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.

Leave a comment to be added to my fanfiction taglist!

banners by @saradika @saradika-graphics

"you've been quiet recently."

henry's voice says it like an observation, not accusation. as if he was noting the weather. in reality, he had been counting the pauses that occur between your replies, watching your eyes linger too long on doorways. you've even stopped filling the silence for him.

you look up from where you're sitting on the plush couch, hands holding the two sides of an open book. something old and worn, a story stuck in place. the living room is dim, curtains half-drawn in order to combat the last remaining glows of sunlight before it dipped below the horizon.

"i'm fine," you answer, your voice measured and careful. he hums softly, setting his briefcase down by the door. it drops with a tiny thump, a sound you have grown to associate with him coming home from work. was it that time already?

"you say that," he replies gently, his footsteps echoing on the spruce floor as he came towards you. "but you haven't been sleeping. you don't ask me how my day was anymore." a pause. "and you keep staring at the windows."

your fingers curl tighter on the edges of the book.

"i just like the light," you say. a half-truth. henry taught you that those were dangerous.

henry stops in front of you, a bit too close. he always knows exactly how close he needs to be to make you aware of his presence and nothing else. it presses in, familiar and overwhelming. it was the weight you've learned to carry.

"do you?" he asks. his head tilts. "or do you like thinking about what's beyond them?"

your stomach drops into the cushions.

"i don't think about that," you say too quickly, hearing the error the second it leaves your mouth. henry's smile flickers, adjusted and fine-tuned.

he dropped to one knee in front of you, hands coming to reach for the book that sat idly in your hands, the pages long and forgotten in your rush to try and console him. "good," he said. as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "because i would hate to lose you to silly ideas like that." his fingers linger on the edge of the page instead of taking the book from you completely.

his gaze never left your own, trying to gauge if you were still thinking of those silly things. a minute went by. and then two. after the third you opened up your mouth to say something but he beat you to action, his hands finally taking the book from your lap and setting it down on the side table.

those same hands came to your knees, slipping underneath your dress. they were cold against your skin, startling enough to pull a quiet breath from your lungs. the touch wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. it was deliberate and anchoring. a reminder of where you were supposed to be. they kept going forward up your soft thighs until reaching the waistband of your panties, eyes boring into your own, as if he was looking for some type of reluctance in your gaze.

"do you want me to stop?" he asked, fingers tracing idly along the bands of your underwear, stopping just short of your inner thigh. you opened your mouth to reply to him, your eyes matching his intense gaze, but he was already leaning forward, standing up from his kneeling position in a way that almost felt clinical.

almost.

except for the slight falter in his fingers as one of his hands slid out from your nightdress and came to the expanse of your throat, holding you with a pressure that wasn't meant to hurt, just to keep you looking at him. he tilted his head, his nose nearly brushing yours, his mouth hovering over your own, not touching, as if offering you the chance to pull away. like he was daring you to.

you didn't.

his kiss was harshness covered under the sickly sweet taste of his mouth, still you opened your mouth wider to him. your hands, traitorous things, lifted on their own, curling into the soft fabric of his brown cotton vest. you thought for a moment that you would just indulge him, he would stop eventually and you could go make dinner for the two of you. but somewhere . . . somewhere in the slow brush of his mouth against yours, the control began to slip.

your fingers tangled in the soft curls of his hair, brushing them out of place and pulling on the edges of them. his breathing grew a little heavier, a tad bit harsher against your lips. and then his mouth slanted over yours, rougher, no longer measured. a clash between you filled with hunger and fury and need. you gasped against him and he swallowed the sound, like he had been starving for it. all at once, you were arching into him without permission or care and he was there to catch you, turning your body so that you were laying on the couch so he could hover over you.

the couch dipped under his weight and the heat of his body pressed up against yours, overwhelming and wanting. your dress slipped from your shoulder, the coolness of the air around you brushing against your skin, his gaze dropped, tracking the exposed line.

this kiss was nothing like the first.

it was teeth and desperation, unraveling held together by the two of you like a ceremony. his mouth crushed against yours, drinking the air from your lungs, your fingers digging into his arms, your fingernails making crescent marks biting into his skin. henry groaned low in his chest, you shuddered from his unbecoming. he lifted you and pulled you onto the couch fully, the fabric pressing against your skin. one of his hands slid along your thigh, pushing your dress higher and higher, baring you to the cool air of the room. you could feel the tremor running through him, so sharp it vibrated under his skin into yours. it felt as though he was holding himself in check with the thinnest, most fragile thread of discipline. 

