note to give them proper attention next time. with another tactical increase to the wand's speed, you felt yourself approaching the edge once more.

"you gettin' close? yeah, i can tell. feels too good to hide it, huh bunny?" that was a new one. you clenched at her words and she set the wand to its maximum power, rubbing it up and down on your clit. your vision went white and you spun out of reality as you came. "that's my girl. good little princess, coming so hard for me."

with a few more thrusts, melissa also came to a release. she shuddered and shimmied her hips at random while she rode it out. as soon as she recovered, she turned off the green wand and relieved you. next, she eased herself out of and off of you.

with a chaste peck to your lips, she sat upright and reached for the nightstand. she smiled at your fucked-out expression as she laid out the pajamas she'd picked out for you.

you watched in awe as she took off the strap and put on her own sleep clothes. her red hair was wild from the night's activities and glowed like a warm hearth against the white backdrop of her walls.

in your state, you wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with melissa and fall asleep. but she insisted that you get ready for bed so that you'd be comfortable through the night. she guided you into the bathroom and gave you a new toothbrush to use.

returning to the bedroom, you found a silky green nightgown with flowers on it waiting on the bed for you. given your exhausted and intoxicated state, melissa had to help you into it. neither of you minded. as a reward for your cooperation, she gave you a kiss.

the two of you snuggled into bed, tucked in together with you curled up against her chest. the tides of slumber lapped at your feet.

"g'night, lovebug," melissa whispered as you drifted off. "sleep well. see you in the morning."

and tomorrow would be the first of a lifetime of tomorrows waking up in her arms.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x y/n #melissa schemmenti x you #abbott elementary fanfic #melissa schemmenti smut #wlw smut #4/20 friendly #stoner fic #fanfic

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pricesgirl · 4 months ago

Text

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

(T.W Sexual content)

Y/N

I feel the weight of Cait’s gaze on me even as we get into position for the drills. The tension is still thick, clinging to the air around us. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let her down, but at the same time, something inside me rebels against her judgment. I’m not the same person I was yesterday, and I’m not sure if I can—or even want to—go back.

The sound of sneakers on the gym floor and Coach’s sharp instructions snap me out of my thoughts. I focus on the drills, pushing my body to keep moving, to not think too hard about the conversation that’s left a weird knot in my chest.

I glance over at Cait once more, but this time, she’s already looking away, her posture stiff, arms crossed over her chest. She’s not glaring anymore, but the distance between us is still there. It’s strange, how something as small as eyeliner can shift the way someone looks at you, and even stranger how it makes me question everything about myself.

Mel’s voice cuts through the silence, her usual easygoing tone filling the space between us. “You know, Cait’s just worried about you.” Her words are softer now, less guarded than they were earlier.

“I know,” I reply quietly, not meeting her eyes. “It’s just… I’m tired of playing it safe all the time.”

Mel gives me a small smile, like she gets it, even if she doesn’t say anything more.

The drills drag on, but my mind keeps wandering back to Cait’s disapproval, to the small voice inside me that wonders if maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m getting in over my head with all of this. But at the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m closer to something real, something that’s mine.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

As per the request of my favorite nerd, I’ve been reading some good old Shakespeare.

I’m supposed to be diving into Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers, epic tragedy, all that jazz. It should be interesting, right?

But the words are swimming in front of me because, let’s face it, I can’t concentrate for shit.

Not after this morning.

Y/N just looked so fucking pretty.

It’s ridiculous how she doesn’t even try, yet manages to ruin me without saying a word.

The way her hair fell around her face, a little messy but still perfect, and those big, thoughtful eyes that always seem to see right through me.

And that eyeliner—my eyeliner—that I practically begged her to let me do. Seeing my work on her face, sharp and bold, was enough to drive me insane.

Like a little piece of me was with her, walking around, unshakable.

And then there’s the way she blushed when I teased her.

That soft pink creeping up her cheeks, her lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Makes me want to press closer, push her boundaries just a little more, see how far I can take it before she pushes back.

Or maybe she wouldn’t push back at all.

What would she be like?

I’ve never seen her with anyone—guy or girl. Hell, does she even like girls?

The thought twists in my chest.

What if she doesn’t?

What if all the teasing, the lingering glances, the way her cheeks flush when I get too close—it’s just her being her, too sweet to tell me to fuck off? But then, what if it’s not?

What if she does?

I wonder what she’d do with one. What she’d do with me.

Do to me.

My hand trails down.

Down.

"Fuck,"

I'm already soaked.

I wiggle out the dampened underwear quickly, and toss it somewhere.

Doesn't matter where, oh fuck.

I lock eyes with myself in the mirror as I spread my legs, as wide as they can go.

Fuck, what has she done to me?

My lipstick’s a mess, smeared from where my teeth dug in.

My thighs are trembling and I haven't even touched... anything yet...

Normally i would just get myself off, quick easy, but Y/N wouldn't do that.

I'm sure she'd been curious, the girl's definitely never seen a pussy before, and I'm not sure any of her books have those lewd acts in them.

My finger slowly circles my clit, fuck that's good.

Gonna go slow.

Y/N would go slow.

My head drops back on my pillow as I resume those slow, slow circles.

God it's torturous.

My unoccupied hand, somehow, finds its way to my tit, totally unprompted.

"Fuck,"

The words barley there this time.

My teeth sink into my lower lip again when I slip a finger inside of me.

Gentle, slow.

Then another finger.

I keep my eyes trained on my reflection as I start those motions.

In out, in out.

"Fuck, fuck, Y/N," I turn my face into my pillow, whimpering now.

I bite down on the pillow to supress my lewd noises.

My hips move with my hand, chasing that sweet, sweet, release.

Fuck what would she do if she could see this.

See the state she's made me into, all squirmy on my bed.

She'd probably get that wide eyed look.

Maybe she'd whimper-

Oh if she damn whimpered-

My thoughts are cut short by a practically pornographic noise ripping from my throat.

"Oh, oh god,"

The noises leaving me gradually become more incoherent.

I can't keep my eyes open anymore, those familiar white spots starting to cloud my vision.

I've had orgasms before, of course I have.

But this was fucking earth shattering.

I don't know if it was the thought of her, those wide eyes, that blush, that spurred me on or what, but my back arched right of the bed, what was practically a cry leaving my mouth.

After regaining function of my senses, I lock eyes with my reflection.

Fuck I look a mess.

I lean closer to the mirror, squinting at the mess.

Jesus Christ.

Smudged eyeliner, streaks of lipstick—no, stains, because apparently, my mouth decided it wanted to eat the damn tube.

"Goddamn," I hiss, swiping at it with my thumb. It just smears more. Great. Now I look like a clown that got into a bar fight.

My hair’s a disaster too—sticking to my forehead in sweaty clumps.

I rake a hand through it, but it’s hopeless. I look like I’ve been... well, doing exactly what I was doing.

The chill of the room finally hits me.

Oh, right.

Still butt-ass naked. My eyes dart around for anything to throw on and land on an oversized hoodie draped over the chair.

Good enough.

