#st vecna

[karust]

Canon divergence route B: The Heart

[walkwithme-alittlelonger]

and while we're on the topic i really hate how much the female characters in this show were called a bitch. thomas calls 9 year old holly a bitch, henry calls 13 year old tina a bitch, even hopper calls kali a bitch!! the female characters in this are so underdeveloped but they love to throw that word around with so much malice

[classygumi]

VERY MINOR SPOILER FOR ST5 (nothing plot-related)

you were used to running.

running from things that you didn’t understand—emotions you weren’t used to, concepts you couldn’t apply, situations you had no control over—and it worked.

you escaped brenner and his inhumane experiments, you conquered the demogorgons that followed you through thick and thin, you survived the rift that tore hawkins in half.

but running could only get you so far.

heavy pants ripped from your mouth, sweat beading on your brow. twigs and branches snapped beneath your feet, the crunches of leaves behind you eliciting a wave of fear. mud, tar, and blood caked to your clothes, uncomfortably forcing the fabrics to cling to your clammy skin. the black tendrils that seemingly stuck and winded around everything squished and churned, as if alerting him of your location.

you knew he was chasing you, he had been for years.

you were stuck confined to the onyx hellscape, your only comfort the crimson spikes of lightning in the skies. the loud screech of a demogorgon made you freeze, yanking the grapple you’d crafted from scrap metal from your belt and scaling a nearby tree. stopping, when you knew he was so close, was incredibly risky, but you’d prefer to not be tore open by a bloodthirsty demogorgon.

as if he’d ever let them touch you.

you were exhausted, cold, and so hungry. you couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper meal (yes, you could. it was with him, remember?) and you knew it wouldn’t be long before your body collapsed. the soft chitters of the fleshy being neared, and you saw it creeping through the trees. it lifted its petaled face, as if sniffing you out. the demogorgon approached the tree you’d chosen, massive claws digging into the bark.

it snarled, baring its countless rows of teeth dripping with saliva.

it lurched forward, and stopped. you stared, breathing heavy and limbs wracked with static. its inhuman ligaments trembled as it fell to the ground with a thud, and you tilted your head as it stalked away.

“barbaric creatures, yes?”

you flinched, the chill of the upside down seemingly warm compared to the ice flooding your veins. you launched from the tree without a second thought, but it was too late.

henry had you.

you hovered mid-air, that suffocating grip of his powers coating your body. your pack—stuffed with things you’ve made and lived on—was stripped from you and tossed aside. your eyes fell to the ground when his arms circled you. he was warm, his chest pressed against your back.

“you’re freezing, dear. have you been down here all this time?”

you didn’t answer.

your throat closed slowly, and you instantly dug your fingers into his hand. he kept it clasped around your neck, eyes narrowed in displeasure. “answer me.” you nodded as best you could, and he loosened his hold. he hummed, unreadable. henry rested his chin on your shoulder, tracing the imprint of his fingertips left in your skin.

“you were right in front of me for so long,” he whispered, “hiding, waiting—watching.”

he traced a finger down your arm, slipping his hand into yours. the inky abyss surrounding you bled into daylight, and you saw his home before you. it looked flawless, bright, and beautiful. henry gently ushered you forward, guiding you inside. “where…”

“my mind, darling. an oasis for you to rest in.”

tears welled in your eyes as you tried to pull away. he shushed you softly, coaxing you back into his embrace, “it’s alright, you’re safe here. i promise. nobody can reach you but me.”

that made you cry, trying to push him away.

your nose bled, mind straining from the effort of using your powers. “ah, that lovely gift of yours doesn’t work in here, i’m afraid,” he smiled serenely, cradling your face in one hand, “there’s no reason for you to need it.”

you’d realize that eventually, he thought. right now, you’re vulnerable. tired from years of surviving in a wasteland of sludge and bloodthirsty creatures, mind worn from escape plans and nightmares.

he had you right where he wanted you.

“let’s get you inside and warmed up, hm?”

you nodded, accepting defeat.

henry was possessive, obsessive of you in all the wrong ways—but he took care of you. he stalked you when you snuck out, unleashed demogorgons to scare you back into his arms, but then he’d prepare you a five star meal. he would get angry when you ignored his voice in your head, refusing to join him in the mindscape for those precious moments he wanted so badly.

you held his hand as he walked you inside, him smiling at your poorly-disguised relief of a warm home.

he already felt much better. you were where you belonged:

with him, in a sanctuary he controlled.

“i will begin dinner while you get cleaned up,” he muttered, glancing at your filthy clothes, “i’ll make your favorite. how does that sound?”

“sounds nice,” you resigned to your fate, a kind one despite the cruel nature of the world he was creating. henry kissed your temple, moving past you to the kitchen.

after your shower, you quietly went back downstairs. you peeked around the corner, spotting him at the stove. soft hums of your favorite song made a chill run down your spine, and henry simply smiled, “no need to hide, dear. i know you’re there.”

you moved to stand next to him, your senses flooded with aromatics and spices. “i’m glad you’re home,” he laid the wooden spoon to the side, turning to you, “i’ve missed you terribly.”

he held your face in his hands, eyes shifting briefly to your lips. you lifted your hands to rest atop his, and you barely nodded.

why did you ever leave? his voice echoed, this is where you belong.

your mind couldn’t conjure any reasonable explanation, no logical argument even though you’d had several planned points to make. it was like they were vanishing, erased and painted over with the happiest of memories with him.

only me, he thought spitefully, fingertips casting memories of your friends on the surface aside in favor of filling the void with his affections.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured against his lips, voice wavering and pitched with sadness. henry let out a content sigh, as if grateful you’d come to your senses. he was worried he would have to overload your pretty little head, but it didn’t take much for you to relax in his embrace. his eyes sparkled with insanity, love swirling around his pupils.

“i know you are, darling. i forgive you.”

any semblance of logic and denial left in your mind shattered, blurred by the taste of his lips and the warmth of his body.

[nobodys-s0n]

Could you do a Henry creel x Fem reader smut? Basically User is Dr. brenners biological daughter , and also a nurse who works in the lab and Henry and her love to sneak around ?

(Only if you want to you don’t have to of course!)

ENGINE LOGGED: "KEEP LOVE A SECRET!" 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

REGISTERED DRIVER: lab orderly! henry creel!

INSPECTION REPORT: you’re brenner’s daughter and he’s the best orderly in hawkins lab— you weren’t supposed to have fun with him… but how could you resist? especially when he’s the needy one.

