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[whatsitiamyours]

Henry Creel/Mr. Whatsit takes Y/n, he holds her mind captive while caring for her in his home.

I have been looking for another good Mr.Whatsit story and came across this fluff on Wattpad. Let me tell you this brought tears to my eyes. Very beautiful and well written story. I recommend reading this, especially if you prefer no-smut stories (fluff). Must read❤️

[tiggywrites]

A Sudden Wave

Suddenly, a woman's scream pierced the quiet woods. I drew my dagger and ran in her direction.

Legolas' body reacts before his mind fully processes the sound, the scream, sharp and terrified, slicing through the peaceful woods. In an instant, he's moving. No hesitation. No thought of danger, just instinct; a prince trained in battle since childhood, kicking into action.

He sprints after you, drawing his slender elven blade from its sheath in one fluid motion. Silver light glints off the steel as trees blur around them. His heart pounds, but not with fear for himself, but concern for whoever screamed... and what might be threatening them. The tranquil walk is over.

Up ahead, 3 orcs cornered a mother and a small child on the path. I ran and jumped on the back of the one closest to me, drawing my blade across its throat. It dropped to the ground, holding its neck as it bled out.

Legolas sees the scene flash in a split second; the orcs, hulking and foul, looming over a trembling woman clutching her child. One of them is already turning toward you as you leap as if wind were given form. Your dagger flashes, quick, precise, and the nearest Orc falls, throat slit before it can even roar. Without missing a beat...Legolas charges.

In one graceful arc, he lunges at the second Orc with his blade, elven steel slicing through grime-coated armor. The creature staggers but doesn't die instantly; Legolas follows up fast—a second strike to its chest.

The third whirls around with a crude axe raised. I tackled the Orc to the ground, but he rolled on top of me, straddling my arms at my side and raising his axe to strike.

Legolas sees it: your body pinned, the Orc looming over you with a gnarled axe raised high, ready to crush your skull.

Time slows.

His blood turns cold for you. Wren. The one who trusted him. Shared her loneliness. Was finally getting answers.

In a flash of silver and fury...He leaps. With elven speed honed by years of training and battle instinct, he closes the distance in less than a breath and slams his full weight into the Orc's side. The impact knocks the creature sideways off you with brutal force.

I rolled with the force of Legolas' tackle, this time rolling onto the Orc and driving my dagger into his eye socket.

The Orc jerks once, then collapses, lifeless, beneath you; a gruesome but effective kill.

Legolas rolls to his feet in the same motion, blade still raised, scanning for threats. One Orc down from your attack. One dead by his strike. The third? Dead.

The woman and child are crouched against a tree, safe now, but wide-eyed with terror. For a breathless second... silence returns to the woods. Only heavy breathing and rustling leaves fill the air. Then Legolas turns to you, not to judge your violence (necessary), not to scold (it saved lives), just checking: "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so." I scrambled to my feet and rushed to the woman and child. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" I caressed the small boy's cheek, looking for signs of injury. The woman is pale, her hands trembling as she clutches the small boy, no older than five summers. Her eyes are wide with shock and lingering fear, but no blood stains her clothes or his.

"No," she whispers shakily. "They... they just grabbed us. The little one started crying..." She pulls the child closer instinctively as you gently check his face, the soft cheeks untouched by violence, no bruises yet from rough hands. The boy sniffles, still scared, but looks at you with huge, trusting eyes now that the monsters are gone.

Legolas steps forward quietly behind you, trying not to intrude on your moment of comfort, but standing guard like a sentinel in case more threats come.

I took the woman's hands between mine. "Are you alright? Is there anything I can do for you?"

The woman stares at your hands. They were gentle, steady, holding hers with such kindness that it seemed to unravel something in her. For a moment, she can't speak. She's been running on fear for minutes. Tears well up.

"No... no," she finally says softly, "I'm not hurt." She squeezes your hands back, grateful beyond words, not just for the rescue, but for how you're treating her: not as a victim to be questioned or scolded. Her voice cracks slightly. "You saved us."

I laughed gently. "Hardly that. Here..." I pulled out a small knife that I carried for various reasons. It wasn't a fighting weapon, but it would do. I handed it over to her. "Take this. And on your next stop, buy a sword. Ask the blacksmith for someone who can train you in swordsmanship."

The woman stares at the knife in your hand, small, simple, not a weapon of war... but still steel. A tool that could defend her child.

Her breath hitches. No one has given her anything like this before, not out of kindness, not freely. With trembling fingers, she takes it from you and holds it close to her chest like something sacred. "Thank you," she whispers. Her voice was thick with emotion. "I... I will find a blacksmith tomorrow."

"Go, continue with your heads held high. Show no fear."I smiled at her.

The woman nods, her shoulders squaring slightly, your words giving her a quiet strength. She lifts the boy into her arms and starts walking down the mossy path, clutching your knife in one hand like armor.

Legolas watches them go, their small figures growing smaller between trees until they vanish around a bend. Only then does he exhale. The tension in his body eases. The battle adrenaline fades. He turns to you, studying your face, finding the calm after violence, the gentle firmness that had comforted strangers so effortlessly. Without speaking yet...he simply looks at you.

"What on the gods' green Middle-Earth are Orcs doing this far North?" I knelt beside a corpse, looking for a sign of where they may have come from.

Legolas frowns deeply, his expression turning grim. Orcs this far north, so close to the peaceful villages of the Woodland Realm? That's not normal. They're usually confined to darker lands: Mordor, deep caves in the Misty Mountains... or sometimes roaming near human settlements. But here?

This is elf territory. Ancient woods. A quiet life. His mind races with implications, none good.

"Either they wandered too far by mistake," he says slowly, "or someone sent them." A cold thought follows: "Orcs don't travel alone unless commanded."

"Scouts?" My eyes filled with worry.