I yank it over my head, the fabric catching on my damp skin, and flop back onto my bed.

The hoodie clings to me, sticking uncomfortably in places, but I don’t have the energy to care.

My legs are sprawled out, the hem of the hoodie riding up enough to make it clear I’m not bothering with underwear.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to will my brain into some semblance of order.

It doesn’t work.

My thoughts are still a chaotic mess, flitting between random nonsense and her.

Always back to her.

Her laugh. Her stupid, perfect laugh that’s like sunshine and honey and all that other cheesy shit people write poetry about.

Her eyes—soft, but sharp when she’s focused, like she’s solving the universe one thought at a time.

And that little wrinkle she gets between her brows when she’s concentrating too hard?

Yeah, that one’s burned into my brain. Thanks for that, Y/N.

I groan, rolling onto my side and dragging a pillow over my face. “You’re pathetic,” I mumble into the fabric.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: another short chapter, but i felt it was quite important to have certain bits as their own entity, hope you like it ;)

please like and reblog!

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munsonsmixtapes · 1 year ago

Text

Jealousy, Jealousy

rockstar!Eddie x actress!reader

summary: you and Eddie have just started dating and decide to keep it on the down low until Eddie reveals that you’re together in an interview because you get jealous only for him to prove afterwards that he belongs to you and only you

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) fingering, jealousy, hurt/comfort

Not long after your meeting and multiple dates, you and Eddie decided to start a casual relationship, but wanted to keep it private despite your teams wanting you to go public because it would have been good PR. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Your relationships were the only things that were yours and you were going to keep it that way.

Even though everything was private, you still decided to go to the premiere of your movie together. As friends, of course. But the two of you seemed much more than friendly as you smiled on the carpet, looking at each other with nothing by loving smiles.

There had been multiple speculations about your relationship on social media so nobody was surprised when you showed up hand in hand, your outfits matching. And nobody cared whether or not is was for PR, they were just happy so see the two of you together.

Though, after a few minutes on the carpet, you and Eddie were pulled aside for an interview with one of the Hollywood gossip coverage channels. You could see the interviewer flirting with Eddie and that made your blood boil but you weren’t sure why. You were just hanging out casually. No strings were attached.

But you wanted them to be. You wanted to be able to call Eddie yours. You wanted to be exclusive and not have to worry about who he was hanging out with. You had wanted to be with him for so long and wanted to just take whatever you could get, but you weren’t satisfied with that.

“There’s the couple of the night,” the interviewer greeted and you couldn’t help but feel jealous because she was exactly his type, brunette with legs for days. And she looked so good in her black dress. You just couldn’t compare and almost wanted to look away from how much she was flirting with him.

“Hey,” Eddie greeted her with a smile and you mimicked it, not wanting to be rude. You didn’t want to tear her down just because she was flirting with Eddie. That wasn’t what you stood for.

“May I just say, you guys look amazing. I love the purple,” she eyed your outfits and you just nodded, wanting to agree with her. You guys did look fucking amazing.

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie nodded. “But I can’t take all the credit. It was all y/n’s idea.” He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible.

“Well, I love it. So, how’s the new album coming along?” Eddie couldn’t believe she was asking that. This was your night and here she was, asking him about his tour when the whole reason they were there was because your new movie had just come out.

“Good, good,” he nodded. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about my girl.” He looked at you like he was so proud of you and that warmed your heart while simultaneously making you go weak in the knees.

“Your girl?” The interviewer was just as surprised as you at the term of endearment. The only time he had called you that was behind closed doors and now he was just bringing out in the open.

“Yes, my girl. My girlfriend.” You both looked at Eddie in shock. He wasn’t supposed to announce your relationship like that. It wasn’t even a relationship. And even if it was, you had wanted it to be a soft launch on your instagram.

“I-I didn’t know that you were official.”

“Well, we are,” he gave her a sassy smirk. “It was nice speaking to you, what was your name?”

“Jane.”

“Jane. We should get inside.” He turned to you before leading you towards the door to enter the building.

As soon as you were inside, you pulled him into the bathroom before anyone could spot you. You really needed to speak with him and couldn’t do it with all of those people watching. This was a private conversation.

You pushed Eddie into the women’s restroom and pulled him into one of the handicapped stalls so there was more room between the two of you. He looked at you eagerly but his face fell once he realized that you were upset with him.

He reached for you and you let him pull you into his arms, his hands running up and down your back, trying his best to calm you down. He really hadn’t meant to upset you. He just wanted to make you feel secure about your relationship since jealousy was obvious in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, resting his head against your chest, pressing a kiss to it. He then pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours. “So fucking sorry.”

“No, no.” You took his face and cradled it in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I appreciated what you said.”

“You did?” His face lit up and he looked so fucking adorable.

“I did. I just pulled you in here so I could tell you that I wanted to do things for real.” His heart stopped in that moment. The hottest woman on the planet actually wanted to be in a relationship with him? What had he done to get so lucky?

“Oh thank god.” He let out a sigh of relief and you smiled in response.

“I know.” You pressed another kiss to his lips, this one rougher before pulling away. “Things don’t start for another hour so I think we have time for a quickie,” you said, pulling away, twirling one of his face framing curls and Eddie swore he was going to cream his pants right there. You always managed to say exactly what he was thinking to the point where he could have sworn that you were in his head.

“Even if we didn’t, I’d take the chance.” Eddie’s lips were on yours in a flash and he licked in your mouth, letting his hands traveling down your body until he got to the slit in your dress that had been torturing him all night.

His hand moved through the slit and he stuck his hand down in your underwear, his fingers staying where they were, moving back and forth so you got a little sensation but not the full thing.

“Eddie, please,” you begged and right when you were about to take matters into your own hands, he shoved his fingers up your cunt, pumping them in and out. “Oh-” you moaned and Eddie just smiled against your lips.

“That’s it, honey, let it out,” he urged and you turned, pressing your back to his chest so he had better access. He continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you and you let out more moans, causing him to cum just at the sound, hoping that it hadn’t seeped through the fabric of his pants.

He removed his fingers once he thought you were ready and turned you around to face him, sucking the slick from his fingers to get rid of it and you swore you were even more soaked. God, he was so hot. You needed him now more than ever.

“Always taste so good, honey,” he smiled. “How do you do that?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed. “Need your cock, now,” you demanded and Eddie quickly unbuttoned his pants and pulled down both them and his underwear, causing his cock to spring free. Beads of precum were falling from it and you were desperate to have it inside of you.

“Love it when you’re bossy.” He removed the condom he had in his pants and quickly undid the wrapper before rolling it onto his dick.

Once he was situated, he pushed you against the wall and pushed up your dress before slamming his dick into you and you both let out loud moans at the sensation. He pounded into you which contradicted his sweet words that he was whispering in your ear.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, so he could fit all of himself inside, the outside of your pussy almost touching his balls. Your eyes watered at the feeling, but it just felt so good that you let it happen.

“Oh my god,” you whined and Eddie kept going, thrusting the hardest and fastest that he could, having no plan of stopping anytime soon. Not when you looked so hot pushed up against the wall, your hair getting messed up from it. Your lipstick was all smeared from his kisses and your eye makeup was looking a little smoky from the sweat.