ⓘ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 SYSTEM OVERVIEW: 18+ CONTENT, fem! brenner daughter! nurse! reader, lab orderly! henry, handjobs, cum eating, thigh riding, dry humping, boob play, dirty talk, quickie, praise kink, hair pulling, maybe risky sex, soft! henry creel, henry a little bit ooc but it’s literally because he’s in love!

it always felt good to sneak around with him.

it was something risky about it that made your heart flip, it was fun to sneak around the lab with henry when the cameras weren’t beeping your way and have a little fun with him.

you two worked together; henry being an orderly to the the experimented-on kids inside the laboratory while you worked as a nurse in the infirmary and clinical wing, taking care of the kids when they got injured due to the challenges brenner made them participate in or got sick.

there was also the heightened risk to it of the fact that you were brenner’s only biological child, the one he didn’t want to experiment on and the only child he was willing to have.

to this day, you don’t know how it began with henry— with this whole relationship.

but with the space that confined you two, the chemistry between the both of you that neither of you could deny, and the fact that you two were the few employees at the laboratory that met with one another more often, it was eventually going to boil over.

you began sneaking around with him earlier in the year, taking it in closets and blind spots that the cameras couldn’t pick up. sometimes henry dragged you to the boiler room, other times to an empty observation room.

your heart pumped faster (and your pussy got wetter) every single time henry gave you that specific look, the look in the hallway that screamed ‘I need you really really badly!’

henry is always able to come up with a easy excuse to run away for a few minutes, bringing in a new orderly into the rainbow room to sneak off.

he took a few minutes before he excused himself from the rainbow room, swinging open the door and stepping into the corridor, holding his head in faux pain.

one of the other orderlies came up to him, arms behind his back. “you okay, one?” the voice calls out to him as his shoes squeaked against the tile of the corridor.

he turns around, walking backwards slowly as he nods, giving a thumbs up. “all good, just a little headache… going to get it checked out and get some medicine real fast! watch the experiments for me.”

the orderly on the other side of the hall nodded and stepped into the rainbow room, watching as the thirteen experimented-on kids did whatever they did in the room; play with the tools disposed to them, read the books that brenner approved of them to read, and talk amongst themselves. it was a break between the experiments.

henry doesn’t walk too fast— he doesn’t want to look too eager for a man with a “headache”, he doesn’t need anyone suspecting him of anything or to report his whereabouts to brenner and get him caught and punished with an intense round of psychic testing. he moves with that eerie calmness that he had, one hand on his forehead to remain the faux headache appearance and his other hand behind his back, posture straight and his expression blank.

But the moment he reaches the first hallway that the camera in the corner is dragged to the other side, he smirks to himself.

you were busy restocking supplies in their respective cabinets when you hear the infirmary door unlock and swing open, looking over your shoulder and seeing him very gently, and with that sly look on his face, step into the place.

“henry?” you blink, putting the bottles down on the counter. “what are you doing—”

he cuts out off, his voice mundane. “i have a headache.” he announces, a little too flatly even for him.

you stare at him like he’s stupid; he stares at you right back. its silence between the two of you before you raise an eyebrow, putting a hand on your hip. “a headache?” you question him.

he nods. “terrible.” he makes sure to say, emphasizing it dramatically. “it’s absolutely debilitating.”

you press your lips together, trying to fight the smile from appearing on your face, shaking your head. “uh-uh.” you fold your arms on your chest, right under your breasts. “and you need me to examine you?”

he steps closer— close enough to you that your breath catches. “who else would i want?” he asks, his shoes clicking against the tile floor of the infirmary. it was warmer than anywhere else, it was a lot… nicer, if that’s able to paint the picture.

you roll your eyes even if your pulse is jumping. “you are very impossible.” you tell him.

“and you’re stalling.” he murmurs, his eyes so shamelessly looking down at your lips then down at your breasts, mouth watering at the idea of unbuttoning that damn nurses’ shirt and getting a taste of those breasts of yours.

you try, you really try to remain professional with the man as you gesture towards the exam table. “sit down, big boy.” you tell him, being playful with him compared to the other experiments— maybe it’s because he’s the only experiment who’s been sticking his dick in you for the last year and a half.

he does what you tell him, sitting down on the table as you grab a clipboard and steps towards you.

you get a little close to him, near the manspreaded display of his legs as you speak. “so, what are your symptoms, henry?”

“it’s pounding… very persistent… too lingering.” he says, his voice low, looking at you as you don’t even try to write on the clipboard, instead dropping your arm down and the clipboard hitting your hips.

“oh really? where exactly?” you ask him.

he leans forward, taking the clipboard out of your hand and wrapping his fingers around your wrist. before you knew it, your hand was pressing against his crotch in his white jeans, right where you can feel something very prominent, thick and definitely not a headache. right when he places your hand on his bulge, the camera twitches and turns to the other side of the infirmary.

your face heats up, breath hitching at your hand placement. his hand is bigger than yours as you attempt to tug your hand away and he’s able to keep it there. you swallow in a breath albeit the next breath that leaves your mouth is a shaky exhale.

“h-henry…” you mutter, looking up at him with a little glassy look in your eyes as he rubs your hand up and down his crotch.

he tilts his head. “what?” he asks oh so innocently, as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing, making sure the camera locks in the other side. “is this not how you diagnose something?” he asks you.

you groan, bringing your other hand up to his shoulder, letting his hand move your own hand. “someone might… someone might come by and catch you…” you warn him, your mouth slightly agape as you look down at him.

“not if we’re fast.” he tells you, leaning in and pressing a kiss on your jaw. “besides, the camera is on the other way… and i’ll delete the footage when i pass by that room.”

you groan as he kisses down your jawline. you want to keep up the demenor… but you fail to. his kisses just feel too good, quiet moans leaving your mouth as he lets go of his hand, taking upon yourself to begin to quickly undo the zipper, unbuckling his belt as well and grabbing his cock.

wrapping your fingers around his thick cock, you pull it through his white pant’s fly, revealing it to you. right as you do that, henry unbuttons the buttons of your nurse top, pressing chaste kisses down your chest.

he whimpers when your hand squeezes his cock as you get a good grip on him, beginning a slow speed as you drag your hand up and down him. “oh fuck… baby… you feel so good…” he mutters, ripping open your shirt and pulling down your bra.

you gasp softly when his right hand cups your breast, his other hand wraps behind your neck, bringing you down for a sloppy kiss, his tongue pressing against your tongue.

moaning against his lips, you mutter out his name. “henry… fuck..” you warn weakily, fingers shaking around his cock as you try to continue a pace, but god he feels so good.

and he smiles— dark, sweet, possessive, and the slightly brokenness that was always attached to him. “there’s no headache.” he admits softly, as if it was a shocker there was never a headache. “I just wanted to see you… see this pretty body of yours…”

your heart melts and your thighs clench. “well clearly you’re getting that— ahhhh.” you get cut off when his fingers pinch at your nipple, circling your nipple after pinching it.

before you knew it, he bent down, wrapping both arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground. he places you in his lap, backing up on the table to leave both of you more room as your knees dig into the table, straddling him.

