hiiiiii!!!!! I looooooooooove love love love your writing, I NEED. Like, not kidding, NEEEEEED more shy Jonny
ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ
shy!jonathan x worker reader, p in v, taking his virginity ;3
Jonathan Byers had always been the quiet one. The kid who hid behind a camera instead of talking, the brother who would walk through hell for his family but couldnt order pizza without mumbling his order twice. After the nightmares of 83 and 84 and 86 finally faded into something like normal, he still carried that shyness like a second skin. It clung to him in the way he ducked his head when someone smiled at him too long, in the way his ears went pink at the slightest compliment, in the way his fingers trembled just a little when he loaded film into his Nikon.
You had noticed it the first day you met him.
You had moved to Hawkins in the spring of 87 for the cheap rent and the quiet. Your aunt swore the town was peaceful now. You were twenty-one, fresh out of community college with a sketchbook full of charcoal drawings and a part-time job at the new art supply store on Main Street. Jonathan came in one rainy Thursday looking for a replacement lens cap, hoodie pulled low over his messy brown hair, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the linoleum.
He barely looked up when you asked, "Need help finding anything?" His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the rain drumming on the windows. "Uh... just the, um, 52mm caps? If you have any." You slid one across the counter. Your fingers brushed his. He jerked back like you had shocked him, cheeks flushing that pretty shade of rose you would later learn never really left his face when you were around.
That was the beginning.
He started coming in every week, even when he didnt need anything. You would play The Cure or Joy Division low on the store speakers and catch him lingering by the photography magazines, stealing glances at you between pages. You learned his name from the faded "J. Byers" Sharpied on his camera strap. You learned he lived with his mom and little brother in that little yellow house down the road from the store, that he worked odd jobs developing photos for the Hawkins Post, that his eyes were the color of wet pine needles and they always dropped to the floor when you said his name.
"Jonathan," you would tease, leaning over the counter, "you gonna ask me out or just keep pretending to read about f-stops?"
His Adam's apple bobbed. "I... I wasnt... I mean, I did not think you would..." You waited. He finally met your eyes, shy and determined all at once. "Would you maybe... want to get coffee? Or something? After your shift?"
You said yes before he could take it back.
The first date was awkward in the sweetest way. He showed up at the store in a clean flannel that still smelled like darkroom chemicals, hair damp from a nervous shower. He drove you to the little diner on the edge of town in his mom's old Ford, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. When you slid into the booth across from him, he ordered black coffee and immediately spilled half of it trying to pass you the sugar.
"Shit... sorry," he muttered, grabbing napkins, face burning. You laughed and covered his hand with yours. "Its okay. I like clumsy."
He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his chest cracked open. You could see it in the way his shoulders loosened, just a fraction.
You started seeing each other every weekend after that. Walks in the woods behind the quarry where he would point out the way light hit the leaves and you would sketch it in your notebook. Nights on his porch swing where he would play mixtapes he had made just for you. Slow, dreamy songs that made your pulse thrum. He never pushed. Never tried to kiss you first. Every time your knees brushed or your fingers tangled, he would freeze like he was waiting for permission, cheeks pink, breath shallow.
It was the third week when you finally pulled him into your apartment above the store and kissed him.
The second the door clicked shut, you cupped his face. "Can I?" He nodded so fast it was almost comical. "Yeah. God, yes."
His lips were soft, hesitant. He tasted like the mint gum he had chewed the whole drive over. At first he let you lead. He let you press him back against the wall, let your tongue trace his bottom lip until he whimpered. Then something shifted. His hands found your waist, tentative and trembling, and he kissed you back like he had been starving for it. Shy little sounds escaped him every time you nipped at his jaw: tiny gasps, half-swallowed moans that made heat pool low in your belly.
You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Bedroom?"
He swallowed hard. "I... Ive never..." His voice cracked. "Not really. Not like this."
You brushed your thumb over his burning cheek. "We can stop anytime. I just want you, Jonathan. All of you. Shy and nervous and perfect."
He let you take his hand and lead him down the short hallway.
Your room was dim, only the bedside lamp glowing warm gold. You peeled his flannel off slowly, kissing every inch of skin you uncovered. Collarbone, sternum, the faint scar that ran across his ribs from some Upside Down fight he would never talk about. He shivered under your mouth, fingers twitching at his sides like he didnt know what to do with them.
"You can touch me," you murmured against his stomach, dropping to your knees to unbutton his jeans. His breath hitched. "I... I dont wanna mess it up." "You won't."
When you tugged his jeans and boxers down, his cock sprang free. Already hard, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of pre-cum glistening. He was bigger than you expected, long and thick, curving slightly up. Jonathan made a strangled noise and tried to cover himself with his hands.
"Hey," you said gently, pulling his wrists away. "You're beautiful. Let me see."
You took him into your mouth slow and warm. His knees nearly buckled. "Oh... fuck..." The word sounded shocked coming out of his shy mouth. One hand flew to your hair, not pulling, just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him upright. You hollowed your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head, and his hips jerked forward on instinct before he caught himself.
"S... sorry," he gasped, cheeks scarlet. "I didnt mean..."
You pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him. "Do it again. I like it when you cant control yourself."
He whimpered. Actually whimpered. And let his hips rock shallowly into your mouth while you worked him deeper. His thighs trembled. Little broken praises spilled out: "Feels so good... you're so... ah... perfect... I cant... Im gonna..."
You stopped just before he tipped over the edge, standing to kiss him again. He chased your mouth desperately, tasting himself on your tongue, hands finally brave enough to slide under your shirt. You let him undress you, guiding his shaky fingers over every button, every zipper. When you were bare, he just stared, breathing hard.