“Fuck, feel so good honey. And you look so fucking hot wrapped around me.” His voice was raspy and so hot.

He slowed down his pace as you reached your climax but you let him stay inside of you as he continued to pump in and out of you until you were both breathless and thought you had been gone long enough.

Eddie pulled out of you and let you pee while he cleaned himself up and tied off the condom while you made sure you were all set. After you exited the bathroom, you touched up your lipstick and tried to fix what had smeared onto Eddie’s face, but he wouldn’t let you since he wanted to show everyone that he belonged to you. So, you exited the bathroom hand in hand, ready to officially debut as a couple.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie #actress!reader #rockstar!eddie x actress!reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut #rockstar!eddie x you #rockstar!eddie munson

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elryuse · 4 months ago

Text

Tainted Desire

Yandere Jennie X Male Reader

Tags : Obsession, Dangerous Romance, Slight Smut, Dark, Gritty, Forbidden Romance

Words : 2,908 Words

Requested by My Mate @hijack711

You never expected your marriage to end like this.

Sitting in your dimly lit office at the university, you run a hand through your disheveled hair, staring at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on your desk. The silence of the night wraps around you, broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond the window.

Your phone buzzes—a message from your wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife.

"We need to talk about the divorce papers. Call me back."

You don’t.

Instead, your mind drifts back to a memory—a moment from years ago when your life was different. When you were just a substitute teacher, and she was just a rebellious high school girl.

Jennie Kim.

The name alone stirs something dangerous inside you.

You hadn’t seen her in years, not until recently, when fate cruelly entangled your lives again. But before she became the ruthless, calculating woman she is now—before she set her sights on you—she was just a teenage girl trying to escape the suffocating grip of her father’s ambition.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day.

The school hallways were empty, students tucked away in their classrooms as you made your way through the corridors, checking your schedule. You had been a substitute teacher for barely a month, filling in for an absent literature professor. The job was temporary, a stepping stone in your career before you moved on to greater things.

But then you smelled it—faint yet unmistakable. Cigarette smoke.

Your brows furrowed. Smoking was strictly forbidden on school grounds, and yet, someone had clearly broken the rules.

Following the scent, you turned a corner and found her.

A girl sat on the rooftop stairs, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily. A cigarette dangled between her fingers, wisps of smoke curling into the air. Her uniform was slightly unkempt—tie loosened, skirt hiked up just enough to break the dress code. Her dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and instead of guilt, there was only defiance.

Jennie Kim.

Even back then, there was something untamed about her.

“You know smoking is against the rules,” you said, stepping closer.

She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke before responding. “So is skipping class, but here you are.”

You sighed. “I’m the teacher. I don’t have a class right now.”

“Then you should be grateful. If I were in class, you wouldn’t have found me,” she murmured, tapping ash onto the floor. “Lucky you.”

You folded your arms, intrigued despite yourself. “Is there a reason you’re up here alone?”

For a moment, she was silent. Then, with a casual shrug, she muttered, “Needed to breathe.”

Her voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a weight she tried to hide.

You glanced at the cigarette in her hand. “That won’t help.”

Jennie scoffed. “What would you know?”

“I know that whatever’s bothering you won’t go away just because you’re filling your lungs with smoke.”

She studied you for a long moment, then sighed and flicked the cigarette away. “My dad’s an asshole.”

You didn’t react, waiting for her to continue.

She hesitated, then muttered, “He wants me to be something I’m not. To follow his rules, live by his standards, become the perfect heir. He thinks Jane—” she spat her sister’s name like a curse “—is the good daughter, the obedient one. But me? I’m nothing but a disappointment to him.”

You leaned against the wall, watching her. “And what do you want?”

Her lips curled into a slow, almost bitter smile. “To take everything from him.”

You didn’t know it then, but that conversation would plant a seed in her mind—a thought that would grow into something far more dangerous than teenage rebellion.

And years later, when you crossed paths again, you would realize that Jennie Kim always gets what she wants.

Even if what she wants… is you.

Years later, Jennie is no longer a rebellious schoolgirl. She’s the new chairman of Odd Atelier, a powerful empire built on ambition and ruthlessness. When she sees you again, the hunger in her eyes hasn’t faded—it’s only grown stronger.

And this time, she won’t let you go.

Even if it means destroying everything in her path.

Even if it means tearing apart your already crumbling marriage.

Even if it means striking a deal with your son.

Because you belong to her.

And Jennie Kim always takes what’s hers.

You always knew that the past had a way of creeping back.

You just never expected it to return in the form of Jennie Kim—not as the rebellious high school girl who once defied her father’s control, but as the ruthless woman who had finally dethroned him.

And now, she’s standing right in front of you.

The gala is extravagant, a display of power and wealth, where the elites of the business world gather to celebrate Odd Atelier’s new chairman. It was your son who dragged you here—his university connections granting him an invitation. You weren’t supposed to stay long, just enough to make an appearance before slipping away.

But then, the moment you locked eyes with her across the ballroom, you knew escaping wouldn’t be that easy.

Jennie moves toward you with the same calculated grace you remembered. But she’s changed. No longer the rebellious teenager on a school rooftop, but a woman in full control.

Her black silk dress clings to her body in all the right places, her dark eyes sharp yet filled with something far more dangerous. Possession.

“Professor,” she purrs, her voice dripping with amusement.

Your throat tightens. “Jennie.”

A smirk tugs at her lips. “I wondered when we’d cross paths again.”

You swallow, keeping your expression neutral. “Congratulations. You finally got what you wanted.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Not yet.”

The weight of her words settles between you. She’s not talking about power.

She’s talking about you.

You try to leave the gala early, but fate is cruel.

Your son—eager to make connections—introduces you to his employer at Odd Atelier.

You freeze the moment you see her.

Jennie stands before you, her gaze dark with amusement. She looks at your son, then back at you. There’s a cruel irony in this situation.

She knows.

She knows your marriage is dying. She knows your son admires her. She knows that you’re vulnerable.

And Jennie Kim has never been one to let an opportunity slip.

“I never expected to work with your son,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “But life has a funny way of bringing people back together.”

Your son is oblivious, grinning. “Jennie has been a great mentor.”

Mentor.

You clench your jaw. That’s what you once were to her.

Jennie smiles, slow and knowing. “Your father and I go way back.”

Your son frowns slightly. “Really?”

Jennie meets your gaze. “Oh, yes.” She steps closer, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “He was the first man who ever made me feel alive.”

Your pulse spikes.

She’s doing this on purpose.

Testing you.

Toying with you.

And you’re ashamed to admit that it’s working.

Her Terms, Your Weakness

Later that night, when you finally manage to slip away from the gala, she’s waiting.

The hotel bar is nearly empty, dimly lit. You don’t know why you didn’t just leave, why you let yourself be drawn to this place like a moth to a flame.

But when Jennie slides into the seat across from you, you know exactly why.

