— Hey, Tumblr. My name is Vixen/Vixie or Pixie. I’m a 20 year old female writer and roleplayer. I love writing oc x canon doubles for various fandoms— mainly Stranger Things, and a handful of canon x canon ships. Do not ask me to only write a canon against your oc. I only do this under very specific circumstances and when it comes to oc x canon I always, always do doubles.
This is an 18+ blog dedicated to all things 80s, Stranger Things, problematic, and overtly filthy. Oh how I love the morally black and fantasizing about fucked up scenarios that never did make it into the show.
⚠️ Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Dark, messy, and problematic themes are present. Nothing here is softened, sanitized, or written for comfort. If you know, you know.
Read the tags. Heed the warnings.
📼 EXPECT CONTENT INCLUDING (BUT NOT LIMITED TO):
– obsessive / toxic dynamics
– canon divergence & “what if it went wrong” takes
– ships that make people uncomfortable (on purpose)
– manipulation & moral decay
- HEAVY themes of SA. I’m not kidding, be warned.
– power imbalances
- blackmail, exploitation, etc etc etc.
🩸 Also Expect:
– 80s horror & angst
– morally gray (or worse) characters
– dark aus
– trauma, obsession, and bad decisions
– media analysis & fic with sharp edges
My favorite characters include:
- Jonathan Byers
- Nancy Wheeler
- Steve Harrington
- Billy Hargrove
Other characters are fabulous but these three I aim to make my main focuses.
My favorite ships include:
- Stonathan
- Jancy
- Stoncy
🖤 Disclaimer
Exploration ≠ endorsement.
Fiction is a sandbox for ugly ideas.
Your triggers are your responsibility — tags will be used. If you’re here to clutch pearls, start discourse, or “fix” my interests — this is your cue to leave. You will be blocked.
PAIRING - professor!Henry Creel x student!fem!Reader
SUMMARY - Professor Creel reminds you who it is that you belong to.
WARNINGS - 18+; MDNI. Smut with a plot: soft dom!Henry, possessiveness, semi-public sex, hickeys, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, creampie and slight cum play. No use of y/n. All characters are 18+!
WORD COUNT - 3.3K
A/N - Exists in the same AU as Dark Paradise, but can fully be enjoyed as a standalone fic !! Also, it took me three rewrites with slightly different tones to finally get this right. Please tell me it was worth it, lol.
The lecture hall smelled of old wood and chalk as you brought a pencil between your teeth, your back resting against a wooden chair.
Before you stretched rows of tens of students. Some were scribbling in their notebooks, others were lounging in their chairs looking ever so slightly too relaxed, yet what came to you, your attention was stolen by your professor.
Each word passing his lips was calm and measured, his voice warm with his chuckles as he dove into today's topic.
Obsession in literature.
It was wrong, the way the words slipping past his lips made you squeeze your thighs together ever so slightly harder. Wrong, the way you had stopped dissociating during his classes, just to stumble when it came to him.
For suddenly you had no idea what it was that he was saying. Not because you didn't care, but because you did. Too much, only not about the topic, but about him.
Christ.
Sliding ever so slightly lower in your chair, you tried your hardest to redirect your thoughts.
"What you have to remember is that obsession, at its core, is about control," Professor Creel mused, his hand sliding to his nose to adjust his glasses. "About possession. About the inability—" His gaze found you, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Or refusal—to let something go."
You drew in a breath, dropping your gaze.
"What makes obsession dangerous is how often it’s framed as destiny. As inevitability. As something the characters have no choice but to surrender to." He leaned against his desk, his body language so casual. "But inevitability is rarely innocent."
"So basically—," came a chuckle from your left, and you turned your head to see Paul grinning at you. "Every great novel was about someone who desperately needed therapy."
It was a stupid joke—an obvious one—but god, if it did not hit the nail on the head. The laughter that pushed past your lips was a warm sound, and from it, Professor Creel's words came to a halt.
For just a moment, something flickered across his face. Too fast to name, nearly too raw to belong in a lecture hall. His head tilted, his fingers pausing against the edge of the desk before he seemed to pull himself back together.
When his eyes met yours, the expression was gone. The damage, apparently, was not.
"Mister Donovan," he spoke after silence that had surely not been more than three seconds but had felt like half a minute. "Is there something you'd like to add?"
"No, Professor."
"In that case let's keep the chatter down, shall we?" Professor Creel hummed, yet his gaze was not on Paul, but on you, as he continued: "Obsession only becomes monstrous when it’s acknowledged. When the character is forced to confront it. Until then—," He raised a brow, amused. "It's justified."
Good god.
"Or so it convinces itself."
The rest of the lecture you spent chewing on your pencil until it tasted bitter, your gaze not daring to leave Professor Creel. Even as his gaze lingered on you, you did not break your eye contact. Even as the words he spoke sent shivers down your spine, you didn't allow your thoughts to escape you.
Finally, after what had felt like hours, he clapped his hands together.
"Alright. You're dismissed."
You slid your notebook and pens into your bag, watching as the students began to pour out of the lecture hall before standing up—just for a curse to pass your lips as your bag dipped upside down and your possessions rolled all over the wooden floor.
Great.
Shaking your head you gathered your things, triple checking that you had found everything before straightening up.
The low murmur of voices had faded down the corridor, and suddenly, in the quiet of the lecture hall remained only you and him.
Professor Creel stood at the front of the room, calmly gathering his notes and straightening a pile of papers that did not need straightening. With a soft breath in, you swung your bag over your shoulder and started down the stairs, your steps against the floors feeling too loud.
"Thank you for the lecture, Professor," you said lightly as you passed him, willing your voice to sound casual. "It was a good one."
"Even if it wasn't I who made you laugh?"
You blinked, your steps coming to a soft halt. "Henry—"
He sent you a pointed look, reminding you of the open door and the students walking past at a hearing distance.
Alright.
With a raised brow, you walked to the door and swung it shut. "That better?"
"Dangerously so," he chuckled, his gaze lingering on your frame as you leaned against the closed door.
He was jealous, wasn't he?
Yes, the touch of something slightly darker in his blue eyes told you.
"It was just a joke."
He leaned against the desk, his arms crossing over his chest. "Was it?"
"It was," you assured, a touch of careful amusement in your voice. "It didn't mean anything."