reverently, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of your nightdress, and when you didn’t stop him, he dragged it up completely, pulling it over your head in one smooth deliberate motion. and then you were bare before him. 

henry exhaled, his pupils blown wide through his thick rimmed glasses. his hands hovered just above your skin, as if he didn’t want to mar the sight of you with such rough trembling hands. “you’re,” he whispered, his head bobbing down to press his lips to the expanse of your throat. “you’re perfect.” 

the words pierced right through you, raw and burning. your heart lurched painfully against your ribs, your eyes squeezing shut as he began to press open mouth kisses along your skin. your body molded into his with such a perfect degree that it almost didn’t feel real. tentatively, your hand reached for the buttons of his shirt, trying your best to fervently unbutton them to expose his chest to you. in between his kisses, he helped, shrugging off the garment and lazily throwing it to the floor. his mouth moved across your skin like a man desperate to memorize every inch. 

you gasped when he found the soft swell of your breast, his mouth lingering, like he had all the time in the world to undo you piece by agonizing piece. each brush of his tongue sent a shiver rippling down your spine. “henry,” you whispered without thinking, like a prayer. he groaned against your skin and lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. The sight of him, eyes dark with hunger, nearly undid you completely. 

“say it again,” he rasped. “say my name.” 

your fingers skimmed down his bare chest, as if you were testing the waters. you traced the defined lines of muscle, faint scars you hadn’t known were there. you marveled at the strength of him, so solid and real and yours in a way you never dared to dream. you tilted your chin up and whispered again, “henry.” 

his mouth crashed back onto yours, raw and helpless need. 

when he finally moved lower, one large hand sliding down your stomach, parting your thighs with care, your body answered him instinctively. arching, trembling, reaching for him. his fingers pressed against the heat between your thighs and moved, creating a feeling you didn’t even know was possible. you lifted your hips in a silent, desperate invitation. henry cursed under his breath and one finger entered you slowly, your mouth opening wide which he countered with his mouth slotting above yours. 

he moved carefully, his finger curling inside you, coaxing another desperate sound from your chest. you clung to him, nails scraping lightly over his shoulders. your body bowed into his touch without shame and hesitation. “that’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “good girl.” The words sent a shudder rippling through you and henry felt it. his mouth curved against yours, a smile so small that it made your heart ache. another finger joined the first and he worked you open with slow, deliberate care. praising you with every breath, every touch. you were barely aware of the way your hips moved against him, chasing the tension that coiled hotter and tighter inside you with every careful thrust of his fingers. 

right as you were about to whimper that you needed more, he pulled his fingers out, like he heard your thoughts. just as you thought that maybe he would leave you there hanging, henry shifted his gaze lower and followed it with his own body. the tiny couch creaked under the weight of his large frame, which stopped just short of his face being in between your thighs. his hands splayed against them, pushing them slightly open before he locked eyes with you. there was already slick pooling between your legs, coating your thighs enough that you knew he could see it.

henry brought his hand back to where it had been, his fingers brushing against your folds before he pulled it away again, the glistening from your arousal present. he popped a finger into his mouth and hummed sinfully at the taste. you opened your legs to him, the farthest you could go in your shared space, hoping it would make him finally kiss you there.

it seemed to be enough of an invitation, as his mouth was on you before you could even think. a gasp tore from your lips, reacting to his tongue parting your folds, lapping at you with a hunger that bordered on savage. there was no gentleness. he devoured you like a man starved, hands pinning your thighs open against the furniture. your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and clawing. 

“henry —” you choked out, hips jerking against his mouth. 

he answered by pressing his tongue harder against you, flicking, stroking, pulling every gasp and moan from your throat like he was collecting them like trophies. his tongue had you reeling for more, heart beating practically out of your chest when he moved to suck on your clit.

you pulled on his hair, soft sounds spewing from your lips like it was the only thing that you could really do. all the while he kept his eyes on you, knowing that the would be playing this over and over in his mind for days to come. the way that your eyes were sewn shut, chest arching and heaving. it was almost pornographic. 

that pit in your stomach that had been steadily building was growing in size, muscles spasming while you grew towards a peak, a peak so large that only he could bring. he knew just the right things to do to you to make you gasping for more, more, more. his tongue prodded a bit inside you, only stopping to lick and suck on your clit.