“You ran away so quickly,” she muses, swirling the dark liquor in her glass. “Did I make you nervous?”

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “What do you want, Jennie?”

She hums, tilting her head. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because the truth is—despite knowing how wrong this is, how forbidden this is—there’s still something undeniable between you.

Jennie leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You belong to me.”

Your hands tighten into fists. “I’m married.”

She smiles. “Not for long.”

Silence.

Then, she says something that changes everything.

“I struck a deal with your son.”

Your blood runs cold.

Jennie watches your reaction carefully, savoring every second of your unease. “He wants my sister, Jane.” Her voice is soft, almost teasing. “So I gave him a chance. In return, he’ll look the other way when I take something for myself.”

Your breath hitches. “Jennie—”

She reaches out, trailing a single finger across the back of your hand. The touch burns. “You should be grateful. I could’ve had you the moment I turned eighteen. But I waited.”

Her nails lightly drag against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Now I’m done waiting.”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jennie chuckles darkly, standing from her seat. “Oh, but I do.”

She leans in close, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I always get what I want.”

And then, just like that, she’s gone.

Leaving behind the weight of her words—of her promise—settling deep into your bones.

Because you know Jennie Kim.

And when she sets her sights on something…

She never lets go.

You should’ve walked away.

You should’ve turned your back on Jennie Kim and never looked at her again.

But now, you’re trapped.

The realization settles deep in your chest the moment you step into your home—your marriage of fifteen years hanging by a thread. The air is thick with tension, your wife’s absence a reminder of everything that’s already crumbling.

You’re trying to hold on, to fix what’s left. But the truth is, your hands are already slipping.

And Jennie knows it.

She’s watching, waiting. A predator savoring the moment before she strikes.

You don’t sleep that night. You don’t think you ever will again.

The next day at the university, you try to focus. Lectures, meetings—anything to keep your mind off her.

But then, a message lights up your phone screen.

Jennie: Miss me?

You exhale sharply, ignoring it.

A second message follows.

Jennie: You’re pretending, aren’t you? Acting like you don’t think about me. Like you don’t want me.

Your grip tightens on the phone. You shouldn’t reply.

But you do.

You: Stay away from me.

It’s a weak attempt. A meaningless warning.

And she knows it.

Because Jennie doesn’t listen.

Minutes later, your office door swings open without warning.

And there she is.

Wearing a black silk blouse that clings to her body, high heels clicking against the floor as she steps inside.

You stand immediately, tension coiling in your muscles. “Jennie, you can’t just—”

She shuts the door behind her, locking it.

A smirk plays on her lips. “You told me to stay away.” She cocks her head. “So why am I here?”

Your breath is uneven. “Because you don’t understand boundaries.”

Jennie laughs softly, stepping closer. “Or maybe…” Her voice drops into something dangerously low. “You just don’t mean it.”

She moves around your desk slowly, her fingers grazing the wooden surface as she invades your space.

You take a step back. She takes another forward.

It’s a game—a dangerous one—and she’s winning.

“Jennie—”

Her fingers trail up your chest, her touch featherlight. “You don’t belong here, Y/n.”

Your jaw tightens. “This is my life.”

She leans in, her lips barely inches from yours. “No,” she whispers. “This is your prison.”

Your pulse spikes.

Jennie tilts her head, her gaze searching yours. And for a brief moment, you’re terrified—not of her, but of yourself.

Because she’s right.

Because you want her.

Because if she touches you again, you won’t stop her.

And she knows it.

Control Is an Illusion

You force yourself to turn away, to create distance.

But Jennie doesn’t let you go easily.

“You’re miserable,” she murmurs, watching you with unwavering certainty. “You’re still trying to fix something that’s already dead.”

Your hands clench into fists. “That’s none of your business.”

She smirks. “Isn’t it?”

Silence.

Then, she delivers the final blow.

“If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here, running from me.”

You hate how well she sees through you.

How she knows you.

Jennie leans against the desk, crossing her arms. “Do you even love her anymore?”

Your stomach twists.

You don’t answer.

And that silence?

It’s all she needs.

Jennie smiles. Slow. Satisfied. Dangerous.

“You’re mine,” she whispers.

Then, just as effortlessly as she arrived—she leaves.

And you’re left standing there, heart pounding, knowing that you’ve already lost.

Because Jennie Kim isn’t going to stop.

And the worst part?

You don’t want her to.

You should’ve walked away.

But now, it’s too late.

Jennie Kim has dug her nails into your life, and no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already caught in her web.

She isn’t just dangerous.

She’s inevitable.

You come home that night, expecting the usual silence, the usual avoidance.

But your wife is waiting for you.

Seated on the couch, glass of wine in hand, she barely glances up when you step inside.

“How was work?” Her voice is hollow, indifferent.

You hesitate. “Fine.”

A bitter laugh escapes her lips. “You always say that.”

You’re exhausted. From her, from yourself—from Jennie.

“You’re late,” she continues, swirling the wine in her glass. “Again.”

Tension coils in your chest. “Meetings ran over.”

Another lie.

Your wife exhales, shaking her head. “Y/n… I don’t know how much longer we can do this.”

And there it is.

The inevitable conversation. The slow, agonizing death of your marriage laid bare between you.

You don’t respond. Because what is there to say?

Jennie was right.

This isn’t a life.

It’s a prison.

And you’re already looking for the key

The next day, you see her again.

Jennie waits for you at the entrance of the university, leaning casually against her car, wearing a silk blouse that clings to her frame and a knowing smirk on her lips.

You stop in your tracks. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “Thought I’d drop by. Say hello.”

You glance around, paranoia creeping in. “You can’t just—”

“Relax,” she interrupts, stepping closer. “No one’s watching.”

That’s a lie. She’s always watching.

Jennie tilts her head, studying you. “You look tired.”

You don’t respond.

She takes another step forward, her voice dipping into something soft, intimate. “What is it, Y/n?”

You inhale sharply, hating how easily she reads you.

Hating how much she’s already inside your head.

Jennie leans in, just enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath. “She’s slipping away, isn’t she?”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

Her fingers trail up your arm, slow and deliberate. “You don’t love her anymore.”

You grab her wrist, stopping her touch. “Jennie.”

She smiles, her gaze burning into yours. “Say it.”

You shake your head. “I—”

Her lips brush against your ear. “Say it, Y/n.”

You close your eyes, fighting it, fighting her.

But it’s useless.

Because the truth is already there.

Because Jennie owns you now.

And she knows it.

It starts subtly at first.

The way she replaces your thoughts, your routines.

Your phone buzzes during lectures.

Jennie: I wonder what you taste like today.

At night, she sends voice notes—soft, slow whispers that unravel you from the inside out.

"I want to break you, Y/n. I want to ruin you until there’s nothing left of you but me."

You shouldn’t listen.

But you do.

And then come the nights when you can’t stop thinking about her.

When you wake up gasping, her name tangled in your breath.

When you see her face instead of your wife’s.

Jennie is patient.

She doesn’t force.

She waits.

Because she knows you’ll come to her.