“there you go… give me more access to these…” he mutters, rubbing both of your breasts before tilting his head down, kissing the top of your right breast. he holds the boob in his hand as he shifts it upwards, locking his mouth around your nipple as he swirls his tongue.

your left hand remains stroking his cock, your right hand’s fingers move into his blonde strands, tugging at them and forcing his mouth off your boob.

he looks up at you and feels your lips against his, sloppy and passionate, tongue sweeping against his bottom lip as your hips involuntarily rub against his left thigh.

henry groans at feeling you grind against his thigh, nodding as your lips capture his’ again, your fingers messaging the back of his head where his hair covers your hand. “keep doing that, hun.” he murmurs. “ride my thigh— god you’re so pretty for me.”

you follow his orders, kissing him harder as you jerk him faster and faster, hand becoming a little sloppier. your hips brush against his thigh, beginning a consistent speed.

“henry… oh- oh fuck! h-henry… s’so good.” you slur your words, feeling his lips against yours, muffling your sounds.

his right hand squeezes your right breast, his left hand wrapping around your waist and encouraging your hips to continue. he presses a kiss on your chin, his hand on your waist slipping onto your ass.

he can feel his cock twitch closer and closer to his orgasm, his groans vibrating off your skin as the room is filled with the sweat of both of you, the moans leaving your mouth and the groans leaving his.

“henry… henry… henry… oh fucking h-hell.” you moan, grinding harder as you yourself get closer to your orgasm, feeling his hand switch from your right breast to your left, squeezing and pinching at your nipple.

kissing down your neck, he nudged his thigh upwards in a way that made your back arch. “so desperate for my thigh are you? can’t get my dick so you get the second best thing…” he guesses, squeezing your ass cheek again.

“s-shut up.” you shoot back, leaning your head back as both of his hands squeeze different parts of your body. “y-you’re the desperate one…”

“two things can be true at once, darling.” he whispers. “you can be desperate for me and I can be desperate for you… at least the feeling is mutual.”

a blissful sigh escapes his throat as he feels your hand jerk up and down faster and faster, huffs leaving your throat as you bring him close to his orgasm. “c’mon baby.” he encourages, pressing a kiss to the back of your ear as he squeezes both of your breasts. “make me cum… make me cum all over your hand.”

hearing his words and feeling his tongue against your ear, you didn’t stop your hand movements— how could you as you rode his thigh harder as the examination table squeaked under you.

and in perfect unison, as you hit your orgasm against his thigh, he reaches his orgasm in the palm of your hand.

henry rolls his eyes back as well as leaning his head back as ropes and ropes of cum sprawl and shoot out of the tip of his dick, shooting upwards and around in different areas. it lands on your hand, his jeans, your wrist, also landing on the examination table and dripping to the ground as your own cum remains in your panties.

you bit his neck to stop yourself from moaning too loudly, bouncing on his thigh to extend your high, cumming directly in your panties as you feel it become a little stickier. “oh godddd, henry…” you moan against his shoulder, hands shaky and not being able to jerk him off anymore, hand feeling a little sticky from his semen.

henry grins as he watches you overstimulate yourself on his thigh, lifting the hand around his cock and bringing it up to your own mouth. “go on, sweetheart, let me see you lick it… lick my cum off your hand.”

looking down at your hand and looking back at him, you stick out your tongue and press it against your own hand, licking up his cum right off your hand. you swallow his tongue, the salty taste on your tongue and lingering on the back of your throat as you lick your hand clean as henry holds it to you.

he watches you, breathless as his right hand recollects your breasts into your bra, fixing it for you. “have I ever told you that you’re gorgeous?” he asks, leaning down and pressing a kiss down to your forehead.

getting your hand clean even if it’s still a little sticky, you look up at him and begin to fix the buttons on your shirt, watching him fix his pants and fly. “henry… you’ve told me that plenty of times.”

he shrugs, kissing your lips. “well it’s true.” he mutters against your lips. “you’re a very gorgeous girl.”

you roll your eyes and press against your clothing to fix it, to make it look less messy and less… fucked. you fix your hair, patting it down as henry gets off the examination table.

“don’t get so flirty with me, henry.” you tell him, smacking the back of his thigh— you heard him chuckle as he swats your hand away. “now go. don’t get in trouble.”

he nods, looking out the door to make sure no one else is around before he turns around, stepping out. “yes ma’am.” he says before he disappears down the hall.

after he leaves the infirmary, it confirms it to you— yeah. sneaking around with henry, being your fathers back was definitely too much fun to stop.

now how could you sneak him out the labs and into your bed is the better question!

click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, he’s such a red flag but i need him so so badly. he’s the only red flag character in stranger things i actually like. i can’t describe but henry is a hotter red flag than billy (he was never that hot anyway)

thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!

created by... nobodys-s0n! ™

[mr-whatsits-wife]

‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ𓈒 ⋆ ۪ The Rules of His House ‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 𓈒⋆ ۪

🕰️ Pairing: Mr. Whatsit/Henry x Female!Reader

🕰️ Word count: 1.7k

Plot Summary: Three weeks of playing house with the mysterious Mr. Whatsit, and you finally worked up the courage to test his boundaries. Lucky for you, he knows exactly how to handle disobedient spouses.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, fingering, spanking, punishment, pain, pet names, praise, power dynamics, mild humiliation/shame, possessive dominant Henry, aftercare

The parlor smells of bergamot and old wood. You've set the tea service just as he likes it: the porcelain cups arranged precisely, the sugar cubes in their silver bowl, the cream in its matching pitcher. Your dress rustles as you move, layers of taffeta and lace that he selected for you, pale blue like a summer sky. It fits perfectly, as everything he provides does.

You know he'll be home soon. The pocket watch he gave you says four o'clock, and Mr. Whatsit is never late.

But your gaze keeps drifting to the window, to the dark line of trees beyond the manicured lawn. Three weeks you've been here, in this beautiful house at the edge of the woods, playing at being his perfect wife. Three weeks of tea and pleasant conversation, of his hand at the small of your back, of the way he calls you "darling" and looks at you like you're something precious.

Three weeks of wondering what's actually out there.

The woods pull at something in your chest. They always have, even before you came here, before you agreed to this arrangement. Before you understood what it meant to want something you shouldn't have.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity: you're going to look.

Just to the tree line. Just to see.