"So you say," he wet his lips as he pushed off the desk to close his distance to you with steps slow and calculated. "But does Paul Donovan know that? Because from where I'm standing—" He tilted his head ever so slightly. "It seemed like you—," he raised a brow, "were flirting with him."
Flirting?
"Henry—"
"And I did not like that."
He was so close to you now that you could smell him: laundry detergent, faint cologne and chalk dust clinging to his skin. Your lips parted and closed in your desperation to find something to say, yet the touch of sudden possessiveness to him…
"Tell me, sweetheart, who do you belong to?"
It was making your head spin and your thighs squeeze together.
"You," you spoke without a hint of hesitation in your voice. "I belong to you."
"Yes, you do," he murmured, a touch of amusement in his voice. "Good girl. But see, that's not the issue, is it?"
A knit formed between your brows, lost.
"I know you're mine. You know you're mine," he hummed as his fingers reached for your jawline. Holding it gently, he tilted your head back ever so slightly. "But does Paul Donovan know that you're mine?"
"No," you shook your head, your voice a soft breath.
"No, he does not." He leaned closer to you, his lips now hovering over yours. Not touching, yet the promise of what was to come was enough to make you shiver. "So how will we make sure that he knows?"
"We can't tell," you managed.
"No, we can't, darling," he chuckled. "But what we can do—," his lips moved to brush against yours, "is mark you."
You blinked, your lips parting. "Henry, if they see me walking out of your lecture hall with hickeys all over me—"
"Shh, darling," he chuckled. "Not all over. Just—," he then kissed you softly, "on the parts," his hand fell on your waist to pull you closer to him, "that Paul Donovan wants to see."
"Henry—"
"Henry?" He raised an amused brow, and from it, you let out a breathless laughter.
"Professor Creel."
"That's my girl," he murmured. "Now, take off your shirt for me."
It was pure adrenaline that rippled through you as you hooked your fingers around the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head.
Suddenly standing in front of him in nothing but your bra and a skirt, you felt exposed—not in a way that made your cheeks heat up, but in a way that made you tremble in anticipation.
He could see it, too, you knew: the way stripping for him made you feel. For it was with nothing but endearing warmth in his voice that he said: "oh, my needy girl."
And with that, his hand cupping your cheek had led you into a kiss deep and full of yearning. Full of so much secrecy and need that was only shared between you and him.
His tongue running on your bottom lip sought permission to deepen the kiss, and who were you to deny it from him?
With a chuckle, he slid into your mouth, his fingers sliding to your jawline repositioning your head in a way that allowed him access to all of you.
The kiss was burning with need, just like you were when he pulled apart.
"Professor—"
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he murmured against your lips. "But I need you to be a good girl for me first and stand still. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Professor."
"That's my darling."
His blue eyes slightly darkened he dropped his gaze, and the softest of curses passed his lips as it traveled from your neck to your breasts, and down your body.
"You're perfect."
"Yours."
"Say that again."
"I'm yours," you chuckled as his lips found their way to the side of your neck, kissing and licking on your skin.
"Again," he hummed against your skin, his lips finding their way to your collarbone.
"I'm yours, Prof—"
And with that, he began sucking on your skin, coaxing a surprised moan from your lips. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but the warm pull of his mouth settling against the thin layer of your skin felt intense.
Deep.
You felt your pulse thrum beneath the surface, blood rushing to where his lips held you. Your skin was buzzing, your thighs squeezing together, and as he finally pulled away with a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, the spot felt strangely exposed.
As if it remembered his mouth even after it was gone.
The curse that passed his lips was a confirmation of him having managed to mark you. "God, you look beautiful."
"I can't see it," you whined, just for Professor Creel to wet his lips with a chuckle.
"So how about I leave another mark where you can?"
"And here I thought we were marking me for Paul Donovan's sake—"
"A little reminder for you too doesn't hurt, now does it?"
"No," you managed a soft chuckle. "I suppose it doesn't. Not that I need it," you then added.
"Of course you don't," he grinned, and with that, his lips found their way to your breasts. Kissing his way across them, he seemed to savour the softness of your skin: so at odds with the sudden pressure of his lips clamping around a spot right above your bra.
God.
The ecstasy that it sent through you—how had you never done this before?
"There you go, darling," he chuckled as he pulled apart from you. "Now, how does that treat you?"
It treated you goddamn excellent, alright.
To see the change in skin color where his lips had closed around your breast was enough to cloud your thoughts and make your arousal pool between your legs.
For where this wasn't nowhere near the first time the two of you had stumbled to one another, never had there been physical signs of your encounter afterwards.
It almost felt like a dream always: the memories so sweet, all while so fleeting.
"I love it, Professor," you breathed out.
This time, when you would take a look at yourself in the mirror, you would be able to see it. The reminder of it being real.
Of you being his.
"Of course you do," he chuckled as he kneeled on the wooden floor before you. "My sweetheart's so desperate to be owned, isn't she?"
"Only by you," a moan replaced your words as his fingers gathered your skirt up, his mouth finding its way to your lower belly. This time there were no gentle kisses at first. This time his lips sucked without hesitation, marking you in a way that left behind no doubt.
First your belly, then your ass cheeks.
Now, your thighs.
"Professor Creel—," your breaths were desperate as his lips closed around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh for the third time, his mouth sucking and licking on the skin.
You were dripping. The evidence of how wet you had gotten from his lips marking you was visible in the drenched material of your panties, now laying forgotten on the floor.
It was undeniable as his hand on your thigh guided you to rest it over his shoulder. You knew he could see it, then: the glistening of your folds.
"Good god, sweetheart," he breathed out against your inner thigh. "If I had known—" His finger dipped to run along your slit, from your opening to your clit and back to your opening. "I'd have marked you each time I had you."
Your pussy clenched around nothing from his words, but not for long: his finger, so long, dipped in.
"There you go. That's better, isn't it, darling?"
"Yes, Professor—"
Maybe it was mercy, the way that you seemed to forget just how meant to be his touches on you—in you—felt. If you'd remember, how could you ever focus on anything else but him?
His finger slid in and out of you, slow, as if he was merely examining you. Seeing how well you were opening up for him: seeing how ready you were for more.
And yet, it was from the desperate note of your words that he got his answer. "Professor, please—"
With a chuckle, he slid his finger out and brought it to his lips, his blue eyes locked on you as his mouth closed around the digit.