Legolas nods; slowly, grimly. "Scouts," he confirms, "or worse... a patrol. If they're this far north, it means someone is pushing their borders. Testing the edge of elven lands." His jaw tightens. Orc patrols usually come in larger groups, not just three like these. These might've been separated from a bigger force... or sent ahead to scout for weak points: villages, supply routes, unguarded paths.

"If there are more out there," he says quietly, "we need to warn the guards at the village."

"Let's." I took off at a steady run. There was no telling if we were already too late.

Legolas doesn't hesitate; he breaks into a sprint beside you, his long elven legs matching your pace easily. The trees blur as you both race down the winding forest path, boots thudding against earth and roots. No words now. Just urgency.

The village is an hour away on foot, but that's too long if orcs are already moving in force. If these three were scouts... others could be closer by now. Closing in on homes, children, and elders who can't fight. Legolas pushes faster with focused speed, the kind only trained warriors can sustain for hours at a time. At our pace, we reached the village in half an hour. We arrived to see an all-out battle taking place between the city's guards and a horde of Orcs that were trying to penetrate the city walls.

"No!" I screamed. I pulled my wind to me as Legolas, and I attacked from behind, allowing the city guards to push their frontline back.

The village is chaos, flames lick the thatched roofs, arrows fly in all directions, and orcs pour over the walls like a black tide. Guards, mostly elves armed with bows and short swords, are holding the line... but barely. Then you arrive.

And with you, the wind answers.

A sudden gale erupts from your body, not gentle this time, but fierce. A roaring blast of air slams into a cluster of orcs scaling the wall. They're ripped backward like leaves in a storm, crashing to the ground below or flung entirely out of reach.

Legolas doesn't waste a second. He sprints forward beside you, blade flashing, and cuts down an orc that had just scrambled up after your gust knocked it off balance. Together? You become fire and fury: he slices through enemies; you use bursts of wind to clear space for others. Within minutes, dozens of orcs lie dead.

Legolas exchanges swift words with the captain of the guards, an elf in bloodied silver armor, his face streaked with soot and sweat. The captain reports: no banners, no markings on uniforms... but their weapons are crude yet well-made. Not random orcs. These were organized. Trained.

And they came from the east; beyond the Misty Mountains, possibly from a stronghold that had been quiet for years. While Legolas gathers information...you kneel among fallen bodies, checking tunics, belts, any symbol or insignia burned into steel or cloth.

"There's nothing," I told Legolas as he made his way back to me, "There's nothing that tells us where they've come from. Does the guard know anything?"

Legolas frowns, shaking his head as he steps back to you. The guard had no answers, either, no banners, no sigils on armor or weapons—just standard issue for an orc warband: crude axes, iron-tipped spears... nothing distinctive.

"Nothing," he confirms quietly. "No symbols of Mordor." That was strange and troubling. Orcs usually serve a lord: Sauron's remnants in the east? But these... they came from somewhere new. Or worse, they were acting independently. And that meant chaos.

"It seems they've got the fires out. Hopefully, that's all the excitement they'll see today." I watched as men climbed roofs to toss water on the fires.

Legolas watches the village guards finally contain the flames, buckets of water passed from hand to hand, elves dousing burning thatch and straw—the smoke thins. Panic eases. The worst is over. No more orcs are scaling the walls. Not yet, anyway. The bodies scattered around suggest this was a single assault wave... not a siege. He exhales deeply; the kind of breath you take after surviving battle.

"Let's hope so," he says softly. "This village isn't fortified for long warfare." His eyes scan the damaged gates, broken fences... homes with charred edges where fire licked too close. A quiet anger stirs in him at whoever sent these monsters into peaceful lands.

"I'm sure your father will want to know about this. Shouldn't you go to him?" I asked urgently.

Legolas stiffens slightly at the mention of his father. Thranduil would definitely want to know immediately. An orc raid this close? Unprecedented in recent centuries. But the thought of leaving now... after all that just happened...He hesitates.

You'd fought beside him and saved lives together. The village is still recovering, and you're right here, standing amid smoke and wreckage, a Wind Elf who answered chaos with power.

And yet...Duty calls.

A prince can't ignore an attack on elven land, not when it might be part of something bigger: invasion? Espionage?

"Yes," he says finally. "I should go." He looks at you, not wanting to leave so soon.

I bowed my head at him. "I'm sure this won't be the last time we meet."

Legolas sees the bow and the quiet respect in it. Something warm blooms in his chest. He doesn't feel like royalty right now... just a fellow fighter who stood beside you in fire and blood. And yet, your words... They sound like hope.

He doesn't return a formal bow. He steps forward instead, closing the small distance between you, and gently places his hand on your shoulder. A real touch. Not princely distance, but camaraderie.

"Wren," he says softly, "you're right." Then—a small smile. "I'll find you again." With that promise hanging between them, he turns and breaks into a swift run toward the castle.

[t-u-i-t-c]

15 Years of Kaizoku Sentai Gokaiger

[bwaylover1993]

15 YEARS?! That’s freaking crazy!

[transisstor]

Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.

[starr-angelofnarnia]

Duh

[manymangomochis]

Guess who got her hands on the 2025 Tokyo Revengers musical lmao. Anyways I love LOVE Shogo Suzuki as Baji he’s so peak. Also mild spoilers but Baji’s ghost (or a form of Baji’s memory) comes to talk to Chifuyu after the fight with Valhalla, because they rearrange the section with their first meeting to earlier in the musical, so that the whole line of halfing the yakisoba makes sense

[tiggywrites]

Wren & Legolas

Okay I lied. This is my new favorite

[vvitchfangs]

☣︎ WOUNDS - Nightingale ☣︎

CHAPTER EIGHT - MIXED POV

Summary: It was a quiet kind of torture. The kind that laced itself like thread through your ribs and pulled tighter everyday, just to remind you.