The grass is cool under your thin slippers as you cross the lawn. Your heart pounds, rabbit quick, and there's heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. You know you shouldn't. He's been so clear about the rules, about the monsters, about keeping you safe.

But your feet carry you forward anyway.

The tree line looms closer. The shadows between the trunks seem to shift and breathe. You're ten feet away, then five, then close enough to touch the rough bark of an oak tree when you hear it.

"My dear."

His voice stops you cold. Not loud, not angry. Just... firm. You turn slowly, and there he is on the porch in his brown suit, his glasses catching the light. The wide brimmed hat casts his face in shadow, but you can feel his gaze nonetheless.

"Come inside, please."

The walk back feels three times as long. Your legs shake with each step, and that heat in your cheeks has spread down your neck, into your chest. Fear and anticipation twist together in your stomach until you can't tell one from the other.

He holds the door open for you, ever the gentleman, and you step into the cool dimness of the entry hall. The door closes with a soft click.

"I'm terribly disappointed," he says quietly, removing his hat and setting it on the hall table. His movements are measured, controlled. "You understand, don't you, that the rules exist for your protection? I've explained this. The woods are not safe. And yet you went to them anyway."

"I'm sorry, I just..." Your voice comes out smaller than you intended.

"Just what, darling?" He steps closer, and you can see his eyes now behind those gold rimmed glasses. Blue and sharp and seeing right through you. "You were curious? You thought you knew better than I did?" He tilts his head slightly. "Or perhaps you wanted this. Needed it, even."

Your breath catches. "I don't..."

"Don't lie to me." His fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You think I don't see you? That I haven't watched the way you look at those trees, day after day? The way your pulse quickens when I remind you of the rules?" His thumb traces your lower lip. "You've been waiting for this. Haven't you?"

The words you've been too afraid to say lodge in your throat, but he sees them anyway. He always does.

"Come with me."

He takes your hand and leads you to the sitting room, to the velvet settee where you've spent so many evenings reading while he worked. But he doesn't sit. He stands there, looking at you with that mixture of disappointment and something else, something darker and more promising.

"You know what happens when rules are broken," he says. It's not a question.

Your mouth is dry. "Yes."

"Then lift your skirts and come here."

The fabric whispers as you gather it in trembling hands, layers and layers until you're holding it all at your waist. The cool air kisses your stockinged legs, the bare skin of your thighs above them. You're aware of every inch of exposure, of how vulnerable you are, of the dampness already gathering between your legs.

He sits and pats his knee. "Over my lap, darling."

You drape yourself across his thighs, your palms flat against the floor for balance, your backside elevated and utterly exposed. The position is mortifying and electrifying in equal measure. You can feel the solid muscle of his legs beneath you, the expensive fabric of his trousers, the heat of his body.

His hand rests on the curve of your bottom, and even through the thin cotton of your drawers, his touch burns.

"How many do you think you deserve?" he asks conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "For putting yourself in danger? For worrying me so?"

"I don't know," you whisper.

"No, you don't." His fingers trace the edge of your drawers, then slowly, deliberately, he draws them down to your knees. The air hits your bare skin and you gasp. "But I do. Twenty, I think. Count them for me."

The first slap lands with shocking force. Pain blooms hot and sharp across your right cheek, and you cry out.

"One," you manage.

"Good girl."

The second follows quickly, on the left this time. Your fingers curl against the floor. "Two."

He establishes a rhythm, alternating sides, each strike precise and measured. By five, your skin is burning. By ten, you're squirming against his lap, and you can feel him hard beneath you, his arousal pressing against your hip. By fifteen, you're sobbing out the numbers, tears streaming down your face, but between your legs you're slick and aching and desperate.

"Sixteen." Your voice breaks.

"You're doing so well, darling," he murmurs, and his other hand comes to rest on your lower back, grounding you. "Just a few more."

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Twenty lands harder than the rest, right where the curve of your bottom meets your thigh, and you let out a broken sound with it, trembling and gasping.

"There we are." His hand smooths over your burning skin, soothing now. "All done. You took that beautifully. So very beautifully."

His fingers trail lower, exploring, and you feel him pause when he discovers how wet you are, how the arousal has been dripping down your thighs.

"Oh, darling," he murmurs, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. "Look at this. Look at what you've been hiding from me." His fingers slide through your slickness, slow and deliberate. "Your body tells me the truth, even when your words don't. You needed this. You've been craving it. Haven't you?"

Still draped over his lap, vulnerable and exposed, you can only whimper as he explores you leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world.

"My sweet, reckless wife," he says softly, and his voice takes on that hypnotic quality, measured and certain. "You think you were seeking freedom out there in those woods. But this is what you were truly seeking. This surrender. This release." His fingers find your entrance and circle it, teasing. "I know what you need. I've always known."

"Please," you breathe. "Please, Henry."

His fingers stroke through your folds, circling but not quite touching where you need him most. "Please what?"

"Please touch me. Please, I've been so good, I've waited so long..."

"You have been good," he agrees, and finally, finally, his fingers find your clit. The sensation makes you jerk in his arms. "Except for today. But we've dealt with that, haven't we?"

He works you with maddening skill, fingers stroking and circling, occasionally dipping inside you just to make you gasp. His other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you pinned in place, completely at his mercy.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you. Let me hear what I do to you."

The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips move against his hand, chasing it, shameless now despite the humiliating position. His fingers press firmly against your clit and everything inside you pulls taut, suspended on the edge.

"Come for me, darling," he says, and you do.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You cry out, your body shaking, your fingers scrabbling against the floor for purchase. He works you through it, gentle and relentless, drawing out every last tremor until you're boneless and gasping, draped across his lap.

When you finally still, he withdraws his hand. You hear the soft sound of him tasting his fingers, and even without seeing it, the knowledge makes something clench deep inside you all over again.

"Beautiful," he says softly. "Absolutely beautiful."

He helps you up then, carefully arranging you to sit sideways in his lap, your head on his shoulder. He produces a handkerchief to dry your tears, his hands gentle now, stroking your hair, your back, soothing away the last of the tension.

"You scared me," he says quietly. "When I saw you at the tree line. The thought of losing you..."

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I won't do it again."

"I know you won't." He tilts your chin up and kisses your forehead. "Because you understand now, don't you? Why the rules exist?"

You nod against his chest. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Maybe the monsters in the woods are real, or maybe the only monster is the man holding you so tenderly, the one who just made you sob and scream and come apart. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"Let's get you upstairs," he says. "A bath, I think, and some salve for your poor bottom. And then dinner, and perhaps we'll read together by the fire."