The groan that passed him sent the deepest of shivers down your spine, and with that, his mouth had found its way on you.
Sucking and licking, kissing and lapping, he devoured you, your hips bucking against his caresses as your fingers tangled around the blond waves of his hair.
It was carnal, the need that burned between the two of you.
With your head leaning against the door of the lecture hall and your eyes fluttering shut, you submitted to his touches: to the pleasure already coiling up at the pit of your tummy as two of his fingers slid into you.
"God, darling, you're squeezing around me so tight," he chuckled against your inner thigh. "So perfect for me."
"Yours" was the only answer you could think of, your words soft like a prayer as they passed your lips.
"Yes, you are. Good girl," he murmured. "Considering how good you've been today, I'll let you decide. Does my sweetheart want to cum around my fingers—"
"Your cock," you moaned out as his fingers brushed against your cervix.
"No hesitation?"
"No, Professor."
You were past the point of feeling shy. Past the point of hesitant words and careful laughters.
You needed him.
All of him, and that's exactly what he gave you. Spinning you around, he guided you to lean your forehead against the wooden door.
"God, I can't wait to be in you."
Hearing him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants sent you begging, and as he aligned his cock—so long—with your entrance, it took everything in you to not wiggle your hips in impatience.
"Deep breath for me, sweetheart." And with that, he eased in. The burn of your walls opening up around him, combined with the pleasure it brought you, was enough to coax the deepest of moans from your lips.
And you were not the only one: with deep curses he breathed out your name like a confession, his body so warm as it locked you between him and the door.
"You're heaven around me—"
"Professor, please—"
"Use your words, darling," he chuckled, his nose brushing against the side of your neck. "What do you need?"
"Need you to fuck me."
"Fuck you, huh?" His laughter was a warm sound. "And here I was, thinking of taking it sweet and gentle on my sweetheart."
"No," you managed out a whine. "Need to remember—"
"Remember what, baby?"
"That I'm yours."
"Good girl."
His cock slid out of you, only to slide back in, this time each inch of him filling you to the brim. You were so full of him: so drunk off him, that as he picked up his pace and began to rail you against the door, it was the deepest of moans and whimpers that slipped past your parted lips.
The most desperate sounds, so pretty, so beautiful, that as his hand clamped over your mouth, it would've been a pity had it not been such a turnon.
"As much as I love hearing you, sweetheart, we can't get caught."
You nodded your head with knitted brows: relishing the way his cock brushed against your cervix with each snap of his lips.
The sounds taking over the lecture hall were obscene: wet squelches, muffled moans and skin slapping against skin, and you could already feel the pleasure beginning to gather at the pit of your tummy.
"Professor," your moans were resembling sobs now, your desperation for your orgasm only growing as his movements in you slowed down ever so slightly.
He, too, was chasing his orgasm.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured against the back of your neck. "Remind me who it is that owns this body. Remind me who owns all of you—"
"You do," you cried out.
"So, show me."
God.
"Prove to me that you're mine, and mine alone. Cum for me. Cum for me right now, baby."
The pleasure reached its peak and pushed you over the edge, sending you sobbing his name as you came undone around him.
Your pleasure rippled through you in waves that sent your walls clenching around him again and again, and you knew that from the feeling of you milking his cock he had no choice but to follow you.
"Jesus fuck, darling—" His groans were deep as he came, his cock burying itself into you so deep it bordered painful as he painted your walls with his cum. "There you go, sweetheart. Take every drop—"
You did, moaning out his name as he fucked into you slowly once more, before easing out.
"God, you were so good for me," he chuckled against the back of your neck, his voice slightly breathless. "But I'm not done with you yet."
"Henry—"
"See, as much as I love the idea of sending you on your way with my cum dripping down these pretty thighs—," he chuckled. "We can't risk that, now can we, darling?"
"No," you breathed out.
"No, we can't. So be good, and open your legs for me."
He kneeled down behind you, his thumbs coaxing a gasp from your lips as they brushed over the hickeys he had left on your cheeks.
And with that, his mouth had found its way to your opening.
His tongue dipped in you, and his mouth worked on collecting every drop of his cum and your arousal, the dirtiness of it sending your mouth watering and your head spinning.
Good god.
Yet he was not done.
After what had felt like a minute of him eating you out and cleaning you up, he stood up from the floor and spun you around.
His mouth finding yours.
To taste his cum and your arousal on his tongue, sliding against yours, felt like the most obscene thing you had ever done, all while it did nothing but turn you on anew.
"Good girl," he stretched o's, his hands on your cheeks so soft and gentle as he gazed into your eyes: the blue of his taken over by nothing but adoration.
Obsession only becomes monstrous when it’s acknowledged.
The words echoed in your mind as you smoothed over your skirt, taking in the sight of the hickeys on your skin.
If this was obsession, you would gladly welcome it. If it was monstrosity that waited you, you had already surrendered to it.
₊˚୧ PAIRING: Henry 'Mr Whatsit' Creel x f!reader || Stranger Things
₊˚୧ CATEGORIES: smut | reader 18+
₊˚୧ WARNING: Henry sneaks up on you. mindless smut ngl. [maybe inspired by The Trials: Winter Solstice, ep. 1, if you know you know.]
₊˚୧ WORD COUNT: 1.5k
"Don't be frightened, sweetheart. It's just me. I won't hurt you."
Henry's hand came up to your hip in a tender gesture, fingers grazing over the curve, up your side as his head nestled against your shoulder. His lips found your shoulder, and he kissed above the fabric, unhurriedly working his way across the skin, until he reached the base of your neck. Just then did he stop, exhaling softly and pulling you back against him with his hand on your abdomen, fingers splayed over your body. Henry's head moved, from your right shoulder where it had been resting, to your left, repeating the motion tenderly as you closed your eyes and relaxed back into him.
"You're back early, Henry."
"You don't sound quite so surprised, sweetheart. Were you expecting me?"
"I was. I heard you."
A soft sound of surprise left Henry's lips as he let his forehead drop against your shoulder. His hand remained on your abdomen, whilst the other slid to the windowsill, palm planted against it, trapping your body between his chest and the window.