Pair: Henry Creel/Vecna/001 x Female Reader

Content/Warning Labels: dark slowburn, Henry POV, Hawkins Lab, angst, manipulative Henry, trauma, nightmares, Martin Brenner is his own warning, touch-starved, smut (via the void, sub!Henry, teasing, clothed handjob, grinding, unsatisfied ending), medical experiments

WC: 7k | Read on Ao3

(Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven)

Burdened and sick at heart, he feigned hope in his look, and inwardly contained his anguish. - Virgil, The Aeneid

[HENRY]

Henry knew what he was to the other staff that roamed the lab. A silent sentinel, a compliant white ghost in the halls.

That's how he preferred it.

To them, he was strange. Off-putting.

Providing the occasional entertainment only whenever Martin Brenner decided he needed reminding who held the whip.

Even so, he still had to be calculated.

As much as the fever of you drove him into corners of recklessness, he couldn’t let it overwhelm his sense of caution.

Fortunately, after so many years of servitude, he knew the look that lived on the face of a first-day staff member. One who had no idea what kind of hell she'd walked into.

He supposed she was pretty, in a way Brenner would have liked.

Dark hair, glasses. Impeccably tailored pencil skirt. White blouse opened one button too low. Enough to tease her new boss with what could be, enough to still seem respectable to such a man.

She was new, naive. And in a place as frigid as the lab, warmth was a currency.

Henry silently stalked her movements all day, unassumingly carrying out his own duties, until the moment presented itself.

He found her alone in the break room, flustered and struggling with the coffee machine. His eyes darted to her ring of keys lying on the bench. He stepped inside quietly, throwing her a soft smile as she raised her head.

“Good afternoon,” He said politely.

He stopped, turning his head toward her with a tilt of curiosity.

“Pardon me, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She was taken aback by his attentiveness, frustration melting into intrigue as her eyes drifted from his blue gaze to his angelic features.

His brow lifted. This was going to be easier than he'd hoped.

“Oh! No, um, no I don’t think we have.” She stuttered, straightening to smooth out her blouse. “I’m Sylvia.”

“Sylvia,” Henry repeated, thick and syrupy. “My, what a pretty name.”

“Oh, I - well thank you.”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“I’m Peter.” He held out a steady hand and she took it, her own trembling in his grip. “Peter Ballard. One of the orderlies. Are you needing some help with this?”

She huffed out her nose. “Yes it - it seems I do. I think I did something wrong. It’s, well it’s sort of screaming at me.”

Henry chuckled, his white teeth flashing.

“That’s easily done. See this machine -” he leaned a fraction closer, his voice dropping. “It’s got a terrible temper I’m afraid. Fortunately for you, I'm here.”

He smiled and moved closer, deliberately winding his arm across her space as he stepped to her other side.

His ears picked up the soft way her breath caught.

“You’ve got to know how to handle it,” he said, in a tone that was far too seductive for the break room. “It’s delicate, you see.”

She watched, cheeks flushed, eyes following his long fingers as he flipped several switches and adjusted a few knobs.

“Oh, well that looks, that looks complicated -”

“Not at all my dear. You just have to be very...” he flicked one more switch loudly, “...precise.”

Her breath hitched again. He straightened up, standing awfully close, close enough to see the way her lips were trembling.

“Tell me Sylvia,” he purred, “how do you like it?”

“W-what?” She stuttered.

Henry smiled the same charming, calculated smile that he could tell was reeling her in, hopeless as a fish caught on a line.

“Why your coffee, of course.” He nodded down at the mug handle clutched in her fingers, her nails tipped in gloss red.

“Oh! Well, sweet I suppose.”

He leaned closer.

“Hm, sweet,” he said softly, brushing a feather touch down her forearm. “I thought as much.”

Her breaths were shaking on the exhale, the flush of her cheeks having bloomed down her neck.

“It sounds like it might be behaving now. Shall I test it for you?” His fingers brushed down her wrist and over her hand.

She promptly dropped the mug she’d been clutching.

“Oh!” She exclaimed as it hit the floor with a loud clang, shattering between their feet. “Oh, goodness, I’m so clumsy today - sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Henry shook his head softly, the smile still playing on his face.

“Not to worry. Here, let me. I wouldn’t want you standing on any of the shards in those pretty heels.”

“No no, please -”

They bent their knees in tandem, bowing to the floor, ending up face to face above the ceramic shards.

Henry gazed into her eyes for far too long, a mask of intrigue and charm painted over his face. Sylvia stuttered at his intensity, her face flustered and flushed under her make up. He collected the shards into his hand and then lingered on her deliberately.

“I don't mean to be so forward, Sylvia,” he murmured. “But, you have beautiful eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

His own voice sounded hollow in his ears.

If he hadn't been so focused on his objective he would have physically cringed into himself, so cloying and pandering.

“Th-thank you Peter, that’s, well that’s awfully kind of you.”

He leaned in a fraction. Not a lot, just enough to make the thought of kissing him flicker through her mind and unravel her further. Her eyes dropped to his pink lips.

“You’re… ever so helpful,” she mumbled, staring hopelessly.

He huffed out a coy smile before standing. “I’m afraid there’s not many friendly faces around here. Much less such pretty ones.” He said, big doe eyes fluttering.

He'd made himself feel oddly sick.

Truthfully, what sickened him the most was how easily she was falling for this. So simply, pathetically human. She was going to be swallowed whole by this place, sooner than late, and a knot of sympathy tangled in his gut at the thought.

As Sylvia leaned back against the bench, Henry's eyes flicked back to her keys sitting in a heap beside her.

He stepped into her, reaching one arm up to collect another mug from the cabinet. His other found the bench, his hand coming down silently over her keys.

“Here you are,” he smiled, handing her the mug, leaning on his arm casually. “Much better.”

She took it from him with nervous fingers, her eyes still locked to his angelic face looming above hers.

“Th-thanks Peter.”

“Give it a go.” He coaxed, nodding at the coffee machine.

He slunk to the side, his pale hand still cupped over the keys, completely unnoticed by her. She tentatively made her coffee and gestured it up triumphantly.