He carries you up the stairs as if you weigh nothing, and you let yourself be carried. Let yourself be cared for. Let yourself sink into the safety of his arms and the beautiful prison of his Victorian house.

The woods can wait.

They'll always be there, dark and full of promises, whenever you're brave enough to try again.

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[ooblahscooblah]

I don’t know if anyone’s pointed this out yet, but the framing here is so paralleled it feels like it should be intentional.

Look at the square framing at the head of the table! The two lamps! The way the lighting feels strangely artificial when we know this crew can do much more ‘realistic’ visuals (e.g. the van scene).

Even the matching glasses with Ted Wheeler and Henry Creel?? This is crazy to me.

[big-poppa23]

After Class

synapse: one semester, one professor, and a line they keep getting too close to crossing.

pairing: professor!henry creel x female reader

contains: smut—oral (giving/receiving), age gap (he’s 35, she’s 19), slight slow burn

a/n: grammarly gave me issues on this, so sorry if there’s errors or something i missed. this gif of him makes me feral 🫦 if you guys find anymore of him from vol 2, please send or tag me, i need em. this is also my first time writing smut

gif isn’t mine, @endiness made it

PART TWO is here

. . .

He’s the kind of professor who sounds gentle like every sentence is an invitation to think, not a demand to agree. Soft voice, careful phrasing, that faint almost-smile when someone makes a decent point.

Which is exactly why it’s ruining her… Not to mention, he’s physically attractive…

She sits in the second row with her notebook open, pen poised, trying to act like a normal student who came here for the assigned reading not like someone who’s been privately losing her mind since week one.

Professor Creel turns a page in his notes and the movement is so small it shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because his hands are always steady, deliberate. Because his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the line of his forearm when he writes on the board. Because he leans forward when he gets interested, like the room becomes intimate without permission.

“Let’s talk about the narrator,” he says, and his voice is low enough that everyone quiets automatically. Not out of fear, out of habit. Out of wanting to hear him.

Her eyes flick down to his mouth before she can stop herself.

It’s not even a choice at this point. It’s like her attention has a gravitational pull and he’s the center of it.

She forces herself to look at the text. Ink. Words. Meaning. She can do this. She’s literally good at this.

He walks between the desks, slow, unhurried and stops near her.

Not in front of her. Not directly beside her. Just… close enough that she catches the clean, faint scent of soap and paper. Close enough that she can hear the quiet click of his shoes and the soft drag of his breath when he pauses to think.

“Most people,” he says, “assume the narrator is trustworthy because he’s articulate.”

Her pen scratches too hard against the page.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid to be affected by the way he says articulate, like the word has weight. Like he’s tasting it. Like he has no idea what that does to her.

He glances down at her notebook.

She tries not to react. She tries to look normal, composed, academic, except she can feel heat blooming under her skin, like her body wants to betray her in the most humiliating way possible.

Then he says her name.

Not sharply. Not like she’s in trouble. Like he’s curious.

“Y/N.”

Her stomach drops with a sick, lovely thud.

“Yes?” she manages, and she hates that it comes out slightly breathless.

His gaze stays on her just long enough to make her aware of her own mouth, her own hands, her own pulse. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t leer. That’s the worst part: it’s all restraint. All control. All professional.

“Do you agree?” he asks, mild and polite, like he isn’t standing close enough to make her feel like she’s being singled out for something she didn’t consent to.

Her brain tries to reboot.

She drags her focus back to the page, to the lecture, to the safety of analysis, except she can still feel him there, the quiet presence, the attention. Like he’s waiting for her to meet him on his level.

“I don’t,” she says, finally, her voice steadier now, because this part she can do.

His eyebrows lift. Interested.

And she loves that look on him. She shouldn’t. But she does.

“I think we mistake articulation for honesty,” she continues. “Someone can sound convincing and still be—selective.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A recognition.

“Selective,” he repeats, and something about hearing her word in his voice makes her spine go tight.

He leans slightly closer, not much, barely anything, just enough that his shadow edges into her space, and she suddenly becomes intensely aware of how she’s sitting. How her knee is angled. How her fingers grip her pen. How she’s breathing.

“Explain,” he says softly.

She swallows.

This isn’t flirting. It’s academic. It’s normal. It’s what she came for.

So why does it feel like he just asked her to confess something?

She keeps her eyes on the book because if she looks at him she’ll get reckless.

“Because omission is a choice,” she says. “And he omits too neatly.”

Silence settles, classroom silence, the kind that means people are listening.

Professor Creel’s gaze doesn’t leave her.

And she can feel it like a touch that isn’t happening.

“Good,” he says, very quietly, and the word hits her in the chest like she’s been rewarded.

He straightens, steps away with that maddening calm of his, and continues as if he didn’t just make her entire nervous system light up.

Her pen hovers above the page.

She tries to write down the next point. She really does.

But all she can think about is the way he said her name. The way he leaned in. The way he looked at her like her mind was something worth examining up close.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even know she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.

. . .

A few days later, the numbers start to betray her.

Not in lecture, never in lecture. In lecture she’s sharp, attentive, answering when he asks questions like she was made for this room. She takes notes. She underlines. She argues the right points with the right citations. She looks like she belongs here.

It’s the tests that ruin her.

The moment the paper lands in front of her, her brain does that awful thing where it wanders. Not to the book, not to the themes, but to him. To his voice reading a line aloud. To the way he watches the class when he thinks no one notices. To the quiet approval in his eyes when she challenges him and he can’t help it, can’t help her.

She sits there staring at a question she absolutely knows, and still her mind turns traitor.

By the time he hands back the second exam, the grade at the top is lower than the first.

She can feel it before she even looks. Like her body knows she’s about to be embarrassed.

He places the stack on the front desk and dismisses the class with a gentle, “That’s all for today.” Chairs scrape, backpacks zip. People file out, talking, laughing, free.

She starts to stand with them, desperate to disappear into the current.

“Y/N.”

Her name is calm. Not loud. Not angry.

It still stops her cold.

Everyone else keeps moving. The door swings. Air from the hallway washes in. A few students glance back with mild curiosity, then leave.

She remains half-standing, half-frozen, her fingers still hooked around her bag strap.

“Yes?” she manages, trying for casual and landing somewhere too tight.

Professor Creel waits until the room is mostly empty. He doesn’t watch the last student go. His attention is already on her, steady as a hand at the small of her back.

When the door clicks shut, the classroom shifts. It’s the same space, but without an audience it feels smaller. Closer. Like she’s been pulled from daylight into something private.

“Stay a moment,” he says.

Not a question. Not unkind. Just certain.

She swallows and steps back down into her chair, like her legs decide for her.