"That's unfortunate, darling. I thought my stealth skills were exceptional, but nothing escapes you, hm?" asked Henry in a soft tone, his forehead still resting against your shoulder; however, his chest pressed forward, closing in the space you had to move, leaving you less room to escape had you wanted to. "Perhaps that's good, you will be ready to flee if the monsters reach us. But they shouldn't, no. Not when I am here with you."
"I learnt to recognise your steps."
Henry smiled.
Of course, you did; he allowed it to happen. He could so easily hide away; you wouldn't have a clue if he really wanted to surprise you. But he preferred this. Henry enjoyed being reminded that, despite you hearing him, you never tried to flee. You always allowed him to do as he pleased, like an obedient little plaything.
"That's remarkable, sweetheart. Every day you impress me more and more."
"Stop joking around, Henry," you retorted with a giggle.
He raised a brow, but you couldn't see the growing smirk on his lips. Only sense it, maybe, due to the slight shift in energy. You could guess it from the less and less room you had to wiggle, from Henry's hot breath against your neck, and his lips pressed to the skin, searing it with kisses. The urgency of his chest as it pressed up against your back.
"Give me your hand, sweetheart."
Henry whispered, already moving his hand to wrap around your wrist, guiding your palm to rest against the clear glass of the window. His lips continued to pepper your neck with searing kisses, while his palm pressed against yours, keeping your hand against the window, facing out at the woods.
"You see that, darling? The woods?" Henry asked, his voice low, promiscuous.
"I do."
"That's where the monsters live."
"Something lives in those woods?"
"Yes… Terrifying things can be found there, such as vile creatures, which only I can keep you safe from. I can assure you that you will never face anything but the most pleasurable life as long as you stay with me."
Henry's hand, which had been resting on the windowsill, moved. It wasn't as gentle and calculated as the other had been; in fact, it moved sharply to the back of your neck, gripping it firmly. The man smirked, head tilting proudly as he watched how your body reacted, hearing the soft moan as he held you by the back of the neck.
How weak you were, how obedient to him.
"But I know staying here can be difficult because there are certain things you think I cannot provide." Henry muttered in your ear, lips grazing across the shell, "Things you left behind when you came to live with me."
Henry spun you around deftly, his hand remaining on the back of your neck, but releasing your palm from the window. His knee forced its way between your legs, and his free hand yanked your thigh up, having it rest against his hip. His body shoved yours back against the window.
"But you are wrong to think I can't give those to you, sweetheart. I have a hunch that this is what you were missing most."
Henry removed his hand from your thigh once he was sure your leg would remain hooked around his hip; after all, he needed his hand for something else. With your crotch against his knee, he began to move it against you, intentionally putting enough pressure to make you crave more, but not enough to satisfy you. He was getting off watching you try to arch your hips up into him, to seek more of what only he could provide.
"Don't rush me, sweetheart. I know what girls like you need to feel good, but you have to trust me, can you do that for me?" Henry's soft tone was half mocking, half soothing, his hand coming down between your legs, middle finger grazing over the mound, where his knee could not reach. "Give yourself entirely to me, and I will make sure you will never want to leave me."
His fingers put a bit of pressure against your sensitive spot, through the fabric still, but as he heard soft mewls from your lips, he gave in and licked his lips. His shoulder inched forward, his hand sliding inside your trousers, finding your knickers and pushing them aside gracefully. His long, agile fingers kept your knickers to the side with his pinky, whilst his ring and middle fingers glided against your slit, feeling how soaked you were. He gathered your slick against them and used it to lube his way as he stroked you.
Henry's knee pushed up slightly as he grunted, forcing his hand to press into your cunt, his fingers prodding but not penetrating you fully yet.
You squealed and arched against him, squirming your hips against his hand, asking for it.
"Sweetheart, patience is a virtue you lack," Henry scolded lovingly.
His fingers prodded for a little longer, migrating from your cunt to your clit, back and forth, not giving you the time to adjust to any. Only teasing you until your squirming became so persistent that it made Henry stop entirely.
The hand wrapped around the back of your neck pulled you in closer, thumb pressing up into your pulse point as he tilted his head, towering over you. His gentle, soothing expression changed, something colder and more calculating sparkling in his eyes. There was a need for control and obedience that you had to submit to if you wanted to stay on Henry's good side.
You tried to still yourself, to obey.
"I will make you cum around my fingers, sweetheart."
"But-"
"Don't talk unless asked."
His fingers penetrated you with ease, already lubricated by your own arousal. He worked them inside you, thumb grazing over your clit as he tried to stimulate you from more places at once. Two fingers inside you, one teasing your clit and his knee pushing up and adding pressure as he took care of your desperate cunt.
"I will make you cum, and you have 10 seconds. Your body will do as I say, so empty your mind and allow yourself to feel what I can offer."
You winced, trying to control your breath, but your cunt was already throbbing around his fingers, and his pace, accompanied by the soft grunts, had the wanted effect.
"10, 9, 8…"
Henry threatened you, pausing after each number. His hand tightened around your neck, lips marking your cheeks and jaw with kisses as his fingers thrust inside you with the support of his knee.
"7, 6, 5…"
Henry's grunts became more desperate as he felt the way your cunt welcomed his fingers, how that lewd squealching noise filled the room as he found your sensitive spot, abusing it until you were writhing against his knee, only worsening your condition.
"4, 3, 2…"
The threat of these numbers, the impending last second before your orgasm, made you try to grab onto him for support. Henry praised you, pressing you back further, his fingers quickening their pace. You tried to resist it, but it was inevitable. It was as if Henry took over your body's instincts, setting a timer on your nerves. Your orgasm was inevitable, threatening to crash over you every second. Henry nuzzled your shoulder, his own sounds of arousal as he made you feel good spurring you forth.
"1."
Right on cue, at the very mention of the number, your body released the climax that had built in you, shivering and writhing, arching into him as he continued to use his fingers, gradually slowing down, guiding you down your high until at last your body went completely limp against him. Your head against his chest as you tried to catch your breath.
Henry's hand let go of your neck, gliding up to the back of your hair, stroking your hair tenderly. He took his hand out, licking his fingers clean, then he slid his arm under your thighs, scooping you up in his arms and helping you onto the couch behind yourself.