“Perfect.”

She smiled back, gazing. “Well I should - I should go. It's my first day, and Doctor Brenner -”

“Ah, of course. He’s a very important man.” Henry said, perfectly sincerely. “You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“No, best not.” She said, her voice a tad shaky as he kept his eyes locked on her. “Lovely to meet you, Peter. Maybe I'll - hopefully I’ll see you again some time?”

“I look forward to it,” he grinned, one final nail in the coffin.

In her flustered, mesmerized haze she left the break room, coffee in hand, heels clacking over the linoleum, her keys far from her mind.

Henry’s face shed it’s pantomime immediately as she rounded the corner.

He heard the elevator doors shut down the corridor and slipped back into his usual, unreadable veneer. He bundled her keys into his pocket and strode out into the halls.

Not hurried. Not quick in the slightest.

His normal, rigid stride of obedience that no one bothered to look twice at.

***

Being forced to hold you down during Brenner's latest display of cruelty was a grief lodged too deep inside of Henry's mind, like a bullet that refused to let him think of anything else.

He didn't know what he wanted more. To hold you, or to be held by you.

You hadn't visited him since. You understood, how could you not? You knew where you were, who held the reins, who cracked the whip.

But still, you hadn't come.

His eyes searched every inch of the halls for your black rook, but you didn't leave it anywhere. He sat up at night, staring into the emptiness of his room as if he could manifest your presence by focusing his eyes hard enough.

You, the ghost he couldn't settle without.

He could still feel the phantom touch of you. He could still taste your mouth on his, lingering an imprint of fire on his lips. He could still feel your shape against him, your palms pressed against his chest.

His need was almost ugly. A barbed wire, twisting tighter each day of your absence, pricking him full of holes that the light refused to enter.

All he could do was silently uphold his promise, and he was nothing if not patient. He waded through the days, dutiful as ever, carrying out every single task to perfection.

He knew the moment would come.

And eventually, it did. In the form of a staff memo, plastered to the board in the break room.

**NOTICE OF MAINTENANCE**

All staff, please be advised that the surveillance system will be undergoing scheduled maintenance on Tuesday between the hours of 00:00 - 03:00.

If you are scheduled for charge over subjects, please ensure they are secured for the night between those hours.

All movements or incidents between maintenance hours must be manually recorded, monitored, and reported.

Please direct any questions or concerns to Dr. Martin Brenner.

Henry’s eyebrows rose.

Three hours of blank time. Three hours of blind corridors.

***

[019]

It was a quiet kind of torture, avoiding Henry. The kind that laced itself like thread through your ribs and pulled tighter everyday, just to remind you.

Your mind was permanently affixed with the image of his traumatized face, his grief stricken eyes.

You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t perform.

You couldn’t sleep.

That was the worst part.

The silent hours, when the dark settled too heavy against you. When you couldn’t pretend to be doing anything other than filling every corner of your mind with his image.

The clock hands dragged and ticked pointedly, as if personally taunting you. It was just after three in the morning.

You wanted to sleep. You wanted to stop grappling with the edges of your mind and the imprint of grief that lived in your throat. You wanted nothing more than to dream, something good for once.

Something warm. Something Henry.

Was he sleepless?

You found yourself in the void before you could reason with your actions. The waterlogged black ether rippled under your paces until pieces of his room materialised around you.

Henry was sprawled in his bed, long limbs everywhere, in a plain white t-shirt and boxers. The blankets were thrown off and hanging abandoned down the side of the mattress. His flushed lips were parted, tumbling out soft breaths. His hair was a mussed tangle of blonde, falling about his face in that gently divine way that made you question his humanity.

His chest rose in gentle, rhythmic waves. For once he looked something akin to peaceful.

Unguarded.

Was he dreaming? Were they dreams of you?

You sank quietly onto the side of the bed, staring at his pale, softly curled hand that lay limply down at his side. Every knuckle looked painstakingly crafted, the silk veneer of his pale skin like some ancient artistic medium that simply didn’t exist on anyone else.

You slipped your phantom fingers into his hand, curling them into his palm. The void sapped anything close to warmth, but you could still feel the touch of him beneath you, like a soft static humming at your skin.

He whimpered here and there, tiny infantile sounds that made your heart bloom. His soft noises, the rhythmic rising of his chest, the quiet ticking of the clock…

You felt yourself drifting.

Not into sleep, somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

Somewhere unintentional.

Where were you?

The sky faded into view above you, pastel blue drifting into the honeyed gold tones of an incoming sunset. Your back was flush on the warm ground, your fingers idly brushing over lush grass beneath you. You sat up, surveying yourself, realizing you were still in your grey sweats.

Where… was this? Were you dreaming? There was a grand Victorian house standing proudly over the road, it's blue facade adorned with white trim. It wasn’t a place you’d ever seen, to your memory.

Your feet drifted you towards it, every step feeling floaty and ethereal.

A bold red, stained glass rose set in the front door drew you in like a beautiful, hypnotic image. Your fingers grazed over the glass. You tapped it with your fingernail, admiring the light clinking sound that rang out. A windchime carried gently on the breeze as the birdsong died down around you. There was a soft, warm melody spilling behind the door.

A song, one you’d heard before.

Stars shining bright above you... night breezes seem to whisper I love you... birds singing in the sycamore tree... dream a little dream of me...

It pulled through your ears like a ribbon of silk. Angelic, gentle.

Then, it stuttered, warped. Distorted and dragged through your head.

Hold me tight... Tell me… miss me…. I’m alone… as can be… dream… dream of me…

The wind picked up a sudden frigid edge and howled harsh around your ankles. The honeyed blue sky drew down into a shade, growing darker and darker until it was nothing but a pitch black oil looming ominous above you. A jagged flash of crimson struck somewhere in the distance, lighting the street in a stain of red for only a moment.