“henry, i'm so close,” you moaned out, legs clenching together. his tongue guided you towards that peak, it felt like white hot heat the second you hit your high, hips rolling against his face. he helped you come down, giving you a few more licks and rubbing his hands up and down your thighs. 

the room felt smaller after, like the walls had edged in while you weren't looking in the throws of pleasure. the light outside the curtains had finally vanished, leaving the living room swallowed in dusk. henry pulled himself up so his face was eye level with yours again, looking down at the ruin that he had created with you. he rested his forehead briefly against your shoulder, breath warm.

your body hummed in strange, lingering echoes that didn't quite feel like they belonged to you. you stared past him, looking at the clock on the other side of the room, and the window next to it. your thoughts drifted again to somewhere you weren't supposed to go.

he noticed, like always.

"stay with me," he murmured.

Janet Terrance's last memory was flickering lights in her apartment and a Demogorgan crashing through a ceiling portal and snatching her out of bed... The only thing left in unit 4B of 'Hawkins Hills Apartments & Townhouses' is all of the young woman's belongings, her two kittens, and a twelve-foot crease of a sealed-over gateway above her mattress.

She awakens, gasping in fear and lying against hardwood flooring— waxed and polished, as is the rest of the stunning, and warmly furnished home.

"Shh shh, I'm here." A familiar voice comforts her while the man that it comes from kneels towards her on the floor.

She recognizes him, "Henry?" Within seconds, Janet latches onto his familiarity.

Over the past two weeks, the two have grown a budding relationship full of flirtatious jesters and kind conversation. He began showing up to the window of the diner she waitresses at daily, never missing a shift.

'Henry Creel' soon introduced himself; coming inside for one cup of coffee that he never once drank, as if he were there for Janet's company alone... Her boss and coworkers seemed to be annoyed with his daily visits—although they never actually spoke about seeing him... they only joked crudely that Janet needed a mental evaluation for pouring a cup of Joe each morning for her imaginary friend... "She's worse than my baby-sister talking to some invisible person she calls Mr. WhatsIt!" One of the other waitresses laughed. But Henry wasn't imaginary, nor was Janet crazy.

Now feeling immediate comfort in her dear friend's embrace after the horror that she has endured, Janet spills it all. "... Its face, it spread open into thousands of teeth! Grabbed me by my ankles and snatched me right from beneath the blankets!" She continues with her story, panicked with streams of tears streaming down her soft doll-like features.

"Horrible... you absolutely poor thing, come here." Another hug against his chest brings her closer, although Henry knows that the exact monster who frightened her is only one of his own.

A secret hides within him... One that he wishes the now powerful "Will The Wise" will never come to realize as he hacks his way into the mind-hive. Although it is well-known to Will and his friends that Vecna is syphoning energy from twelve children from a place called 'The Abyss', what they fail to realize is that deeper into the cave where they are held and connected to his tentacles, there is a victim that doesn't quite match the group of hostage-adolescents. A young lady is kept closest to Vecna's body... The very Janet Terrance, the woman that has become the bane of Henry Creel's existence, the key to his future of love life, happiness, and an unbreakable bond to share as he makes her his queen in a world he is soon to create.

The children: vessels to manipulate and amplify his powers as he merges the Upside Down, the Abyss, and the human world into one utopia he can rule... Janet: a reason to do it... a partner worth creating a whole new world for.

Through the weeks of socializing with her, he has seen it in her eyes... The hungry attraction and vigor that they both share, love beneath fear, primal need for one another's affection— and long awaited, as the bridge between Hawkins and the Abyss continues to collapse, it is far past time to claim his bride. With two realms combining, Henry Creel plans to be the ruler of this new world— and he'll be damned if he did it alone.

"I even felt a scratch on my ankle! See, look here—" As Janet continues to explain, lo and behold— there is no injury to her ankle, no fuzzy socks, or her favorite pajamas she was wearing in bed either... Suddenly the dream-state that she has been forced into confuses her, even taking a bit of trust away from her dearest friend Henry. "Where did this dress come from? And-and these shoes? They aren't mine... Henry, where am I?"

A floral-striped dress and a strappy pair of pumps reminds her of the image of a housewife... Perhaps one that would live in a home just like this.