"Henry…"
"Quiet now, sweetheart. You've done well, but good girls need to rest, too."
summary: You try running away from the house but Henry catches you before you enter the cave. Now he has to punish you.
word count: 3.0k+
pairing: henry creel x fem!reader
notes: i do have to give inspo credit to @wireddless and this drabble she did. because of that drabble i realized i needed more and this happened, lol. hope it's okay!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, slight dub-con, smut, manipulation, guilt tripping, edging, orgasm denial, fingering, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare?
The screen door slapped hard against its frame as Henry’s hand yanked you backwards through it, your heels scraping desperately over the warped floorboards. His grip was absolute—each finger a vice around your wrist, indifferent to your pleas and squirming, nails digging crescent-moons into your skin when you twisted in one last, futile bid to wrench free.
He didn’t look at you. His eyes were set straight ahead, face carved with anger, jaw sharp and silent. You tried to plant your feet—he barely slowed, just lifted you off-balance and hauled you up the staircase, your shoulder slamming the wall as you tried, half-panicked, to find purchase on the banister. The house rang with the noise, an ugly, echoing thud. He still didn’t pause. “Henry—please—” It was a gasp, half-sob, breathless from the run and the terror.
He cut you off with a hard shake. “You almost made it to the cave,” he muttered, voice dark, almost impressed in its coldness. “Almost.” He shouldered open the bedroom door and flung you inside, letting you stumble and sprawl across the thick rug. As you scrambled to your knees, breath rattling in your chest, you didn’t look back at him—you didn’t dare.
The door boomed closed. Henry was on you before you could stand, grabbing your upper arm, forcing you around to face him. You tried to twist away, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. The movement only seemed to amuse him, the corners of his lips curling in something dangerously close to a smirk.
“Fighting me?” he asked, voice soft and curious as if he were observing a wild animal, not a person. His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb digging into your cheek until your eyes watered. “You think that’s going to save you?”
You couldn’t help the shake in your voice. “Let me go. Please, I wasn’t—I was just—”
“Just what?” He pushed you gently backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapsed onto it. His body loomed over you, all broad shoulders and cold, blue eyes. “You weren’t thinking. You don’t think. You react. You run.”
His hands were hot on your skin, one at your throat, not squeezing, just holding you down—reminding you how easy it would be if he decided to. The other traced your hairline, almost tender, fingers grabbing onto the back of your neck. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?” His voice dropped, suddenly rough. “You could have tripped in the dark, broken your neck. Or maybe someone else would have found you—someone who doesn’t care what happens to you at all. Not like I do.”
You closed your eyes, blinking back tears, trying to turn away. He tsked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “No. Look at me. You need to understand this. I am the only reason you’re alive. The only reason you haven’t been hurt. I protect you—every day. And this is how you thank me?”
You squirmed again, pulling at his wrist, but he held you fast, his strength unyielding. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying, but your eyes burned, vision blurring.
He leaned closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm and steady, a sick intimacy in the way he hovered just above your lips. “You’re lucky I found you first,” he murmured, his voice suddenly honey-sweet, full of dangerous, false comfort. “You don’t realize how cruel the world can be. I do. I see what you’re too naïve to understand. You’d be dead without me.”
A tremor shook through you. You hated how your body reacted to his touch—how heat bloomed low in your belly even as your mind screamed to get away. Henry’s hand slid from your chin down to your throat, his thumb stroking over your pulse. “Do you want to be safe?” he whispered, tone coaxing, seductive. “Or do you want to risk everything, again and again, just to spite me?”
“I—I don’t—” Your voice failed you. The humiliation of being caught, the ache of his grip, the fear—it all twisted inside, making you dizzy.
Henry’s expression softened, but it wasn’t kind; it was predatory, almost pleased. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushed his lips against your ear, voice barely more than a breath. “You need me. You don’t even know how much yet.”
Your body shivered beneath him, thighs pressed together, trying to make yourself smaller. He pressed you flat against the bed, his thigh between yours, forcing you open. “You’re so stubborn,” he said, almost fondly. “Always testing me. I have to teach you. Again and again. And you never learn.”
He paused, taking in the tears slipping down your cheeks, the defiance still burning in your gaze. His eyes flashed, something wicked behind the icy calm. “Maybe I haven’t been strict enough,” he murmured, thumb smearing a tear away with agonizing slowness. “Maybe you need to be reminded what happens when you forget who you belong to.”
You shook your head, words caught behind your teeth, but he only laughed, soft and cruel. “You want to run? Go ahead. See how far you get next time. But for now—” He shifted, pinning you harder, his weight a promise. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you properly.”
His voice was low, menacing, yet almost gentle. His grip never loosened, even as you writhed—just enough to show you still had some fire left. You tried to twist out from beneath him, but he used his weight, his presence, to force you down, breath coming fast and shallow against your ear.
He smiled, slow and cold. “Keep fighting, if you want. See how far it gets you. All you do is prove how much you need me.”
The mattress dipped under his knees, the world narrowed to his hands on your body, the sick pulse of arousal and dread mixing in your veins, his breath hot at your jaw, teeth grazing skin, voice a velvet threat:
“Let’s see if you learn this time.”
Henry’s hands moved with an infuriating slowness, heavy palms skating down your trembling body, mapping every inch as if memorizing the contours of your fear and stubbornness. His fingertips hooked under the elastic of your panties, dragging the thin fabric down your thighs. The backs of his knuckles grazed your skin, a touch both deliberate and dismissive—he wasn’t in a hurry, he wanted you to feel how casual this was for him, how completely in control.
The air was thick, hot with anticipation and the humiliation of being laid bare under his gaze. You tried to close your legs, but his knee wedged itself between them, forcing you open, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry, assessing stare. He sat back just enough to admire his handiwork, one hand braced by your hip, the other lazy and taunting, cupping the heat between your legs. He brushed his thumb idly over your clit, featherlight, barely there, making your whole body jerk involuntarily, a choked gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.
“Oh, look at you,” Henry murmured, voice syrupy with condescension. “Always so defiant until I’ve got you like this. You don’t even know what you want, do you?” He circled your clit again, almost a tease, watching the flush creep up your chest, the way your hips tried to arch up for more, desperate for any real friction.
Your hands fisted in the sheets, nails digging in, breath coming in tiny, ragged shivers. “Stop—please, Henry, just—”
He cut you off with a tut, bending over to press his mouth hot and close against your ear. “You want me to stop?” His fingers slid down, parting your folds, slicking themselves with your arousal as if to prove a point. “That’s not what your body says.” He rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit, two fingers dipping down to tease your entrance, pressing in just enough to make your muscles clench around nothing. Every movement was calculated, designed to drive you mad with need while keeping you just out of reach.