And when you finally do—when you finally break—

She’ll be waiting with open arms.

It happens on a night you’ll never forget.

You leave your home, your wife calling after you, but you don’t look back.

Your hands are shaking when you arrive at Jennie’s penthouse.

The door opens before you can knock.

And there she is.

Barefoot, wearing nothing but an oversized silk robe, looking at you like she’s been expecting you all along.

You exhale sharply. “Jennie, I—”

She steps forward, pressing a finger to your lips. “Shh.”

Then she smiles.

“Come inside, Y/n.”

And just like that—you surrender.

Because there’s no running anymore.

Because you were always meant to be hers.

And now, you are.

Tainted Desire

The door clicks shut behind you.

And just like that, you’ve crossed the line.

Jennie watches you, dark amusement flickering in her eyes as she takes slow, deliberate steps forward.

You don’t move. You don’t stop her.

Because this was inevitable.

Because you were always meant to end up in her hands.

Her fingers trace up your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. “You finally stopped running,” she whispers, satisfaction dripping from every syllable.

Your breathing is uneven. “Jennie—”

She silences you with a kiss.

Soft. Slow. Lethal.

And you fall into it. Into her.

Because she owns you now.

Her lips part against yours, her tongue sweeping into your mouth as she devours you whole.

You should feel guilt.

But all you feel is her.

Jennie pulls away, a cruel smile curving her lips as she studies her masterpiece.

You—ruined, broken, hers.

Her voice dips, sultry and commanding. “Leave them.”

Your stomach clenches. “Jennie—”

She cups your face, her nails pressing against your skin. “Leave your wife. Leave your son.”

Her thumb brushes over your lower lip. Soft. Possessive. Unyielding.

“There’s nothing left for you there.”

Your heart pounds, your mind spiraling.

But Jennie’s voice is all you hear now.

Jennie is all you know.

Her grip tightens. “Say it.”

You close your eyes, the weight of your old life crumbling around you.

Jennie leans in, whispering against your lips. “Be mine.”

And when you finally exhale—finally give in—

You whisper the words that seal your fate.

“…I’m yours.”

Jennie smirks.

Because she’s won.

Because you belong to her now.

Forever.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #yandere #yandere stories #blackpink #blackpink jennie #kim jennie #jennie blackpink #yandere blog #yandere girl #yande.re

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plaidos · 12 days ago

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i just dont get why they absolutely had to write june saying "i didn't even know how old she was" when talking about how she felt like she emotionally cheated on roxy

just seemed like a joke made with little reverence to the character that is going to transition on screen

idk if you see that (and Scott Pilgrim's whole thing with Knives) as a joke i think that's a you problem and you aren't ready to have the conversations this artwork is having. if you're uncomfortable with it, good, it's supposed to make you uncomfortable, Homestuck is and always has been an earnest introspection of how society normalises & recreates the conditions of sexual violence.

i mean, for starters, to clue you into a conversation i was having with a friend about this earlier today, compare John's relationship to Terezi -- a girl he fundamentally does not know the age of & whose ageing might've been slowed out in nowhere -- with Dad's immediate infatuation with Mom Lalonde when he first gets a glimpse of her pre-Sburb....... except, by the timeline elaborated to us in Hiveswap, Mom is like, only just barely an adult in that scene. this goes uncommented on because why would it? most of the characters don't even know it happened, nor do they have a frame of reference to understand what's a little ❓ about that. but it makes perfect sense for John to be in his pre-transition emulating all the toxic parts of his father (& masculinity in general), does it not?

i don't get how it's a "joke" at all to reference the Thing That Literally Happened In Canon, it seems more like you're bothered that it's being referenced at all rather than it having happened?? Homestuck has been about stuff like this, about the normalisation of child abuse & sexual violence to children by way of society. did you think Jane repeatedly statutorily raping Gamzee (who was explicitly a teenage boy when he comes out of the fridge) over the course of the epilogues waas just random Homestuck nonsense bullshit? What about what's going on with Tavvy? all the Doc Scratch/Dirk Strider stuff? Alternian culture revolving around coercive sex, and how that is supposed to be a reflection of how that is also true of Earth's own cultures?

like, idk, i thought it was pretty clear that the normalisation of sexual violence (particularly towards/surrounding teenagers) in society was one of the core themes of Homestuck. it's always patently wild to me, for example, that people try and decry Meenah as a pedophile when she's actually probably the only character in the comic who realised what she was doing was wrong and elected to stop being a willing participant in it. and like... the scene you're talking about isn't just relentlessly dunking on June, it depicts her being unfairly dragged for something every single one of them has been a complicit participant in. it's about transmisogyny, if anything.

#homestuck meta #homestuck analysis

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brainrotbee · 4 months ago

Text

Payneland Prompfest Day 4: Handmade

"-So then I told him that he needed to move because the art club reserved that table weeks ago." Niko brushed a strand of white hair off of her face, leaving a smear of glitter on her cheek. Craft supplies were spread out all over her bed but she'd abandoned it all in favor of painting her nails.

"Then what happened?" Edwin asked. He was only half-listening, too focused on following the instructions open on Niko's computer.

She sighed. "The wrestling team ran to their coach and they got the table in the end." She stretched out her hand to admire the paint on her nails. "But we set something up outside and people came to that instead." She laughed. "They lost the district championship later that year anyway." Edwin hummed in response. Niko leaned forward to inspect his handiwork. "It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."

"For Charles it does," Edwin replied. He held up the half-finished origami and frowned in disgust. He'd folded the parchment wrong, again. Niko watched in silence as he pulled out another piece and started from the beginning.

"He won't care if it isn't amazing or whatever," Niko insisted. "You could hand him two pieces of tape stuck together and he would love it." She sighed and leaned back on her bed. "He's crazy about you."

"He is not."

"Edwin, I have spent my entire life reading romance novels," she said seriously. "I know a lovesick expression when I see one."

Edwin paused. He didn't know what to make of that. Romance novels weren't something boys were supposed to read, especially in his day, so he'd steered clear of them. Of course, a few Jane Austen novels managed to sneak their way onto his reading list so he wasn't entirely clueless. He knew what romance looked like and it certainly didn't look like two dead boys. "He is a good friend," Edwins aid neutrally. "Which is why I want to give him a good gift."

Niko rolled her eyes at the topic change. "Fine." She watched as he folded in for a while. "That's where you're getting messed up," she revealed. "This part goes backwards."

"The pictures on your device are not the least bit helpful," Edwins said defensively. He followed Niko's advice and the parchment finally began to resemble what it was supposed to be: a-

"-Dinosaur," Charles said eagerly later that day. He held it up as if it was some grand trophy. "This looks brills."

Edwin looked down at his shoes. "Niko and I had some downtime and she was kind enough to teach me about origami."

"I love it," Charles exclaimed. From across the room, Niko paused her conversation with Crystal to smirk knowingly. "It's going on the top shelf. That snow globe is history."

Edwin watched as his partner proudly held the tiny creature aloft. He smiled. Jane Austen might not have written about them but that didn't mean they didn't exist.