He doesn’t come around her desk. He doesn’t crowd her. He sets the graded papers on the edge of his podium, then takes his glasses off, slow and deliberate, and folds them like he has all the time in the world.

That movement should be meaningless. It isn’t.

He looks at her over the bare bridge of his nose, expression composed. Soft. Professional. The way he always is.

Except his eyes are too focused.

“Your lecture performance hasn’t changed,” he says, voice even. “But your test scores have.”

She forces a small laugh that sounds wrong in the quiet. “I’ve just been… off, I guess.”

“Off,” he repeats, and there’s a faint pause around the word, like he doesn’t accept it on principle.

He lifts her exam, this one, and taps the page once with a finger. Not hard. Not aggressive.

Controlled.

“You know this material,” he says. “These aren’t mistakes from ignorance.”

Heat crawls up her neck. She stares at the wood grain of her desk like it’s fascinating.

“I get nervous during tests.”

“Mm.” A small sound. Thoughtful. Not convinced.

The silence stretches. She can feel him weighing her the way he weighs a text, looking for what’s missing, what’s been omitted too neatly.

She hates that it works. Hates that she wants it to work.

He speaks again, gentler. “What’s going on?”

Her mouth opens.

And she does what she always does when she’s scared of the truth.

She lies.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s just a lot of classes at once. Maybe I overloaded my schedule.”

His gaze doesn’t move. He doesn’t argue. He just watches her the way he does when she tries to make a weak point in class, patient, calm, waiting for her to realize she can’t sell it to him.

“Y/N,” he says softly, and her name in his voice is a problem all by itself.

She grips her pen. “I’m fine.”

He leans back against the desk near the front, still a respectful distance, still proper, and folds his hands. There’s something quietly authoritative about the way he sits in the silence like it belongs to him.

“You’ve missed questions you’ve answered out loud in this room,” he says. “More than once.”

She looks up before she can stop herself.

His eyes meet hers immediately, like he was waiting for exactly that.

“You’re not fine,” he adds, not harshly. Just fact.

Her pulse stutters. She scrambles for an escape that doesn’t sound like an escape.

“If my grade’s going to keep dropping,” she says, voice carefully steady, “it might be better if I transferred to another section. Another professor. That way I can focus.”

The air changes. Not dramatically. Subtly, like the room just inhaled.

Professor Creel doesn’t blink.

For a second she thinks she’s offended him. Then she realizes it’s something worse.

He’s controlled, yes, but there’s a tension under it now. A quiet edge, like she’s pushed on a boundary she didn’t know was there.

He sets her exam down with careful precision.

“That’s what you want?” he asks.

She nods too fast. “It’s practical.”

“Practical,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth. Sharper. Almost amused. Almost displeased.

He stands. Not suddenly, but decisively.

Her stomach flips anyway.

He walks a few steps, still not into her space, but closer than before, stopping beside her desk at an angle. Close enough that she catches the subtle scent of his cologne again, clean and understated. Close enough that his shadow touches the corner of her notebook.

He looks down at her paper. Then at her.

His voice stays low. “You’re doing well in here. You’re engaged. You’re capable.”

She swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter if my tests—”

“It does,” he cuts in, still quiet, but there’s no softness to the interruption. No room to talk over him. It isn’t anger. It’s authority, used with precision.

Her lips part. Her heart thuds like she’s been reprimanded.

Then he softens, just a fraction.

“Don’t run from a course you’re succeeding in because something else is getting in your way.”

Her breath catches. Because he didn’t say what the something is.

Like he already knows.

She forces her shoulders to loosen. “I’m not running.”

He holds her gaze. It’s infuriating how steady he is.

“Then tell me the truth,” he says, and his voice drops a shade lower, like he’s speaking to only her. “What is distracting you?”

Her face burns. Every answer she could give feels dangerous.

“I told you,” she says, too quickly. “I’m overloaded.”

He watches her for a long moment.

Then, calmly and firmly, he says, “No.”

The word lands like a hand closing around the back of her neck, not to hurt, but to stop her from moving.

She goes still.

He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.

“I’m not going to sign off on you blaming your intelligence for something that isn’t intelligence,” he continues. “And I’m not going to encourage you to abandon the one environment where you consistently excel.”

She blinks, stunned. “You can’t—”

“I can’t stop you from transferring,” he says, and she hears the clipped honesty in it. “The department handles that. If you want to change sections, you can. You don’t need my permission.”

The relief flickers, brief and fast.

Then he adds, voice even, “But if you’re asking me to validate it as the solution, I won’t.”

Her fingers tighten around her pen. “Why?”

His gaze holds hers. Steady. Intent.

“Because it’s avoidance,” he says simply.

Her pulse spikes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replies, and there’s something in the calm certainty that makes her stomach turn over. “I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize when a student is trying to outrun a problem by changing scenery.”

She swallows hard. “So what, what do you want me to do?”

He exhales, slow. Like he’s choosing each word carefully.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t know what’s happening,” he says.

She stares at him, panicked, embarrassed, electric with it.

Professor Creel’s expression stays composed, but his eyes flick briefly to her mouth, then back up, like a mistake he corrects immediately.

It’s so quick she could pretend she imagined it.

She doesn’t.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, as if he hates that his attention strays at all.

Then he speaks again, voice controlled. “We can address your performance without you sabotaging yourself. You’ll come to office hours this week. We’ll review how you’re approaching exams. We’ll fix the pattern.”

The phrasing, you’ll come, should feel too bold.

Instead it makes something in her go hot and weak and furious all at once.

She lifts her chin. “And if I don’t?”

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly.

But there’s something dangerously close to satisfaction in the quiet, unwavering way he looks at her, as if he likes that she’s defiant.

“Then you’ll keep slipping,” he says. “And you’ll hate yourself for it.”

His voice softens just enough to sound like concern again. Like he’s the same gentle professor the class knows.

But the control doesn’t leave.

“And I don’t believe,” he adds, watching her closely, “that you’re the kind of person who enjoys losing.”

Her throat tightens. She looks down at her exam because if she keeps looking at him, she’ll say something reckless.

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“Good.” That single word again. Quiet. Heavy.

He steps back, giving her space, returning the air to her lungs, like he’s proving he’s in control of that, too.

“Office hours,” he repeats, calmly inevitable. “Thursday.”

She nods because her voice is unreliable.

He picks up his glasses and puts them on, the final click of the frames settling him back into professionalism. The moment is sealed, filed away, made presentable.

But his eyes still hold hers.

And when he says, “You can go,” it sounds less like dismissal and more like permission.

She stands on legs that feel unreal, gathering her things too slowly. She moves toward the door, heart pounding, brain screaming at her to breathe.