He pressed a little harder, making you whimper, your hips rolling in spite of yourself, seeking more, begging for it. He grinned, voice low and pleased. “Look at you. I barely touch you and you’re already soaking. That’s what happens when you disobey—you make a mess and I have to clean it up.”
You tried to turn away, mortified, but he caught your chin, forcing you to face him, eyes sharp and demanding. “You want to come, don’t you?” His fingers stilled, just barely inside you, refusing to move until you answered.
You hesitated, shame warring with need, but your body answered for you—a needy buck of your hips, a strangled whine in your throat. Henry laughed, the sound dark and knowing. “I knew it. But you don’t get to come yet. Not until you mean it. Not until you’re sorry. Not until I believe you.”
He dragged his fingers back up, circling your clit with maddening patience, teasing but never giving enough. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure too much and not enough, a sharp ache building inside you, heat pooling deep and urgent in your belly.
“Say it,” he commanded, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tell me you’re sorry. Like you mean it.”
You shook your head, biting your lip, the words stuck in your throat. He pressed a little harder, the pads of his fingers slipping over your clit in slow, lazy circles that made your thighs tremble. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, breath hot and ragged. “Don’t make me wait all night,” he warned, a mock patience in his voice that sent a cold thrill down your spine.
He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, knuckles deep, stretching you slow and deliberate, curling up to stroke that sensitive spot that made your whole body arch off the bed. Your mouth dropped open, a helpless moan pouring out, raw and desperate, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.
“Say it,” he repeated, thrusting his fingers slowly, almost carelessly, as if he could do this forever, as if your pleasure—or your torment—meant nothing to him except as a lesson. “Or I’ll stop. Right now. I’ll leave you like this, aching, desperate, until you learn to be good for me.”
Your pride fought back, stubborn, tears prickling at your eyes, but the pleasure was overwhelming, impossible to ignore. He shifted, pressing his thumb against your clit while his fingers fucked you slow and deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge but never letting you fall.
“Please,” you gasped, voice breaking, body shaking with the effort to hold back, to not give him the satisfaction.
He tsked, shaking his head. “Not good enough. I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you mean it.”
You broke, the shame and need twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice raw, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Henry, please, I’m sorry—”
He smiled, wicked and triumphant, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “That’s my girl.” His fingers sped up, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, drawing desperate, needy sounds from your lips. “Now come for me. Show me how sorry you are.”
The orgasm crashed over you, violent and overwhelming, your whole body seizing beneath him, cries echoing in the room, every nerve ending aflame with relief and humiliation. He held you through it, fingers milking every last tremor from your body, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as you fell apart for him.
He didn’t stop until you were boneless and gasping, the lesson burned into your skin. His hand finally left you, sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing away the tears, his voice low and almost gentle.
“Maybe now you’ll think twice before running,” he murmured, a threat and a promise tangled together, as he leaned in to claim your mouth with his.
Henry’s hands slid from your jaw down to your collarbone, rough and unhurried, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin as he pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders. The fabric slipped down your arms, pooling at your waist, exposing trembling skin to the dim light. He caught your gaze, the ice in his blue eyes thawing into something heavier, more wounded than angry.
His palm flattened over your heart, thumb tracing a circle just above your breast. “You really wanted to leave me that badly?” he murmured, voice low, not harsh but laden with an ache that twisted in your gut. “You were going to run from me? After everything I do for you?”
You opened your mouth, but the words tangled with a shaky breath. Henry’s fingers found the clasp of your bra and undid it with a deft flick, letting the final scrap of modesty fall away. He nudged the dress the rest of the way off, his knuckles grazing your thighs, making your breath stutter.
He held you there, stripped bare and shivering, under the weight of his stare. “I’m not angry, darling. Not really.” He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the line of your jaw, warm breath feathering down your neck. “But it hurts. It hurts, knowing you’d rather risk yourself out there than stay with me. Am I really that awful?”
His question crawled beneath your skin. Tears welled up, blurring the world around his face, your throat tight. “No, Henry—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just—” Your voice cracked, and you buried your face in the hard muscle of his shoulder, shame burning your cheeks.
He shushed you softly, hands soothing over your ribs. His body pressed into yours, heat and need and ownership all wrapped up in the way he handled you—unyielding, but never hurried. He sat back just enough to undo his own pants, pushing them down over his hips, cock heavy and flushed, the sight of it making your insides twist with nervous anticipation. He didn’t bother to take his shirt off, just let it hang open as he guided your legs apart, body slotted perfectly between them.
He leaned over you, chest brushing your nipples, the scratch of fabric against your bare skin sending a shiver up your spine. His hands framed your face, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re mine,” he said, soft and final, a statement of fact that demanded no answer. “Say it.”
You swallowed hard, tears spilling over, voice small and raw. “I’m yours, Henry. I’m sorry. I’m yours.”
He kissed you, slow and punishing, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hips pressed forward. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, slick and aching, your body already yielding from the rough tease he’d given you before. He slid into you in one long, deliberate thrust, filling you completely, stretching you open until your mouth dropped open on a shuddering gasp.
Henry’s breath was hot against your ear as he bottomed out, holding himself deep inside. “You feel that?” he whispered, moving his hips just enough to make you clench helplessly around him. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart. You’re mine, and you’ll never run from me again.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, shame and relief warring inside you, body clinging to him as he started to move—slow, possessive thrusts, each one claiming you again and again. His hands roamed everywhere: cupping your breasts, gripping your waist, pinning your wrists above your head only to let go and cradle your face while he fucked you.
He kissed along your jaw, and you pressed your lips to his skin in a desperate apology, peppering kisses along his neck, across his throat, up to his cheek, whispering broken pleas between every gasp. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t let me go, please—” Your words were muffled against his throat, voice shaking with every thrust, every wet, needy moan.
He grunted softly, thrusts deepening, fucking you harder but never rough—just insistent, relentless, coaxing you toward the edge again. “That’s it,” he murmured, letting you sob into his neck, “say it again.”