"You're safe. I'm here to protect you from the monsters that have you in such tears. Do you really think I could let anything harm you, Janet?" Smarter than the naive children, she begins to place things in order. Clearly in some type of hypnosis, she knows that this very moment can't be real.

Dapper in his brown suit, hat, and gentle smile on his handsomely full lips, Henry continues to calm her. Knowingly born and raised in Hawkins, Henry makes up a story to blame it all on the military that has surrounded the small town for the last two years now. Some type of myth that the military is using all of Hawkins as test subjects for experimenting a fatal disease that they'll use as warfare on other countries if needed be. An attack on the country's very own people and that it's up to her and him to stop it. Allegedly 'blessed' by God with his ability of mind control, he promises that he cannot save the world alone—that it would be her who he needs to rule alongside him.

Her petite hand is caressed alongside his large palm and slender fingers as she is brought up to her feet. Adoring every second of his alone time with her, Henry presses his snout to the top of her head, kissing her dark-strands gently as he inhales the scent of her conditioner that drives him feral.

"We hardly know each other, and I don't have any powers as you do. I wouldn't be of any help, why choose me?" The fright and confusion in her round doe eyes charm him achingly. Why choose her? Because in his eyes he's never met someone so perfect.

"You." He strokes her shoulder-length black tresses, pushing them behind her ears where diamond-studded earrings that truly, in reality they don't even exist. Her jewelry shines and gathers light pouring through the curtains of his parlor as Janet continues to stare in complete confusion of where it all came from. "You hold as much power as anything I've ever witnessed, and without any of the abnormal abilities at that. Sure, just the prettiest diner girl I've ever seen—yet somehow, you are the human embodiment of energy, dominion, and all things perfect in this world. A queen, My Queen, who has yet to take my hand."

Drawing her manicured fingers back, she again refuses the offer to take his hand as his queen. "I woke up in some strange place... A man overtop of me and asked for me to be his queen!? Christ, sure I've poured you cups of coffee that forever went untouched! But I have yet to even— even write my number down on your hand, go out on a date to the movie theater or roller-rink!!! A chance to even find out if I actually like you!"

His eyebrows furrow, kindness completely withering away. "So we will just have to skip all of that, time runs short, you see... and I'm not a man of great patience."

He sighs, regaining the patience and grace the villain inside forces him to pretend to be. "With me, I'll give you whatever it is that you want."

Henry's mind games begin to make her hallucinate a life she has always dreamed of. "I can give you that big Hollywood break you have always wanted." He smiles as an image of Janet dressed up on a paparazzi-filled red carpet makes her heart stop. "Look at that..." He teases, "prettier than Whitney Houston and competition for her too!" Suddenly the hallucination of a famous Janet is holding multiple Grammys.

"Stop it." Her eyes shut tightly, wishing that the mind-torture would just come to an end.

Henry steps closer... "Or how about—" His height of over six feet is like a cold shadow engulfing her delicate frame.  "All the cash you would need to fix up your family's home? Isn't that what you want?" Closely behind her, his baritone and manipulation is chilling. His lips press to the side of her neck, then to her jawline and cheek, swindling her with charm and light admirable kisses. "No more working double shifts to send cash home to your family to help your parents with the needs of your little siblings. Oh, Sweet girl— would you let me do that for you?"

The image of the pile of money suddenly fades into a Thanksgiving dinner-table with an apple pie as the centerpiece. "Or perhaps you just want something simpler, sweeter... like that very special favorite treat your grandma would bake you for the holidays, or even when you just were feeling down." Janet begins to tremble, suddenly smelling the extremely missed scent of her favorite dessert that her late grandmother used to make her whenever she would ask for it.

"Perhaps..." The hallucination again changes, "perhaps you would just want your grandmother..."

The sweet smile of her late grandmother standing before her makes her gasp. Janet reaches out to hold onto her— yet the image fades like mist.

...

"Is this real?" Nearly brought to tears again, Henry's dirty tricks begin to convince her.

"Oh, it can be." Selfishly heated by the stirring sounds of Janet's sobs, the sadistic attraction of weakening her, Henry begins to make hot like an oven. "Our life together— not even a night would pass by without the taste of ecstasy and bliss."

"I don't understand, as in-- you'd spoil me?" Her innocence is blinding.