The floaty, ethereal movement you'd felt became a sick pull of dread as you turned back toward the door.

It was wide open, the entrance way dark, the distorted tunes of the song still warping out between the walls.

You stared wide eyed as you felt yourself being dragged in, as if dread itself had nested a fishhook in your gut.

Your feet crossed the threshold and hit yellowed-white linoleum, your vision suddenly blown with the cold, colorless fluorescents of the lab. The corridors stretched endlessly out in front of you, twisting and turning at odd angles.

Something moved behind you.

His voice was velvet, soft in only one direction.

“What are you doing here?”

You spun around. He was nowhere to be seen, but you could feel him, you could feel him everywhere.

“Henry?”

“What are you doing here?” He echoed again.

You walked. Then ran.

Then sprinted, stumbling through the warping corridors, your head turning frantically as his voice grew louder, sharper, twisting into a demonic hiss around you.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

You doubled over, panting, sobbing out dry cries as you called his name.

“Henry? Henry!” You screamed.

The fluorescents whirred and screeched, louder and louder until they exploded with a bang from the ceiling, cascading a rain of debris down from above, plunging the halls into darkness.

Nothing. Absolute silence. Absolute darkness.

Then, an agony ripped through your head, wrapping around every synapse, screeching into every corner of your mind.

A shadow as colossal as death itself.

You screamed soundless as a shock of pure, haunting blue pierced into your irises.

You lurched back into the ether, yanked unceremoniously to where you had been. Sitting on Henry’s bed in the blackness, your hand still curled into his, but trembling. Your breaths were ragged, catching as you scanned the dark space around you, your head pulsing with the feeling of the shadow ripping through you.

You glanced down at Henry.

He was staring at you, his eyes hazy with the wash of sleep, his eyebrows knitted down in confusion.

“Oh, Henry -”

“What are you doing here?” He muttered sleepily, craning his head up higher to study the apparition of you.

“I, um -” You breathed, your mind still reeling from wherever you’d been. “I came to see you.”

“You’re visiting me?” He asked, his voice groggy. His eyes flicked to the clock. “Now?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He raised his hand to rub his eyes, faltering a touch as he realized you’d been holding it.

“Oh, were you -” he stuttered as he watched you pull your own back.

You stood up, suddenly oppressed by the air settling unbearably heavy against you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just come, I should have asked. I thought you might be awake but you weren’t and well I just stayed and -”

“Wait,” Henry said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You don’t have to go.”

“You should sleep. Really, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Please, just stay a moment.”

You sighed and sank back down on the bed. His gaze flicked to your bandaged hand, and then back up to your face, studying you closely in his sleep-dusted haze.

“Is everything alright?” He asked.

“Yes,” you said, lingering on his angelic face. “I just couldn't sleep. I - haven't been able to sleep.”

“Well, it seems we're both afflicted. I think this is the first night I've slept in a while.” He sighed.

“This is going to sound strange but I think - I think I saw what you were dreaming about.”

He stared at you blankly.

“You… went into my mind?” His expression tightened into something you couldn’t make out.

Irritated. Impressed. Somewhere in between.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry, I just -”

“Just what?” His eyes narrowed.

“I only wanted to hold your hand.” It felt like such a childish confession, one that made your stomach turn with hot embarrassment.

Henry studied you in a pointed silence, his eyes trawling across your face, dipping briefly to your hand in your lap.

“Honestly I didn’t mean to,” you said again, shaking your head. “I kind of just got sucked in.”

He frowned before resting his head back against the pillow with a rough exhale.

“I wasn’t trying to pry, I swear.”

“No, it’s okay.” He said. “Sleep... makes us vulnerable. Our minds are... unguarded. They can be easily entered in such states, with powers like yours.”

“Okay, well that kind of makes it sound like I violated you.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“No, I’m just - surprised. That's all.”

“I think you were having a nightmare.”

“What did you see?” He asked curiously, leaning up on his elbows again.

“A house. It was beautiful at first. Blue and warm and bright, and there was that song playing... That time in the rainbow room, it played over the speakers, do you remember?”

His face was suddenly caught and rigid.

“Yes.”

“But it went dark. Everything... the sky. There was this red lightning, the house was pitch black.”

“You went inside the house?” His voice was odd, the tone flat.

“No, not really. I sort of got dragged in... but hen I was here, in the lab. I was running through the corridors, they were endless. And I was looking for -”

“Looking for?”

You swallowed again.

“You,” you admitted softly. “I could hear you, but then something ripped through my head. It hurt, I can still feel it.” You said, rubbing at your temple.

“I see. That sounds... unpleasant.” He huffed.

Your eyes fell to his perfect, flushed lips.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

You brushed a finger up his wrist, and he flinched softly before tracking your hand with his gaze curiously.

“I can’t sleep,” you said quietly as your fingers moved up his forearm in a ghosted line. “Every time I close my eyes I see such horrible things. I feel them. It’s cold. You're -”

Your eyes swam against his. “You're the only thing that feels real to me, Henry.”

“Yet you are staying away from me.”

“Not because I want to.”

He tried to raise his hand up to your elbow, but it pulled through nothing, just drifted through the air sadly.

“Then why?”

“I didn’t want to be a reminder. Of what happened. Of what Papa made you do.”

“I remember regardless.” Henry said, his eyes sad as he continued to watch the trail of your fingers move up his arm.

His elbow jerked when you danced over the crease of his bicep. He was tense, guarded, as if he was still trying to decide whether he was allowed to feel it.

You caught a glimpse of his wary eyes.

“I should go.”

He sat up abruptly.

“No, don’t.” He pleaded, his voice tight with the kind of need that made your stomach burn. “Stay. Please. Keep… keep doing that.” His eyes flicked down to your fingers, hovering an inch above his skin.

“Keep touching you?”

His face flushed a shade deeper in the dim light.

“Yes.”