Your lips brushed his jaw, his mouth, salty with your tears. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m yours, I promise, I’m yours—” The words spilled out between kisses, each one more desperate as your body tightened around him, every muscle trembling, the pressure building again, impossibly sharp.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes searching your face, needing to see every quiver, every tear. “Come for me. Show me you mean it.”
You shattered for him, your whole body arching up, walls clenching tight around him as you cried out his name, sobbing into his mouth, legs trembling as the orgasm tore through you. Henry groaned, hips snapping forward, thrusts growing frantic as he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you couldn’t have run even if you wanted to.
He stayed like that, locked together, letting your bodies ride out every aftershock, his lips gentle on your damp cheeks. His hands softened, stroking your sides and kissing away the tears.
Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you and gathered you up, pulling you onto his lap, your face pressed into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you secure and safe, rocking you gently while your breathing evened out. He pressed soft kisses onto your temple, voice a low rumble against your skin.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, thumb wiping the last tears from your cheeks. “I forgive you. You’re safe with me, always. I’m not letting you go. Never again.” He held you close, bodies tangled, the sharp edge of the lesson fading into a quiet, possessive warmth, his forgiveness settling over you as heavy and inescapable as his love.
extra notes: i am going to be making an actual fic with henry - technically i'm gonna make it a two parter, the first one being henry x reader and the second being a steve x reader. if you're interested/want to be tagged, let me know!
giving jonathan byers the silent treatment until his last resort is to go down on you.
you’re lying in bed reading a magazine, still furious with jonathan, when you feel kisses down your stomach and his rough hands moving between your hips and panties. you feel him looking up at you, waiting for you to stop him. you don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
he lowers his body down and starts licking over the thin fabric of your underwear, enough of a sensation you feel yourself getting wetter, but not enough for anything else. he then bites the hem of your panties and drags them off with his teeth. without a moment he licks his tongue over your clit, he sucks hard, his frustration of being ignored building up. he brings up one hand and slides it under your shirt, grazing his fingers over your soft abdomen.
he uses his other hand to insert two fingers inside of you. curling them so deep it takes everything in you not to react.
he continues moving his mouth, increasing his speed almost desperately, when you feel him judder and moan into your sensitive vulva. he pauses momentarily before continuing at a rapid pace. you can’t hold it in anymore, you throw your magazine off the side of the bed before orgasming, your walls tightening around his fingers, you toes curling.
he licks over your clit one last time, making your legs tremble, then he stands up, and there, you see a wet patch over his crotch from where he just came, completely untouched.
jonathan trying so hard to be a strict, commanding daddy, but he can't help but soften and give in to your requests when you pout and start to tear up :( he loves his baby so much
he scolds you for being bad and immediately feels awful when you eyes start going glassy, and he swoops you up in his arms, cradling you. "dada's sorry, baby.. he didn't mean it."
jonathan rubbing ur clit while u show him all ur lockets and trinkets!!
"go 'head, n' tell me about those critter thingies yeah?" jonathan says, from an outside perspective its a seemingly innocent conversation. it would be, if you weren't perched on his lap, with his fingers coaxing your clit open.
"uhm- this is the baby fairy ones, they ohhh they go with the fairy castle." you stutter out, shaky hands, pointing to the castle on the dresser.
"mmm, y'gotta be quieter baby, wouldn't want your parents to hear you getting spread open by your boyfriend. hm?" you shake your head and whimper. "yeah.. bet your parents dont know how dirty their little girl is. keep going f'me sweetheart"
"and this is- jonathan!" you whimper as he abruptly sinks a finger into you. this felt like pure torture. "you can take it, s'only a finger baby." he teases.
"this is uhm- this is my lockets! the ones you get me for every occasion each year, and this is- uhnnnn" you moan and groan through your sentences.
your eyebrows knit together as you practically gush around his fingers. "awww, y'gonna cum 'round my fingers? make me proud go ahead honey." with his permission you release on his fingers, letting out strangled moans and whimpers.
"yeahhhh, jus' let go for me. m' always gonna get you right." he coos, coaxing you through your orgasm. he was right, he always knew how to get to that spongy spot inside you that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.
"see! that wasn't so hard was it." he praises, lightly tapping your clit before shoving your nightgown back down. "go lay on the bed baby, gonna give it you properly now, yeah?"
𓈒ּུ𓂃༷𓂂ּׅ۟🐾 thinking about older2000s!mike && puppy!reader..
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ mike was older now, more mature. he started over in a new town, that's when he saw you. your clumsy nature enticed him, you constantly seemed to need guidance, and mike began to be that person whom you leaned on.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ it wasnt long before mike was your boyfriend. your friends thought it was weird, since he was older. mike was 28 now, a good few years older than you. it was accepted by most people though, considering you were later in your college years.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ mike took care of you better than anyone else ever could. he didnt mind you could be ditzy at times, you were good with acedemics, 'street smarts' as he called it was your problem.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ luckily for you, mike had plenty of deductive reasoning. he always knew what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. maybe thats why you were so enthralled with him, there was something so calculated, yet hot about him.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ mike was rather gross when it came to the bedroom, and you loved it. you were used to guys being super charming when it came to courting you, and dont get me wrong mike was a gentleman, in public.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ he got off on the fact that you were so willing to do anything for him, you let him put a leash on you one time even. at the end of the day you were getting absolutely put through the matress, so who cares?
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ mike had you in a mean mating press, if he pushed your legs any further back you thought you'd knee yourself in the face. "y'wanna do all that unnecessary talking but as soon as i get that dick in your guts y'know how to shutup." he grunted as he pounded you.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ "c-cant! s'too much!" you whined as you tried to push him away. when you got like this he knew you just needed to turn your brain off and succumb to the pleasure, his hand found it's way to your throat adding a bit of pressure, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you dizzy. "t'aww s'too much? you begged for this pup, so shutup n' take it alright?"
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ mike was gross. and so were you, a true match made in heaven. he'd make dirty comments around your friends, muttering things like "quit the attitude or ill have put y'over my knee sweetcheeks. got it?" and "dont tire yourself out too much babydoll, y'still gotta let me in that sweet pussy tonight." to which you'd always repsond: "mikeee!!" all he'd do was kiss you on the top of your head and flash that shit eating grin to your friends.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ over time the sex got better, freakier. you'd started to call mike all kinds of things, more commonly things like, daddy, dad, the works. to others it seemed sick. but it was the nickname that got him the hardest, and also got you the wettest.