Behind her, his voice, soft, mild, and absolutely not mild at all, adds:

“And Y/N?”

She pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Yes?”

A beat.

“Don’t lie to me again.”

Not a threat.

A boundary.

A line drawn with velvet and steel.

She leaves the room and the hallway feels too bright, too loud, too normal.

And she realizes, with a sick twist of excitement, that he didn’t let her escape.

He didn’t push her away.

He made her stay.

. . .

Office hours are quieter than class. No audience. No chatter. Just the soft hum of the lights and the occasional scratch of his pen.

Her exam lies open between them like a confession.

Professor Creel sits across the desk, sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose as he points to the question she missed, calm, patient, infuriatingly composed.

“This one,” he says. “You identified the theme correctly in lecture. Why didn’t you use it here?”

She stares at the page. She knows the answer.

She also knows she’s not looking at the page because she can feel him, his voice, his hands, the steady focus of him, as if attention is a physical thing in the room.

“I… I don’t know,” she lies.

His gaze lifts.

It lands on her the way a hand would, slow and deliberate, and she immediately regrets being human.

“Try again,” he says softly.

Her throat tightens. Heat creeps up her neck. She glances away, pretending to reread the paragraph, but her eyes keep flicking back to him like her body refuses to cooperate.

He watches her for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he leans forward, closer, not enough to be improper, just enough to shift the air. Just enough that she can’t pretend he doesn’t affect her.

“Y/N,” he says, quieter now. “I’m speaking to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re looking at me,” he corrects, still gentle, still controlled, but there’s a darker weight to it, an edge that makes her pulse stutter. “And you’ve been doing it all semester.”

Her stomach drops.

She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “That’s not—”

His hand lifts, not to touch her, not to stop her physically, just a small, precise motion that ends the sentence anyway.

She goes silent. Her breath goes shallow.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“Your lecture performance is strong,” he says, eyes steady on hers. “Your exams are declining. And when I ask you what’s wrong, you lie.”

“I’m not lying—”

Her mind raced, thoughts of him flooding her—the way his voice commanded the lecture hall, the subtle flex of his muscles when he gestured, the heat that pooled low in her belly whenever their eyes met. But she couldn't admit that, not to him, not to anyone. It was hard enough, admitting it to herself.

His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Just final.

“You are,” he says. “And you’re not as good at it as you think.”

The heat in her face is instant and humiliating. She pushes her chair back like distance will save her, snatching her notebook, her bag, anything to give her hands a task.

“I should go,” she manages.

She stands.

He stands too, smoothly, controlled, moving around the desk with quiet purpose.

“Thank you, Professor but I should—“

Her sentence cuts off halfway.

One second she’s talking, hands moving, breath steady, then his fingers snap around her throat like a trap, thumb digging under her jaw, the rest of his grip hard enough to steal the sound right out of her mouth. Shock flashes across her face as her words collapse into a strangled, useless inhale.

The pressure of his fingers against her skin was electric, a shock of dominance that made her gasp, her pulse throbbing wildly under his touch.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing quiet about the way he moves her.

He doesn’t drag her so much as guide her with pressure—an ugly, controlled shove that turns her steps backward. Her palms fly up to his wrist on instinct but he keeps her upright, keeps her moving.

Her back hits the door with a blunt thud that knocks the air loose from her lungs, pinning her there with his body mere inches away. The frame rattles.

His breath was warm on her face, carrying a faint hint of coffee and something undeniably masculine, as his eyes bored into hers, dark and unyielding. "Don't lie to me again, Y/N," he growled, his voice laced with a seductive authority that made her knees weaken. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—sandalwood and leather—invading her senses, making her head spin. Her hands instinctively rose to his wrist, not to push him away but to steady herself, her fingers brushing the hairs on his arm. "Tell me the truth. What's really distracting you?"

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, a confession born of the raw intensity in his gaze. "It's…you," she admitted softly due to his grip, her voice breaking, a flush spreading down her neck as her body betrayed her with a sudden surge of wetness between her thighs. "I can't stop looking at you, thinking about you. It's wrong…but I want you."

He didn't release her throat, but his grip loosened just enough for her to draw a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her pulse point that sent shivers racing down her spine. 

"Tsk, tsk," he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face and down to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, devouring her with a look that was pure, unfiltered hunger. 

“Naughty girl. Careful for what you wish for…” The way he eyed her made her feel exposed, desired in a way that ignited every nerve ending, her nipples hardening against the lace of her bra as if responding to his gaze alone. 

Without warning, he pushed her harder against the door, his free hand sliding up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt until it rode high on her hips as he spoke, “You finally have my full attention.” 

Then, with a swift, commanding motion, he spun her around and shoved her onto the desk, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic whisper. She landed on her back, the cool wood pressing into her skin through her clothes, her legs dangling over the edge as he wedged himself between them. His hands were everywhere—rough, insistent—hiking her skirt up further to reveal the damp fabric of her panties, the scent of her arousal already filling the air like a forbidden perfume.

He dropped to his knees with a deliberateness that made her breath catch, his eyes locked on hers as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and yanked them down, exposing her fully to the dim light. The cool air kissed her slick folds, making her shudder, and she could see the raw hunger in his expression, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight of her—her pussy glistening, swollen with need.

"You're soaked for me already," he said, his voice a husky whisper that sent a jolt through her core, before he leaned in.

His breath hot against her most intimate flesh. The first touch of his tongue was agonizingly slow, a flat, broad stroke from her entrance to her clit that made her arch off the desk, a low moan escaping her lips. 

He gripped her thighs, holding her open as he delved deeper, his tongue delving into her folds with expert precision, lapping at the wetness that coated her. Every flick, every swirl sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body—the wet, sucking sounds of his mouth on her filling the room, mingling with her ragged gasps. 

She could feel the roughness of his tongue against her sensitive nub, circling it relentlessly, building a tension that coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face.

As he worked her with unyielding focus, his hands roamed upward, one sliding under her blouse to cup her breast, thumbing her hardened nipple through the fabric until she cried out, the dual sensations overwhelming. 

The taste of her seemed to drive him wild; she could hear his breaths growing heavier, feel the occasional brush of his stubble against her inner thighs, adding a delicious friction to the mix. 

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the pleasure mounted, her body trembling on the edge. "Professor, please," she whimpered, her voice thick with desperation, the words barely coherent amid the symphony of her moans. 

He didn't stop, his tongue plunging into her entrance now, fucking her with it in slow, deep thrusts that mimicked what she craved elsewhere, his nose pressing against her clit with each movement. 

The buildup was exquisite torture, every nerve alight with sensation—the slick warmth of his mouth, the firm pressure of his lips, the way her inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more. 