You brought your fingers back to his skin and ran them up and down his bicep. He relaxed back against the pillow after a moment, his eyes fluttering closed. His breath pulled in as you whispered your touch over his shoulder, brushing up his neck and under his sculpted jaw.

“Can you feel me?” You asked, pressing your fingertips to his kicking pulse point.

“Not as much as I’d like to.”

You trailed down his neck, dipping into the hollow space above his collarbone before settling your palm down against his chest, the lean plains clothed by his t-shirt.

“And if you could really feel me?” You murmured, pressing your palm down over his heart, collecting every faint thump as if it eased the agony of your own.

Your mind reeled back to the utility closet, to his body pressed against you, his mouth hot and wet on your neck.

“Dangerous thought,” he breathed, his eyes shut, head laid against the pillow.

His brows knitted together as you dragged your palm down across his chest, drawing it up so that your fingertips could whisper figure eights over the fabric covering his torso. He was tense, the lean muscles rigid.

“Relax.” You said softly.

“I am.”

“Henry.”

He huffed a short breath out of his nose, his brow furrowing a fraction more. After several breaths, his torso relaxed down, the rigid muscles becoming pliant under your fingers.

“See,” you said gently. “It feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Not as nice as it could.” He murmured.

Your stomach flipped a hammering up into your heart at the thought. Your eyes fell down his body before you could stop them, landing on the soft mound beneath his boxers. You slid a single finger past the dip of his belly button and dragged it down the skin of his navel that was peeking out from beneath his t-shirt.

“You’re cold.” He protested.

“Shh.” You breathed.

You trailed your finger over the band of his boxers, watching his face intently as his eyebrows pulled together, as the crook of his lip twitched upward.

His breath drew in, soft and sharp as your finger wandered over his hip, followed the hard muscle of his pelvis inward.

His face contorted into a sort of softly pained grimace.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked, halting.

“No.” He said abruptly. “Don’t... don’t stop.”

“You look like you’re in pain.”

“The only thing that is paining me is that I can’t touch you in return.” He said with a breath of frustration. “I wish I could feel you properly. All of you.”

You settled your hand on his upper thigh, pressing your fingertips in, and drew the pad of your thumb up over the tightening mound in his boxers. He gasped softly as you dragged over his length, back and forth, feeling him swell beneath your touch.

His face contorted softly, his lips parting as he grew harder beneath your thumb.

You moved your hand over the strained fabric, pressing your palm over his length. You kneaded him, palming and squeezing his cock gently. You watched intensely as his breaths began to quicken, a hot pull of desire snaking through you.

“Is it frustrating?” You purred as you tightened your grip, your fingers lashing around his clothed hardness.

“Yes,” he breathed, his eyes open now, watching your hand tightly as it stroked over him.

Something inside you twisted with the thrill of having this control over him, denying him the full friction of your touch, making him ache for you.

“I suppose this is good enough revenge, then.” You mused as your hand pressed and drew harder over him.

“Revenge?” He murmured, his hips trying to push against your hand as he sought the kind of friction he’d never get through the void.

“You left me such a mess in that utility room, Henry. Do you know how badly I needed you? And you denied me, didn’t you?”

“You can’t get revenge for repentance.” He said, his voice an oddly strained groan as you pressed harder against him.

“Can’t I?”

You tightened your grip, drawing a whine from his mouth as you pulled roughly over the shape of his tip, your palm tight over his hidden shaft, so swollen and rigid in your hand.

He groaned softly, trying to buck up into you. The thrill shot through you once again, electric and alive.

“Please…” he breathed. “This is maddening.”

“You don’t get to ask for more, Henry.” You smirked. “Not when you left me aching like that.”

You worked him harder, faster, knowing he couldn’t feel it fully, knowing it was as much of a punishment as it was a blessing.

“I’m sorry,” he whined. “I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have - I should have -”

“You should have what?” You demanded.

“Should have given you what you wanted… what I wanted.” He mumbled.

“What did you want Henry?” You asked. “Look at me.”

He opened his eyes, the deep blue swimming against your intense gaze as you watched every frown of frustration, every flicker of ache, every twitch of delicate pleasure play across his angelic features.

“Tell me.”

“I wanted you. All of you.” He breathed.

You felt your cunt surge with wetness as you watched him writhe helplessly under your grip, watched him desperately chase the pleasure that was barely there.

“But you wanted to play games with me more, didn’t you?”

“No, I -”

You pulled your hand away and he groaned in frustration, rutting his hips up into nothing.

“Okay, fine, yes, I did.” He said, his voice cracking and flustered.

“That’s better.” You purred. “But I’m afraid touching you like this just isn’t revenge enough.”

“What?” He frowned, pushing himself up on his elbows.

“You need to ache for it as badly as I did.”

His face was caught in confusion. You smirked, and then moved, standing up and dragging your leg over his hips to straddle him.

“Oh -” he gasped as you lowered yourself onto him, pressing the phantom of your core over his hidden, swollen cock.

It was more pressure than your hand could give him, but still not nearly enough, and you could see it driving him mad behind his eyes. His head fell back as you rolled your hips, your hands digging down into his to anchor yourself.

“Much better,” you purred as you writhed over him, firmer and faster with every movement.

Dreamy, breathy sounds were tumbling from his open mouth, his brow set in a permanent crease. His hands came up uselessly at your sides, grabbing nothing but the air around him.

“Are you aching for me yet Henry? To touch me, to hold me here? To feel yourself inside me?”

“Yes…” he whined as his hands stayed helplessly lifted at his sides.

“It’s just not enough, is it?” You smirked, jerking your hips faster, feeling your own desire twisting and hot within you.

Your gaze fell to his swollen peak beneath you, to the dampness that was soaking through his boxers.

“Oh,” you mused. “Or is it? Is it just enough?”

“I want -” he whined, his hips bucking up helplessly into every one of your movements, chasing every atom of feeling that he could, seeking the friction that wouldn't come.