༷ ݂۫ ׄ 𐂯 ◝ ꒱ ꒱ you and mike were a match made in heaven ꒰ঌ ໒꒱
writing for mike again!! hope u like it angels!໒ྀི. ݁₊ ⊹ 🗝
thinking about getting all dolled up for loverboy jonathan byers for his first ever valentines with you (´｡•ω•｡`)♡ wearing your best dress for him when he so kindly demands offers to take you out for the evening. it’s endearing to watch him visibly succumb under your gaze throughout the meal and fumble over his words every time you stroke his ankle with your heel under the table. please don’t get him started on the perfume you’re donning, it absolutely is turning his brain into mush. but above all else he’s such a gentleman. buying you the nicest bouquet of your favorite flowers & the prettiest necklace hawkins had to offer in your style of metal :( because he’s the cutest and he takes note of all of these things. and of course you can choose whatever you’d like to eat, he’d let you sell out the entirety of enzo’s menu if you truly wanted.
it’s only fair that you reward him at the end of the night, after-all. he’d never quite understood the appeal of valentine’s day growing up… until he found himself pinned to his bed, a silk red bow tied sweetly around his flushed dick, covered head to toe in your scarlet-colored kiss stains.
Warnings!: masturbation, allusions to sex, reader is kinda sorta perverted but not that much (??)
A/N: new fic format!! I actually really like how this looks🧁
༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶
You were always fascinated by Jonathan Byers.
From the way that his shoulders tensed anytime that someone would mention his absent father, to the way he would catch you staring at him in the halls as you quickly would avert your eyes elsewhere, or the way that he would remember small things you had mentioned from past conversations.
And when he was just a mere classmate who you wrote about in your diary, you had to grasp the small things to survive the ache in your chest and other places for him; writing about how you wanted to make a move on him but you just couldn't, about how every time you two spoke it would send butterflies through your stomach. Or how you thought about his hand grazing yours while passing something to you earlier that day, or a small compliment on your skirt he'd given as your hand snuck under the waistband of that same skirt, fantasizing about how he would look in your bed, how you would be gasping and calling out his name as he praised you on your floral sheets.
And when you finally caught him, finally had him for yourself. It was better than any fantasy you could muster up. One thing that hadn't changed, though, was your fascination.
You still observed and noticed everything, from the way that he would blush when you called him baby, or the way his brows would furrow as you rocked your hips against his, holding back whatever pathetic noise was stuck in his throat. The way that his voice softened with shyness when he first asked to take photos of you while you were under him, mouth slightly agape and eyes teary as he captured the moment when you would whisper his name like a sacred thing, adding another to the collection in the small box in his room under his bed. And it drove you crazy, you craved him when he was away, still wrote about him in your diary like he wasn't your boyfriend, still slipped your hand under your skirt to touch yourself at the thought of him, now the small fantasies you used to use turning into memories from the night prior, the thought of his praising words and his mouth working on you driving you over the edge with a broken moan and your back arching as your fingers rode you through your high.
You were still fascinated by him. Just now, he could finally admit was fascinated by you, too.
jonathan byers who loves to nuzzle his face against your neck just so he can feel the subtle beating of your pulse. he'll press soft kisses to your skin there, letting his lips linger. it only excites him further when he feels your heartbeat speed up along with your breathing.
he loves to rest his head on your chest as he fingers your pussy, listening to the way your heart beats at an increased frequency — all because of his doing. sometimes he'll get so worked up that he can't help but rut against your side as he continues to pleasure you.
while you sleep beside him, he’ll gently rest his head onto your chest. he tries to convince himself it’s for comfort, to help him sleep but deep down he knows that’s not true. his hand will trail down his stomach, coming to slip into his boxers before wrapping around his cock. he strokes himself in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat, making him spill inside of his boxers embarrassingly quickly.
it drives him absolutely insane when he can feel your pussy pulsating around his cock — especially during your orgasm. all he can think about is how your heart is working overtime to supply an increased blood flow to your cunt.
🍓 jonathan will always tie up the laces on your shoes, making sure to double knot them to prevent them from coming undone. he could never risk having you trip over.
🍓 he gets worried whenever you walk places alone so he'll always offer to drive you to and from wherever you need to go. he claims “you can never be too safe in hawkins”.
🍓 some nights, you struggle to sleep so he'll stay up just to play with your hair until your breathing evens out and your eyes flutter closed. he'll tuck you in and press a soft kiss on your cheek before falling asleep himself.
🍓 if he wakes up before you do, you'll be welcomed by a warm mug of coffee on your bedside table and the lingering feeling of a kiss on your temple once you wake.
🍓 offers to take photos of you (with your friends/family) on special occasions, such as your birthday, christmas, halloween, etc. — he knows you love having them to look back on.
🍓 when you've had a long, tiring week, he'll run you a warm, bubble bath. there will be a scented candle lit up and a clean towel ready for when you get out. he'll be knelt down beside the tub the entire time you're in there, letting you rant about how hard of a week you've had.
🍓 after a hectic night of fighting creatures from the upside down, you'd ended up grazing the living hell out of your knee. he held your hand while you sobbed as he thoroughly cleaned and patched up your injury. "you're okay, baby. i got you,"
🍓 on the odd occasion someone talks badly about you when you're not there to defend yourself, jonathan will stand on business. he's not one for confrontation but he'll speak up without a second thought.
jonathan byers who loves to nuzzle his face against your neck just so he can feel the subtle beating of your pulse. he'll press soft kisses to your skin there, letting his lips linger. it only excites him further when he feels your heartbeat speed up along with your breathing.
he loves to rest his head on your chest as he fingers your pussy, listening to the way your heart beats at an increased frequency — all because of his doing. sometimes he'll get so worked up that he can't help but rut against your side as he continues to pleasure you.
while you sleep beside him, he’ll gently rest his head onto your chest. he tries to convince himself it’s for comfort, to help him sleep but deep down he knows that’s not true. his hand will trail down his stomach, coming to slip into his boxers before wrapping around his cock. he strokes himself in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat, making him spill inside of his boxers embarrassingly quickly.
it drives him absolutely insane when he can feel your pussy pulsating around his cock — especially during your orgasm. all he can think about is how your heart is working overtime to supply an increased blood flow to your cunt.