"In many ways..." He nods, "and I am dying to show you." Her heels clack against the preserved floors as she is forcefully turned to face him. With a possessive grip on her waist and the other cuffed against her neck, Henry's lips clash onto hers. Falling victim to this kiss, Janet's mouth falls prey to his tongue as their shared moans weaken them both.

His breathing becomes trembled, almost spewing whining yips as his lips travel across her face and neck— fingers tearing the buttons of her top open as each of them ping to the ground. Living in his own personal Hell, Henry Creel hasn't felt the touch of a woman in decades— his cock now standing tent-like against his trousers, begging for the feel of a sweltering tight cunt if it kills him.

A Demogorgan-like grip on her wrists drags her again to the floors of the home. Henry finds himself lingering over her, lifting the outfit he chose her to wear in this dream-state spent together, knowingly having her without panties beneath this pretty little skirt.

As the skirt is pulled above her waist, leaving her bare, Janet's legs are parted open for his taking... not by his hands or body, but by a stern point as the lights flicker above him. Suddenly she realizes that not only does he have the power to reach into minds, but a physical force without using a muscle at all.

His thumb swipes through the slit of her womanhood, from her bundle of nerves to the absolute opening of her as he bundles her secretions along his thumbprint, suckling it against his tongue as his eyes shut—enjoying the very taste of her.

Blushing red from the violation, she has yet to see the last of him. Like a man starved, Henry loses his chestnut-colored suede hat, diving into the heat of her with lips pouty and a corrupted sense of hunger.

Alarmed by the abrupt tongue kiss below, Janet's eyes widen as her back arches from the wooden floors. "Henry!" She shouts his name—embarrassed by the lewd performance yet simultaneously easing her fingers through the handsome-smelling pomade of his blonde waves. His breath is hot on her warm mound, somehow the warmth of it all shooting icy chills up her spine as his tongue laps at the pleasure she tends to leak. Henry's sharp nose prods at her clit, tongue diving cock-like into her core as he refuses breath for himself. When his nose isn't busy probing her needy bud, it seems to be often suckled into his mouth—kissed on and praised as Janet's legs tremble and knees attempt to cave in on his head... yet his threatening grasp against her plush thighs keeps her open and wide for him. Out of all the things he can create with his mind, whether it be pies or any dessert he could think of, it is Janet he wishes to devour, Janet who he needs to feel dripping down his chin.

"Give into me. All of you." His voice deepens impossibly darker, demanding her to cum right against his face and foggy spectacles.

A whiny mess in front of him, she refuses it, attempting to be unfazed by the rough dimpling grasps of her breasts in his hands each time that he reaches up from his feasting and takes a fistful of the buxom body he has claimed to belong to him. She just can't... She can’t come undone and show gratifying satisfaction to the man who was sick enough to make her hallucinate a dead loved one to get the best of her!

But the circling tip of an extremely precise tongue says otherwise... sturdy, and pink, his wet flesh knocks the breath from her body and nearly blinds her with the simple motion of flicking the peak of nerves that have already gone shot, Janet squeals as pleasure takes over her, convulsing into a moan that becomes her villainous lover's favorite sound.

With lips glossed from her released pleasure, the grinding of his trousers against the floor has Henry close to his very own break, whether an accident or not—he drops his image...revealing a blink in time of the true creature he is out of the dream-state.

Just for a moment, the monster known as Vecna comes to the eye...enough to make Janet gasp in fright even if when she blinks again, the image of the handsome man that swooned her is back above her. However, her fear is just what he craved...knowing what she saw, the terror clamps up her entire body, a tension that he needs to feel—the exact tightness he wishes for along his aching cock.

With the swift sound of an unzip, Henry's earnest rod seeps into her, snug against her tight walls. His hips lay heavily against her and the absolute fullness of her pussy makes Janet delirious. Stuffed full with impatient flesh, Janet's arms wrap around Henry's neck as the rough pumping takes her breath away. Toyed with enough to be the ride of his life, the woman he obsesses over lays beneath him teased, gushing, mound hot and ready as it takes his aching need near professional.

Eyebrows furrowing as each thrust weakens him, he makes plans for this pussy, more than a ring—he is prepared to give her an entire universe, thrilled with devious excitement to spend every day fucking just like this on a throne where he will dictate realms on realms. "Divine." His voice is the tone he uses as Vecna, chilling and demonic. "Divine perfection." In the moment, he could even be back in that very monstrous form—but Janet wouldn't know...not with her eyes tightly shut as she's pummeled into oblivion by nine angry inches.