"You are... Jesus," he whispered. "I do not deserve this."
You took his hand and placed it between your legs. "Feel how much I want you."
He groaned at how wet you already were. His fingers explored clumsily at first. Shy circles around your clit, one tentative finger sliding inside. Until you moaned his name and his confidence flickered higher. He added a second finger, curling them the way you showed him, eyes fixed on your face like he was memorizing every reaction.
When you were trembling on the edge, you pulled him down onto the bed. "I need you inside me, Jonathan."
He fumbled with the condom you handed him, tearing the wrapper twice before you helped. Once it was on, he hovered over you, elbows braced, cock nudging your entrance. His hair fell into his eyes, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
"Tell me if it hurts," he whispered. "Or if I'm too much. Or..."
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in.
The stretch was perfect. He sank in slow, inch by inch, eyes squeezing shut at the heat of you. A long, shaky moan tore from his throat. "Holy shit... you feel..." He bottomed out and stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. "Im not gonna last. You feel too good."
You kissed him soft and slow. "Move when you're ready, baby. I got you."
He started rocking. Gentle, careful thrusts that still made the bed creak. Every time he bottomed out he let out these quiet, overwhelmed sounds: little "ah-ah-ah"s that drove you crazy. His shyness did not vanish; it just turned softer. He hid his face in your neck when you clenched around him, whispering, "I can feel you squeezing me... fuck, m'so close already."
You rolled your hips up to meet him, nails dragging down his back. "Look at me."
He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, cheeks cherry red. You held his gaze as you reached down to rub your clit. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering.
"That's it," you praised. "Let go. I wanna feel you come."
He lasted maybe thirty more seconds. Thrusts turning desperate and shallow. Before he buried himself deep and came with a broken cry of your name. You felt every pulse, every twitch inside you, and it sent you over the edge right after him, clenching around his cock while he shook through it.
He didn't pull out right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms trembling as he held himself up, pressing soft, shy kisses to your collarbone, your jaw, your lips.
"I'm sorry I... finished so fast," he mumbled, ears still pink. "Next time I'll... I'll do better. I promise."
You laughed softly and pulled him down so his full weight rested on you. "Jonathan. That was perfect. You are perfect."
He buried his face in your neck again, but you felt him smile against your skin.
After that, the shyness didnt go away. It just became part of the heat between you.
The second time was in his bedroom at the Byers house. Joyce and Will were out of town for the weekend, and Jonathan had spent the whole afternoon cleaning, changing the sheets twice, lighting a single candle like he was setting up a photo shoot. When you walked in he was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, fiddling with the drawstring, cheeks already flushed.
"I, uh... I read some stuff," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Wanted to make it good for you."
You straddled his lap and kissed him until he stopped thinking. This time he was braver. Hands mapping every curve of your body like he was trying to memorize it for a portrait. When you sank down onto him, taking him in one slow glide, he moaned so loud you had to cover his mouth with your palm.
"Quiet, baby," you teased, rolling your hips. "Neighbors might hear how shy you sound when you're getting fucked."
His eyes rolled back. He gripped your hips hard enough to leave faint bruises, but still let you set the pace, still whispered "please" and "more" like he was afraid to ask for what he wanted. You rode him until his thighs shook and his voice cracked on your name, until he came with his face pressed between your breasts, muffling the sound of his orgasm against your skin.
The third time was in the darkroom he had set up in the basement of the old Hawkins Post building after hours. Red safelight bathed everything in crimson. You had come to watch him develop photos. Your photos, the ones he had taken of you laughing in the woods, hair wild, eyes bright. He was halfway through hanging a print when you pressed up behind him, hand sliding into the front of his jeans.
"Jonathan," you whispered against the shell of his ear, "you've been hard since I walked in."
He whimpered, forehead thunking against the drying rack. "I cant help it... you look so pretty in the red light."
You spun him around, dropped to your knees on the concrete floor, and took him down your throat while he clutched the edge of the counter. His hips jerked helplessly; quiet, desperate little noises spilled out of him with every bob of your head. When he couldnt take it anymore he pulled you up, turned you around, and bent you over the counter. Still shy, still asking "Is this okay?" even as he pushed inside you from behind.
The wet slap of skin echoed in the small room. He draped himself over your back, one hand between your legs rubbing clumsy circles on your clit, the other braced beside your head. "You're so wet... I can hear it," he breathed, voice wrecked. "I love making you sound like that."
You came first, knees buckling, and he followed right after, hips stuttering as he filled the condom with a choked moan.
Afterward he cleaned you up with the same gentle care he used developing film. Soft cloths, careful touches, endless shy kisses pressed to your shoulders while he whispered how beautiful you were, how lucky he felt, how he still could not believe you wanted all of him.
Months passed like that. Jonathan stayed shy in the daylight. Blushing when you held his hand in public, ducking his head when you told him he looked hot in that black t-shirt, stammering through compliments. But at night he learned to let go. He learned how to pin your wrists above your head and fuck you slow and deep until you were sobbing his name. He learned how to eat you out for hours, face buried between your thighs, ears scarlet but tongue relentless, until you came so many times you lost count. He learned how to beg so prettily when you edged him. Voice cracking, hips twitching, whispering "please let me come, I'll be good, I swear."
And every single time, no matter how confident he got, there was still that sweet, stuttering shyness underneath. The boy who couldnt look you in the eye the first time he told you he loved you, the boy who blushed down to his chest when you called him a good boy while he was buried inside you, the boy who hid his face in your neck after every orgasm like he was still surprised you wanted all of him.