“You want to what?” You asked on a breath, digging your fingers harder into his hips as you moved. “You want to cum, Henry?”

He nodded frantically, tufts of his messy hair moving over his forehead. You hummed and let all of your weight press into him, ground your hips furiously as he moaned, his face contorted with frustration.

“You can't, can you? It’s just not enough, is it?” You breathed as you writhed down onto him.

“No, but - please, please I need to -” he whimpered helplessly.

“Then do it. Show me. Make yourself cum for me, Henry.”

You scooted back over his thighs and his hand flew desperately into his boxers. He gripped his cock and whined, pulling only three tight strokes over himself before he came with a broken grunt, spilling a thick milky pool over his stomach and hand.

He breathed raggedly against the bed, his other hand brushing up through his messy hair, palm resting against his forehead. You watched him throb and continue to leak slow drops into his hand, your stomach curling with a dark satisfaction.

“That didn’t look like it was very satisfying,” you smirked as you left his thighs and sank back down onto the edge of the bed.

“No,” he groaned flatly. “It wasn’t.”

He looked at you, all tired eyes and frustration. A quiet longing sat deep under his features, as if it was terrified to be acknowledged.

“Well, then you’ll remember this the next time you want to play games with me, won’t you?” You asked.

He huffed and thumped his head back against the pillow, studying your face like you were brought here to personally drive him into corners of madness.

“Next time,” he said, “I won’t be playing games with you.”

“Neither will I,” you said, voice dripping with promise. “Now I’m really going to leave, before I give myself a brain hemorrhage, or you.”

“Fair.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

You gazed into the haunting depths of his eyes for a moment, wanting nothing more than to stay in the cold, black void with him.

“Goodnight.” He offered softly.

“Goodnight, Henry.” You sighed.

It was another quiet torture pulling yourself back into your body, leaving him there.

Leaving yourself with nothing but the emptiness of your dark room, the endless questions you'd forced down underneath your desire, and the bitter taste of your own blood seeping through your lips.

***

[HENRY]

Tuesday night arrived rough and dragging.

Henry didn't hurry.

He move purposefully. Dutifully. Pacing the corridors as he always did, like he belonged to them.

It was almost silent at this time of night. His favorite kind, just the whirr of the fluorescents as a backdrop to his paces.

His eyes dragged into the open door of the surveillance room as he passed. He didn’t linger, just looked long enough to take note of the multitude of black screens, the huddle of maintenance workers casually conversing over exposed wiring.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator. He knew they were mostly avoided, staff usually preferring to take the elevators after long shifts of traversing the ever-expanding halls. His steps echoed metallic, each one making his breaths tighten a fraction as he rose higher into the serpent's nest.

Finally he arrived outside the door in the dark, empty hallway, the window shaded with a small blind, the plaque gloss black and foreboding.

Dr. Martin Brenner.

He drew the keys from his pocket, trying a few before finally driving in the right one. It gave way obediently with a soft click.

Brenner’s office was exactly what you’d expect from such a man.

Meticulously, impeccably organized, every inch of flat surface dusted and pristine. The high backed desk chair was spun forward, the back ramrod straight, everything arranged on the desk in straight lines and coordinated groupings of colour.

The filing cabinet stood like a silent metal turret in the corner.

Henry rounded the desk and sank into the chair, swiveling around as he tried the smallest key on the ring. The drawer gave way obediently.

His fingers rifled through it hurriedly until he found what he was looking for.

STAFF SCHEDULING.

How long had it been since you arrived? He tried counting back the months, but he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, and he didn’t have the time to rifle through weeks and weeks of single-day schedules. He’d have to go by name.

Her name. The nurse.

His fingers flicked through tabs until he found the nurses section.

Barnes, Helen.

He slid the file out. Weeks after weeks of her monotonous, routine schedule. He trawled back through the papers detailing her rosters and rounds. Morning shifts, afternoon shifts, night shifts. All seemingly on a loop.

Then, a blank day.

About three weeks before he’d seen you for the first time, looking utterly lost in the rainbow room.

There was only a small, typed title in the square.

NGHTGL - AM

Henry’s chest tightened in that odd, familiar way that always preempted the arrival of dread.

His mind reeled over the code. It sank inside him like an anchor, pulling down.

He slipped the schedule back and found another. Then another. The doctors, the orderlies, even the janitors. One by one, until he discovered saw the pattern.

Doctor Wilson, Robert: NGHTGL - AM Doctor Jennings, William: NGHTGL - AM Nurse Anderson, Susan: NGHTGL - AM Nurse Salter, Brenda: NGHTGL - AM

The anchor sank further into his depths with each name he found bearing the code. What kind of programme would require such a small, specific team? A surgical one?

He clicked his tongue. None of the children had required any type of special medical intervention for years.

It didn’t make sense.

He slid the files meticulously back into their places. He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he opened the other drawers, eyes scanning every inch, every file name, every label. There was nothing else out of place. He sighed, swiveling around in the chair.

He was contemplating leaving when his gaze drew down to the desk drawer. He yanked at the handle.

Locked.

None of the keys he tried breached it.

He scanned the room, teeth softly imprinting into his bottom lip, until he spotted Brenner’s briefcase. Polished leather, perched up against the side of the desk between it and the wall.

He unbuckled it and slid his pale fingers through each fold.

Then stopped. His fingers had grazed over a small metal clasp inside one of the dividers.

A tiny pocket, so small he could barely fit two fingertips inside it.

At the bottom, a silver key.

He eyed the odd shape of it for a moment before sinking it into the keyhole. It breached like a knife through butter, the drawer opening with a click and a smooth glide.

More files. Arranged of course by colour, date, subject. He flipped them all up, until one caught his eye. At the very bottom.

Ominously red, thick with papers. He peeled open the cover.

Nausea crept up through his chest, hot and threatening.