Her nails dig into Henry's back as her marbles are fucked loose, the pain only grows his vigor stronger, making him grin as a sinister kiss is placed on her cheek. "So good for me. Aren't you baby?"

"M-uhhh, please..." Dazed, she's clueless to her very own begging. However, Henry takes it however he wants, "No need to beg, sweet one." The pleasure makes him stutter as the ache of a drawn-up sack makes him incoherent, "G—God... you'll have this cock every day, won't ever need to ask."

Whether the lewd tune of sloshing through perfect pussy or the harmony of Janet's every moan and sinful yip, Henry pulses and jolts as his rod chases a soon-to-be-spend of his milky pleasure. A tongue kiss and rough pumping is ecstasy for them both, panting against each other's lips as his rhythm quickens brutishly as her arms are now pinned over her head.

Spoiled by the good fuck, Janet becomes ashamed by the neediness of wishing for more. However, knowing his time is running short, his sporadic pumps and lack of sense reminds her of the spill that will soon fill her. Her hands suddenly reach down, finding the sharp pelvic bones of his slim and taught body. She tries to slow the thrusting of his hips, yet it would be utterly impossible to stop the delight that he finds from plunging into her sweet little cunt. Breathless, she attempts to speak sense back into the feral beast above, making a slut out of her as she can hardly form any words. "You're gonna— Mmm'fuck, Henry please.." Aware of the lack of contraception in her system, Janet has never been a fan of the extra-added pounds that the pill gave her... She tries to beat the earth-shattering pleasure from making her a babbling mute, needing to remind him of how fertile she truly is. "You're gonna—"

"Fill you with all that I have, fatten your womb and belly with my seed? Oh, don't I know it."

The rough fuck becomes vengeful, cockhead knocking at her cervix, and assuring a certain shot of his seed to plant in her womb. "All part of the plan, my love. Why let there be only one of me— when something as tantalizing and breathtaking as you will bring me so much more. Enough offspring for an army, enough sons and daughters— fearless and as capable as what we are as a team, hm?"

Keen to his savagery, she refuses to be his breeding mutt— regardless if the sex has made her feel more alive than she ever has felt before, "I won't!" A panicked shout leaves her lips as her ovulating body craves exactly everything that he speaks of.

"No?" ...

She never knew a one-worded question could hold such a threat. Henry's hips thrust once more as he grunts with a veined embellishment popping from his sweaty forehead. Her stubbornness only turns him on further, releasing wave after wave of his thick spend—pent up, and shamefully sticky, it spews out of her swollen mound and the sides of his immense girth... so much that the overflow ruins both of their clothes and floor beneath them.

Janet's eyebrows furrow and her pouty lips open into a dropped jaw, embarrassed by the creeping orgasm that absolutely consumes her. The shame of it all eats away at her, being captivated and aroused the most by his possessive-degradation and strict claim on her.

Henry's long fingers trace the perfect definition of her face. Her mile long wispy eyelashes soaked in tears of pleasure and shame, her soft cheeks peachy and still flushed with exhilaration, and those sweetly-kissable lips—thick and soon to take his cock down her gullet for the rest of the evening, the rest of her little life. "All mine."

Henry grins, a smile clearly threatening yet it continues to cause his lover to soak between her thighs. "Shall we?" He asks. "Again?"

Needy, and turned into a monster of her own... Janet doesn't even recognize herself—the poor girl is thoughtless, only wanting, needing more.

Overly sex-dazed, she bites her lip with a submissive nod of a diabolically sweet 'yes'.

Henry's thumb tracing across perfect dick-sucking lips seep onto the bed of her tongue, Janet's mouth obediently closes against it as Henry's blue eyes watch attentively at her seductive suckling.

Henry breathes out, overly inflamed by the sight of his obedient little lamb. "We are going to do such beautiful things together, Janet.... Such... beautiful things."

Maybe counting sheep would help. That was what your mom used to suggest when sleep wouldn’t come. This wasn’t so different—except now you lived alone. You were grown, independent, working nights as a desk clerk in the ICU. Still, the silence felt heavier without anyone else in the house.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You began counting sheep in your head, eyes drifting from the ceiling to the door. Back to the ceiling. Back to the door.

You began silently counting sheep, your gaze drifting to the ceiling, then back to the door. Ceiling. Door. A gentle turn of your head brought the alarm clock into view, its red numbers glowing softly in the dark.