#payneland promptfest #dead boy detectives #dbda #dbda fanfic #dead boy detective agency

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rainylana · 1 year ago

Text

Preachers daughter

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: eddie is becoming obsessed with “plain jane”.

warnings: based around the character/artist of ethel cain. language, reader is described as thin, brown hair/eyes and very plain and boring. eddie describes her as “ditzy” and “weird”. hints of physical abuse/bruising. talk of religion and christianity, church. reader is starved of attention. some angsty shadows around the edges, some fluff here and there. Slight smut, reader tries to give Eddie a blowjob, hints of sexual abuse.

a/n: my first fic in months!! leave me some love and let me know what you think!! also, if this gets enough love and positive feedback i might make another part!

You never spoke unless spoken to, had a plus marks in grades. You never smiled. You had few friends, a couple girls you sat with a lunch, but no one you hung out with outside of school. Eddie had started watching you when senior year came along. He didn’t know why. You hadn’t changed that much. You looked the same, acted the same. You were the same boring, plain Jane. That was what everyone called you. Plain Jane. You tried to not let it hurt your feelings.

Eddie hadn’t interacted with you much. Nodding a hi in class, waving at you on the bus once or twice. Offering an apology if he’d ran into you in the hall. But never really a conversation. He’d spoken a full sentence to you once in the nurses office. His nose had been bleeding from a punch, while you had been in there from a stomach ache. You both had sat in that little room with ice packs and a mint.

He was starting to become obsessed with you, the gang pestered him about it, laughing at him. He always talked about how mysterious you were, wondering why you never spoke. “It’s like she’s amish or something? Did she used to be amish?” He’d asked one day.

He wanted to know more about you, but how? He couldn’t exactly strike up a conversation with you. You barely reciprocated back the words. When the day came when you both finally had an actual interaction, it fueled the fire in his belly, his growing desire to get to know you, to understand why he liked you so much. Right now, he still didn’t know.

On the way back from Hellfire, it was starting to cloud up very darkly. A storm was brewing, and from the looks of it, a bad one. Eddie’s radio was cranked to the max, a new single out by a band he had yet to know the name. He wondered if other people would discover his songs like that one day, by a band they had no idea who’s name belonged to it.

That’s when he saw you, on the side of the road. He knew it was you from the long, brown dress that fell down to your calves, black flats and hair laid straight down your back. Plain Jane. “The hell?” He muttered under his breath, pulling up slowly and rolling down his window.

You stopped abruptly, startled by the oncoming vehicle, looking up to the window, the driver, with wild brown eyes.

“Need a ride, y/n?” His hand laid on the crank of the window. “Looks like we got a hell of a storm coming.”

You looked up to the sky, the wind blowing hair into your mouth. “I’m not supposed to ride with strangers.”

“We’re not strangers.” He chuckled. “You’ve known me since second grade.”

You gave him a look, a long one, holding your gold cross necklace before you eventually nodded, opening up his van door and climbing inside. He offered a hand to you, but you managed inside fine without it.

You lived about five miles north of his place on the outskirts of town, the baptist church, your fathers church, also being a mile from town. Your father was the only preacher in town to have children. The relationship with your parents was complicated. You idolized your mother, loved your father and brother. At the end of the day, that’s what was important and nothing else.

Three minutes into driving. Eddie couldn’t take the silence anymore. “So strangers, huh?” He forced a laugh to break the silence. “You consider me a stranger?”

You looked over at him, confused and in a daze. “No. But you don’t go to church.”

“So?”

“Daddy doesn’t want me to associate with people who don’t believe in God.”

“Who says I don’t believe in God?” He defended, hand on the wheel and other lighting a cigarette. “Just because I don’t go to church doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God, Y/n.”

“Do you?” You said curiously, eyes on the cigarette.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders, blowing smoke out the window. “I don’t not believe in God. I have bad luck as is. I don’t need God pissed at me for not believing in em’, ya know?”

His words didn’t make much sense to you, but regardless, you nodded and kept quiet. It wasn’t in your best interest to pry uncomfortable conversations. However, being the daughter of a preacher meant that students, your peers, liked to confess to you when they had problems. One day, Chrissy Cunningham had needed to get something off her chest, worried she was going to go to hell for smoking weed under the bleachers. You didn’t feel like Eddie needed this kind of treatment; counseling.

Eddie held out the cigarette for you to take, to which you politely accepted. It didn’t surprise him. He knew you smoked. He caught you one day underneath the large oak tree by lovers lake. He’d shocked him almost to his knees. He figured it was your only source of rebellion. He didn’t tease you for it.

You inhaled and exhaled, feeling ten times more relaxed as you breathed in the smoke. You handed it back to him. “Thank you.” You said softly. “It’s nice of you to take me home.”

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “I’m not gonna let the reverend’s daughter walk home in a storm. I probably wouldn’t get into heaven, would I?” He smirked over at you.

You couldn’t help but smile, tucking a hair behind your hair. The corner of his eye caught your hands, purple bruising around your knuckles. He stared at them for a moment, eyes bouncing between you, your hands and the road. They were angry and red, dark around the bone. It looked painful. He gave you one last look, a confused, strange one, before turning his eyes back to the road. How did you hurt your hands so badly? It looked like you’d been beating a punching bag all night long. He forced it out of his mind to stop thinking about it. It wasn’t his business.

“So,” Eddie cleared his throat. “You got big plans this weekend?”

“I’m going to read.” You answered plainly.

“Fun.”

He was kicking himself for being so awkward. He’d been thinking of you for months now, wanting to get you alone so he could understand why you had gotten under his skin. It’s not like you were drop dead gorgeous. You weren’t ugly by any means. You were pretty. But pretty like other girls he went to school with? It’s not like you shared similar interests. Hell, he wouldn’t know. You’d never share your interests with anyone anyways. Your hobbies consisted of reading the bible and sewing on the front porch.

Thunder began rolling in, rain hitting the window shield. Eddie turned on his wipers, quickly rolling up the drivers side window to avoid getting wet. You were looking out your window to the sky, bringing up a nail to bite.

“Scared of storms.” He noticed your habit of anxiety.

“No.” You shook your head. “I love them. I’m hoping for a tornado.”

He gave you a weird look, nodding. “Okay.”

You hoped the storm would destroy your home and everyone in it.

You swallowed back bile and pushed the sinful thoughts from your young mind, taking away your finger and down to your lap. Lightening struck.

“Shit.” Eddie cursed. “Maybe we should pull over. Shouldn’t drive in this.”

You stayed quiet, fingers mentally crossed the storm would worsen. You loved storms, the danger of it all. It could end your life and that excited you. It was up to mother nature whether you lived or died.

“There’s a boat dock with a shack up ahead. Reefer Rick’s place. He’s outta town.” Eddie spoke louder over the pelting rain, which was turning to hail. You both ran to the shack, your feet splashing in muddy puddles that dirtied up your pale legs.

You both panted when you got inside safely. You were cold, wrapping your arms around your freezing body. It was dark and musty, covered in cobwebs and mold, empty paint cans and boxes ruined from the leaky roof. You were warmer running out in the rain.