When she finally shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm, her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head as waves of ecstasy pulsed from her core, leaving her breathless and spent, a trail of her essence glistening on his chin.

He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction that made her heart race anew. 

The room felt charged, the air heavy with the mingled scents of their desire—her musky arousal and his own faint, masculine sweat. Before she could catch her breath, his hand shot out again, wrapping around her throat with that same commanding grip, pulling her up to face him, sliding off the desk. "I'm not done with you yet," he whispered, his voice a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver down her spine, his other hand already guiding her to her knees in front of him. 

The wooden floor pressed hard against her kneecaps as he pushed the chair under the door handle, the metallic scrape echoing like a seal on their privacy, leaving her trapped in this intimate world with him, her body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure. 

She looked up at him, her lips parted in anticipation, the bulge in his pants mere inches from her face, and she knew this was only the beginning of the storm they had unleashed.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. 

With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—just on the other side of the chair barricaded door, lectures where she'd sat in the second row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.

She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—lectures where she'd sat in the back row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.

As his pants slid down his thighs, revealing the dark fabric of his underwear straining against his arousal, Her breath caught in her throat. 

She paused for a heartbeat, her eyes widening at the sight of his cock as he freed it with a deft pull, the thick shaft springing forward, already hard and pulsing with need. 

It was larger than she'd imagined in her secret, stolen fantasies, the kind that had crept into her thoughts during his classes, when he'd pace the front of the room, his authoritative presence making her pulse quicken. 

The head was flushed a deep crimson, glistening with a bead of precum that caught the dim light filtering through the blinds, and she couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by its girth, the veins tracing along the sides like rivers on a map she was desperate to explore. A mix of awe and a thrill of apprehension washed over her, her own body still thrumming from the orgasm he'd just given her, as she leaned in closer, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils—a heady blend of soap, sweat, and raw desire that made her mouth water.

His grip in her hair tightened, guiding her forward with a gentle but insistent pressure, and she parted her lips obediently, her tongue darting out to taste him first. 

The initial contact was electric, the saltiness of his skin exploding on her taste buds as she swirled her tongue around the tip, savoring the slick warmth. 

He let out a low groan, his free hand coming to rest on her shoulder, steadying himself as his eyes rolled back while they closed at the feeling.

She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his considerable size. 

"That's it, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine, words laced with praise and possession. "Look at me while you take me in—show me how much you want this, how you've been thinking about it in my class, your mind drifting from sonnets to something far more sinful." 

His words ignited a fire within her, each syllable stoking the embers of her desire, making her core clench with renewed need. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with increasing fervor, the wet sounds of her mouth working him filling the air, a rhythmic counterpoint to her own muffled moans.

He began to guide her movements more assertively, his hand in her hair setting the pace, pulling her back just enough to let her breathe before urging her forward again. 

The friction of his cock sliding against her tongue was intoxicating, the velvety smoothness giving way to the rigid heat beneath, every inch filling her mouth until he hit the back of her throat, making her gag softly—a sound that seemed to spur him on. 

Her hands found his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle for support as she bobbed her head, the taste of him growing stronger, more potent with each stroke. 

"You're doing so well, my eager student," he murmured, his breath coming in ragged bursts, "just like how you should be devouring those texts I assign, but now it's my turn to see that hunger in your eyes." 

The reference to her slipping grades flashed through her mind unbidden, a fleeting memory of earlier that day even, when he'd handed back her latest test, his gaze lingering on her as she stared at the red-inked failure, a wave of embarrassment crashing over her that had only deepened her intrigue. 

It was that same mix of shame and unspoken attraction that fueled her now, pushing her to take him deeper, her tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his shaft, feeling every twitch and pulse as he grew even harder.

As the intensity built, his whispers grew more explicit, each one a caress that amplified the heat pooling in her belly. 

"Swallow me down, Y/N, every last drop, like you're proving your dedication," he rasped, his hips thrusting slightly to meet her mouth, the controlled rhythm turning urgent. 

She could feel him swelling against her palate, the first hints of his release building, and she redoubled her efforts, her lips sealed tightly around him, sucking with a fervor born of desperation and desire. 

The room seemed to spin around her, the scent of their shared arousal thick in the air, mingling with the faint chalk dust from the blackboard behind them, a reminder of the classroom's dual purpose. 

Her own body responded in kind, nipples hardening against the fabric of her blouse, thighs pressing together to quell the ache between them, as she lost herself in the act, the emotional weight of her crush on him, his intellectual dominance, the way he'd singled her out after class, his eyes stripping away her defenses, making every sensation more profound.

When he finally tensed, his grip in her hair turning almost painful, she felt the hot rush of his cum flooding her mouth, the salty bitterness coating her tongue in thick waves. 

She swallowed instinctively, her throat working to take it all as he had commanded, the act intimate and overwhelming, a final surrender to the storm they'd unleashed. He held her there for a moment longer, his cock pulsing with aftershocks, before gently pulling her away, his chest heaving as he looked down at her with a mix of satisfaction and something deeper, perhaps a glimmer of the forbidden connection that bound them. 

As she wiped her lips, still tasting him, her mind drifted back to the lecture earlier that day, how she'd sat there, distracted by thoughts of him, his passionate words on classic literature echoing in her ears even now, intertwining with the raw physicality of what they'd just shared, leaving her breathless and yearning for whatever came next.

His chest still heaved with the aftershocks of his release, Henry finally released her hair, his fingers lingering for a moment in the soft strands as if reluctant to let go. 

With a deep, steadying breath, he tucked himself back into his pants, adjusting the fabric with precise, almost clinical movements that belied the intensity of what they'd just shared, his gaze never leaving her face. 

Her, still kneeling, smoothed her skirt down over her trembling thighs, the damp fabric clinging to her skin and reminding her of the slick mess between her legs, her body buzzing with unquenched desire. 

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence, pulling him from his haze; he glanced at it, his brow furrowing with a mix of urgency and regret. "Get dressed properly," he murmured, his voice low and commanding yet laced with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

“We can't risk being caught. You're dismissed for now, Y/N, but be back here tomorrow after class. I expect you to make up for those failed tests in ways that go far beyond mere words." His eyes darkened with promise, the intellectual spark in them reigniting.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, the taste of him on her tongue fueling her yearning for the forbidden lessons yet to come.

. . .

taglist₊‧.°.⋆˚₊‧⋆.

@sillygoober1111 , @idontknowwhoiamorwhatiamdoing , @edb954 , @henrycreelsbelt (ty for the idea), @ihartsailormoon

[bylerworld]

this was cool as fuck