9:58 p.m.

You had an early shift. You should have been asleep by now. Instead, you lay awake, waiting.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough.

With a slow breath, you closed your eyes and settled deeper beneath the covers. Eventually, you would have to give in to Mr. Sandman. You always did.

“Trouble sleeping?”

The voice was warm. Familiar. Close.

Your eyes fluttered open.

He stood beside your bed, exactly as he had in your dreams—tailored brown suit, red tie loose at the collar, light button-up catching the low glow of the room. He smiled as though he belonged there, as though he’d been invited.

“Shit,” you breathed, pushing yourself upright and pulling the covers up with you.

He chuckled softly and tipped his hat, removing it with deliberate care. “Now, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “that’s hardly the first word I’d expect from someone so lovely.”

Blond curls framed his face, catching the light as he stepped closer. His eyes—blue as a summer sky—held yours, unblinking, knowing. Too knowing. He didn’t look real.

He looked tempting.

And somehow, that was worse.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

His smile deepened—slow, practiced. “I’m Henry. Henry Creel.”

He held out his hand, waiting. You knew you shouldn’t take it. Every instinct told you this was wrong, that he didn’t belong here—didn’t belong anywhere in your waking world. And yet, you reached for him anyway.

His skin was cool and soft against yours, a shiver crawling up your arm at the contact. You swallowed, torn between pulling away and holding on.

“Why are you in my dreams, Henry?”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gentle, intimate, and your breath caught despite yourself. You hated how comforting it felt—how easily your fear softened under his touch.

“I thought you’d never ask, darling,” he said quietly. “I’m here to save you.”

The words should have frightened you.

Instead, they sent a strange warmth through your chest—followed immediately by dread. Because some part of you wanted to believe him. That terrified you most of all.

The word save settled heavily between you, sinking deeper than it should have. For a moment, you imagined what it might cost—what you might have to give up in exchange—and the thought made your stomach twist.

Still, you didn’t pull your hand away.

And Henry noticed.

“Save me from what?” you asked, your grip tightening around the blanket. “From who?”

He let out a soft chuckle, low and almost amused. “From the monster.”

The word lingered, heavy and vague. A chill settled in your chest.

This had to be another dream. It had to be. You glanced around the room, searching for something—anything—that felt wrong. But everything was exactly as it should be. Your dresser. Your door. The faint glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand. All of it painfully familiar.

That was what scared you most.

You considered pinching yourself. That was how it worked, right? Pain meant waking up.

But some part of you hesitated, struck by the thought that if you did—if you woke up—Henry might be gone.

And you weren’t sure whether that idea relieved you… or disappointed you.

“What do I have to do?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Just trust me. That’s step number one.”

Your eyes narrowed. The words landed wrong—too familiar—stirring something old and buried deep. Trust had never come without a cost. “How can I trust you?”

He stepped closer.

Your body reacted before your mind could stop it—your breath hitching, your pulse quickening, a warmth spreading low in your stomach that made your cheeks burn with shame. You hated that response. Hated that he could provoke it so easily.

“If I wanted to hurt you,” he said softly, “I could have already.”

A shiver ran through you, equal parts fear and something dangerously close to anticipation. Your muscles tensed, poised to flee—yet you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

And that frightened you more than his words ever could.

You swallowed hard, trying to make sense of it all. “I don’t—I don’t understand, Henry.”

His expression softened, almost tender. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “You’re going to need it.” He touched your cheek lightly, lips curving into a smile.

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll come for you soon,” he said, voice low and certain. “I promise.”

The word lingered, pressing against you—

—and then your alarm clock exploded into sound.

You jolted upright, heart racing, breath shallow. The room was empty, washed in early morning light. No Henry. No shadows. Just your bedroom, exactly as you’d left it.

Except—

Your hand was still raised, fingers curled as if holding something that was no longer there. When you lowered it, your skin prickled, cool in the exact place his thumb had brushed your knuckles.

You swallowed and glanced down.

The blankets were twisted, pulled tight around you. Your pulse thudded too fast, your chest rising and falling like you’d been running. And beneath it all lingered a faint chill, as though a window had been left open overnight.

The clock blinked 6:00 a.m.

Morning had come.

But the feeling hadn’t left.

And as you swung your legs out of bed, you realized—disturbingly—that you felt rested.