“Here.” Eddie held out his hellfire jacket to you.

You shook your head. “No, thank you.”

“You’re gonna get yourself a cold.” He kept his arm out stretched. “Come on, you’ve got less layers on than I do.”

“No, thank you.” You repeated. “I don’t like the…well, the logo of your club on the back.” Your cheeks blushed red in embarrassment, hoping not to hurt his feelings after saving you from the icy storm.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

Eddie fixed himself comfortably against the wall, huddled up in a little corner, breathing into his hands to warm himself up. You shivered in your spot, arms crossed and feet shuffling to stay warm yourself. “How long do you think the storm will last?”

“Thought you liked storms?” He didn’t look up at you, yet he still smirked slightly.

You swallowed and turned away to look around some more, hoping the movement would keep you from going into hypothermic shock.

An hour later and Eddie had managed to build a fire in a metal trash can that was cut in half. Rick had kept some wood and news papers in the closet, so Eddie used that until he had a descent fire roaring to give off satisfying warmth. The storm really wasn’t letting up. Eddie, was beginning to grow agitated. He’d been waiting months to spend time with you, understand you, and you would barely speak to him.

“How’d you do on the english test?”

It was hypocritical of him to talk about, or show interest in grades when he was riding the fine line of a D and F, but he was tired of the silence.

You sat a few feet away from him, curled up in yourself, his jacket thrown over your shoulders. He insisted you wear it when he heard your teeth start to chatter. Your dress was slightly damp, but growing more dry by the second, your hair ratted.

“I did okay.” You said meekly.

Eddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “You sure don’t say much, do you?”

You looked up to find him staring at you inquisitively. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“I think you have plenty to say, actually.” He corrected you, pointing a mud clad finger. “I think you’re just afraid of what people will think.”

“I know what people think of me.” You clasped your cross necklace. “They call me “plain Jane”.” I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”

He had in fact, yes. Even called you the term before, several times.

“It doesn’t matter to me, though.” You shook your head. “Only one person really judges us in the end.”

Eddie looked uneasy at the thought of being judged by…God. He looked you over, swallowing as he shook his head. “Fuckin’ hell.”

His language startled you. “What is it?”

He laughed, shaking a hand. “It’s just…I don’t know. I thought maybe it was fate that I got to pick you up today, so you know…we could get to know each other better.”

You gave him a strange look. “But you already know who I am.”

“I mean,” He stressed in annoyance. “I don’t know, take you out on a date or something? Damn.” He cursed, shaking his head like this was the absolute worst thing he’d ever done.

Your eyes widened and your lips parted. “Me?”

He nodded, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked like he was a five year old pouting. “I get it if you’re not interested. Just tell me rather than sit there with your mouth hangin’ open.”

You closed it automatically, swallowing nervously. You were completely astonished. You never knew that Eddie had those kinds of feelings for you. Eddie was just…Eddie. He was always there causing mischief and trouble, picking fights here and there. But now that you sat and thought about it, there were many of times you recalled catching his eye in the hallway or the cafeteria. He was handsome. You liked his hair, though you knew your father wouldn’t approve of how long it was.

Your father wouldn’t like this, but he didn’t like you either. There wouldn’t be any chance of being able to go out with Eddie, not being able to risk him seeing the both of you together.

“Maybe,” You started, taking his jacket off your shoulders. “Maybe we could have our date here.”

“Here?” He craned a brow. “In this shack? Would be the cheapest date I’ve ever been on.” He chuckled, scratching above his eyebrow. “So you’re interested then? You’ll go out with me?”

Your smile turned into a frown, your guilt and fear sinking in. Eddie was a man, and just like any man, only wanted one thing. Surely a date was not a date. It was a date. You supposed you didn’t mind, after thinking about it for a moment. You didn’t mind the idea of sleeping with him. It excited you actually, but not anymore than the idea of being taken out, treated like a real lady.

“Alright.” You nodded.

He smiled, clapping his hands together. “Good.”

Five minutes past. No one had said anything. You assumed he wanted you to make the move. You startled him when you crawled over to him. “What are-” Was all he’d gotten out before you were climbing into his lap to roughly kiss him. It was all so sudden, and his body was having a hard time registering what happened. He couldn’t keep up with you.

When he did, he cupped the back of your head and slipped his tongue into your mouth, your own saliva dripping down his chin. Your hand slipped from his chest to his belt, but before you could undue it, Eddie’s eyes opened and narrowed. “Whoa, now,” He chuckled, pushing you back gently. “Slow down.”

“You don’t like it?” You looked hurt. “I thought-”

“Well, yeah,” He chuckled. “I liked what you were doing, but all in good time sweetheart.”

It was so fast and so sudden, everything that had happened. Your heart was still racing from making out, your body still wracking with building pleasure. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” He scooted up against the wall. “It’s okay. I just want to take you out on an actual date. I didn’t mean I just wanted to fuck you in this old shack.” He snorted, teeth shining in the dark. He looked so amused, so interested in you.

“O-oh.” You stammered. “I didn’t know.”

“Is that okay?” He asked you.

“Oh, yes, yes,” You rushed, glowing red. You didn’t know how dates worked. You didn’t go on them. You weren’t allowed to leave the house very much anyways. You weren’t sure what excuse you’d be able to come up with to get away, but surely you’d come up with something. You were sneaky, after all. Had to be.

Eddie could tell by your body language that you’d never been asked out before. As dirty as it was, that excited him. When the rain stopped, he helped you up, put out the fire and drove you him. He never stopped thinking about your hand on his chest, and neither did you.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson x y/n #eddie blurb #eddie munson x female character

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fbfh · 1 year ago

Text

curiosity is a wonderful thing - ch 8

wc: 3.1k

genre: slowburn, friends to lovers, fluff

pairing: audrey x ben, mal x ben????, eventual ben x daughter of alice!reader

warnings: audrey being a lil bitch again, mind control/hypnosis magic, implanted thoughts, minor emotional manipulation from mal

summary: disappointed again by Audrey's motivations, Ben prepares for a huge tourney match. But something - or someone - becomes very distracting all of a sudden.

song recs: the king - sarah kinsley, mind control - topsecret, do it for her - steven universe soundtrack

a/n: so we took in a stray cat (orange ofc) and he literally did this to me the other day???? peak orange cat behavior tbh. not my pic if that wasn't obvious

TAGS @yesv01 @magcon7280 @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sunshineangel-reads @dustyinkpages @inejsknifes @tulipmagnoliaisme @ev3ningrain

“So, where’s bunny?” Audrey asks Ben as they head to the tourney field. She says his nickname for you with a note of venom. Even though it rarely happens, whenever someone else refers to you as bunny it always hits Ben’s ear wrong.

“She’s probably just running late,” Ben says, “nothing out of the ordinary.”

He says it sweetly. You three were supposed to meet up before the match today, but Ben figures you probably took a wrong turn, or got tied up in a project. Ben covers for you like that a lot. He doesn't mind at all, and since he can't go with you to Wonderland, he feels like this is the next best thing. Or the least he can do, he supposes.

“Well great, that's…” Audrey starts, trailing off as she gets distracted by a group of girls. More specifically, by how amazing their hair is. She tries to pay attention to what Ben is going on about this time, but their hair… it’s too distracting. It looks photoshopped. It looks like the hair they use in salon ads and shampoo commercials. She glares at them, her gaze venomous until she realizes her eyebrows are all scrunched up. She snaps out of it, smoothing out her face. First not just one person with better hair than her, but multiple girls with hair so much better than hers that she’s going to get wrinkles over it? What’s next, mixing patterns? Unblended eyeshadow? Orthopedic shoes?

“Do you think they actually paid for those?” She spits conspiratorially.

“D- uh, they- they might have…” Ben sputters at the sudden change of topic, following her gaze and trying to figure out what exactly has got Audrey in such a bad mood suddenly.

“She did it to Jane’s hair too,” Audrey continues in that tone she only gets when spreading gossip. “And Fairy Godmother’s not happy about it.”

Oh. She’s talking about their hair.

The realization dawns on Ben, and he takes a closer look at the group of girls. The girl on the left’s new color and style remind him a lot of yours. It looks good. Ben glances back at Audrey, realizing she’s this upset over someone else’s hair.

“I mean… what’s the harm?” Ben starts gently. From what you’ve told him about Mal and Evie, Mal is probably just trying to make friends with the makeup and fashion tips she’s picked up from Evie - and as far as Ben’s concerned, that’s something that should be encouraged. Before he can finish his thought, Audrey interjects, as she so often does when the conversation isn’t about her.

“It’s gateway magic!” She exclaims incredulously, as if this should be obvious to him.

Gateway magic? That’s… not a thing… Ben thinks, wondering for a fraction of a second if Audrey might be joking. The only reason that magic is retired in the first place is because of the technology boom that came from Auradon’s alliance with Atlantis. All the new technology can do pretty much anything magic can do in people’s day to day lives.

Aside from that, it’s also much easier to regulate and add in safety precautions. Most people have become more interested in exploring and expanding new technologies than focusing on magic and its traditions. Ben has a feeling that in the coming years, magic will eventually begin to be re-incorporated into society, but for now, it’s somewhat obsolete. Technology is easier to learn, gets more consistent results, and you don’t need to dig through ancient texts for information - one quick Doogle search and you’re good to go.

“I mean, sure, it starts with the hair.” Audrey continues, and Ben can sense a tangent coming. “Next thing you know it’s the lips, then the legs, then the clothes, and then everybody looks so good, and…”

As he listens, Ben starts to see her point. If using magic to alter the way you look becomes common, it could have dire consequences. Adolescence is a fragile time, and if cosmetic alterations start running rampant at Auradon Prep, who knows how detrimental that could be to the student body’s self image and self esteem? The last thing Ben wants is to contribute to misogynistic, unrealistic beauty standards, give young girls even more unattainable ideologies to compare themselves to.

He’s sure Mal is well intentioned with all this makeover stuff, and he doesn’t want to punish her for efforts to make friends - solve one problem by causing another. If he can just talk to her, have a heart to heart and explain why he’s concerned, he’s sure she’ll understand. That way they can collaborate, come up with a solution for how Mal can make friends without doing anything that could inadvertently create a negative aftermath.

“...Then where will I be?”

Audrey’s voice breaks Ben’s momentary, spiraling train of thought. He looks at her as she pouts, fussing with her own hair. She pulls out a compact mirror and begins inspecting her face. The realization that Audrey is only worried about herself yet again sends a flash of disappointment through him. Maybe if things were different he could talk to her about it, maybe he could get her to understand. But he still has a tourney game to get ready for, a meeting with his parents after that, and a new potential crisis to put out.

“Listen, Audrey-”

Either she doesn’t hear him, or she doesn’t want to, and cuts him off again - something Ben starts to realize he’s growing very used to. She snaps her compact shut and looks at him vaguely, digging around her bag for her plumping lip gloss. She makes a mental note to get more, the extreme plumping kind if she wants to get ahead of all this magic beauty bullshit on the horizon.

“I will see you after my dress fitting for coronation, ‘kay?”

“O-Okay…” Ben replies, but Audrey is already bounding away.

“Bye bennyboo.” She calls out behind her, leaving Ben alone in the hall. He feels himself cringe a little at her repeated use of the nicknam, but reprimands himself. It’s well intentioned - well enough at least - so he shouldn’t be judgemental.

Behind him in the empty hall, Mal stands, staring at the back of Ben’s head intently. She steadies herself with a breath. She’s been practicing on the birds outside her window - she even practiced on Carlos a few times - she’s been pouring over her mom’s spellbook nonstop since yesterday, she’s ready. She has to be. She takes a breath and walks forward, clearing her throat.

“Hey bennyboo!” She says, sarcastic and saccharine.

Ben turns around, startled by the sound of Mal’s voice, and bites back a sigh. He really wishes people would just call him Ben. Before he can greet her, Mal takes a few steps closer, locking eyes with him, and holds up a baggie of cookies that look very… homemade.

“Do you want one?”

He looks at the cookies briefly, then smiles at Mal. It seems a little strange that she would take up something like baking when she refuses to even take an art class, but Ben is too distracted by the fact that she’s finally putting a good foot forward. She’s doing something kind, making a gesture, she’s trying.

“Oh,” he chuckles, smiling and trying to find a polite way to decline. He never eats right before a tourney match, especially dessert.

“I uh,” he starts, fumbling for words that always come so easily. “I’ve got a big game - I don’t eat before a big game, but thank you so much!” He adds quickly, her eyes locked onto his. Have they always been that green?

“T-thank you. Next time, next time definitely.” He concludes. He should go. He needs to go warm up or he’s going to be late. Why is he still standing there?

“No, yeah.” Mal says, pulling his thoughts back to her. If her eyes had always been so intense, such a vibrant, glowing green, Ben is sure he would have noticed before. “I completely understand.”

Mal smiles sadly.

“Be wary of treats offered by villains…” She laughs sadly, eyes still locked on his, drawing him in. “I’m sure every kid in Auradon knows that.”

Panic and guilt flash through him.

“No, no, no-” He fumbles, trying to explain, but finding the words feels like trying to run through quicksand. He can feel his brain slowing down, struggling to think, growing more and more quiet.

“No, that’s not it,” he sputters, desperately trying to correct her impression of him, that he doesn’t trust her, doesn’t like her. “I- I really do-”

He gestures weakly toward the tourney field, eyes still locked on Mal’s, stuck in her entrancing gaze. Everything around him seems to glow with a tinge of that green, that intoxicating emerald color of her eyes. He tries to say something, but there are no words in his head to draw on. It’s like someone cut the power supply to his mind, leaving him reeling in the dark, stuck in place as Mal stares him down, inching closer to him. He can’t think, can’t blink, can’t move. All he can do is watch the shades of green emanating from Mal’s eyes, casting everything around him in emerald and lime and harlequin. He wishes he could say something, then slipping into the back of his mind like a snake, words begin to form.