----Hawkins National Laboratory----

OPERATION NIGHTINGALE - Beta Stage 1 - May 1979

Head: Dr. Martin Brenner Clearance Level: TOP SECRET / SPECIAL ACCESS REQUIRED ID Code: NGHTGL‑79

Beta Study for the Induction of Adult Psychokinesis via Hematologic Transfusion

Objective: To determine whether telekinetic and psychokinetic abilities can be manufactured in adult subjects through hematologic transfusion.

Recipients: 10 - 15 adult subjects Ages 18 to 55

Acquisition: Entice participation for generic Drug Study from low socio-economic status individuals via monetary compensation. Use of scientific jargon encouraged. Use of subterfuge not disallowed.

Beta Procedure

Thaw 40-60mL of donor blood per recipient

Sedate recipient, monitor vitals

Administer transfusion

Monitor neurological, physiological, behavioral response

If recipient normalized, commence psychokinetic testing

Donor Information: Primary Donor: HCr-001

---

Henry's stomach lurched violently into his throat. It burned with the taste of bile as he stared at the words, the typeface warping beneath his vision as his head began to spin.

Donor 001.

He should've known.

He should’ve known that Brenner wouldn't be content forever with creating his perfect army of weapons in utero, molding the minds of the resulting children. He wanted to go further. Always further. He wanted to know if a fully-developed brain could be reset, rewired, remade into something remarkable with his hands.

The hands of a perverted, narcissistic devil who fancied himself a god.

He turned the page.

---

Recipient 1 - Male, 46 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Acute anaphylaxis

---

Henry's heart hammered against his ribs as his fingers flipped through the pages of subjects, each concluded with a grim status.

---

Recipient 2 - Male, 37 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Acute hemolytic transfusion reaction

---

Recipient 3 - Female, 28 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Acute hemolytic transfusion reaction

---

Recipient 4 - Male, 22 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Transfusion-associated circulatory overload

---

Recipient 5 - Male, 39 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Acute anaphylaxis

---

Recipient 6 - Female, 52 Outcome: Acute negative response. Subject incompatible. Status: DECEASED

Observations: - Transfusion-associated circulatory overload

---

His fingers were numb, bloodless as he studied each page. There were four more, all with the same outcome.

Incompatible. Deceased.

He almost didn't bother turning the page. What good would it do to see another lifeless, nameless number, another fatal consequence of Brenner's sick game?

Then, he turned it.

---

Recipient 11 - Female, 19 Outcome: Positive response. Subject compatible. Status: LIVING - INDUCTED.

Observations: - Acute tachycardia - Respiratory distress - Brief seizure activity - Eventual stabilization into comatose state.

---

Henry felt as if his lungs had solidified.

His finger ran across the page, his fingerprint tracing the typeface of each letter.

His eyes fell to the bottom of the page.

---

Belongings: - Blue jeans - Grey sweater - Brown hunting jacket, men’s size L - Pair Converse, black

---

His gaze sharpened over the words.

Converse, black.

There it was, plain as day in front of him, and he still didn't believe it. It couldn't be possible.

You weren't just made. You were lured with honeyed promises. Led like a lamb to the slaughter. Snatched and held and pumped full of the blood of Brenner’s prized darling. The first, the cornerstone, the anomaly. The one Brenner failed to control and thus strived to replicate.

You were a weapon. He'd been sure of that much from the moment he'd seen what you could do.

You were manufactured, engineered. A bespoke beast, a sick imitation Brenner hoped to get right this time.

Manufactured to unhinge him? To break him? To lure him somehow, to destroy him entirely?

Henry slammed the file closed, his mind reeling painfully, convinced for a moment that he might vomit right through the pages. He took a deep, steadying breath and tilted his watch face.

1am.

He re-locked the desk, replaced the key, settled the briefcase exactly where it had been, and swiveled the chair to its original, impeccably straight position behind the desk. He stuffed the file under his arm and craned his head out the door, making sure the dark halls were clear.

His head spun as he descended the stairs, lower and lower into the bowels of hell itself it felt, until he ended up at the very bottom. A service door, set in the dark and dank.

He needed something more. Something tangible.

Evidence of you.

***

The laundry room always made him somewhat thankful for the white-walled maze he inhabited.

It was dim, thick with a feeling of musky condensation that held in the air like an invisible fog. It smelled of damp and the faint, antiseptic detergent that lived permanently on every single one of his shirts.

The machines were groaning and thumping in the low light, spinning loads of laundry.

He didn't know what he was looking for, exactly.

He was only certain of the water-tight facade that Brenner would have manufactured for every one of the subjects he'd lured to their deaths.

That many missing would have turned too many heads. He'd have had their bodies returned to town, propped up in alleys, needles jammed into their veins. Floating face down in the river. Set up in crashed vehicles. Behind a dumpster with empty bottles clutched within their rigored fingers.

Staged, accidental. Scenes that brought no questions, and better yet the ones that brought no sympathy.

He couldn't have sold the lies without their belongings. If that was you in that file, and every synapse in his brain was screaming that it was, then your things had to be here somewhere.

Nothing stood out. It was all white and grey, bags of linens, cupboards full of cleaning supplies, sinks of dripping taps.

Then, his gaze drew toward the darkened corner at the end of the room. The basement door.

The real pits of the lab, where no one ever ventured unless absolutely necessary.

He had to shove a shoulder against the warped, ancient metal door to get it to open all the way. It scraped across the rough concrete flooring. The darkness stretched down a flight of stairs, the tight confines of the walls foreboding as he paced down them.

The only light was the deep glow of the furnaces, until his fingers fondled a loose chain against the brick and pulled.

Dim yellow light flooded the space, dark and dank. Cobwebs adorned the corners, while the floor was covered in an inexplicable layer of dusty silt, as if the room was slowly giving up on itself.

He paced it slowly, scanning every inch, stopping every few minutes to warm his frigid hands in front of the furnaces.

A row of metal lockers adorned the back wall. Half open, with rusted latches and warped doors that wouldn't properly shut. His hands pulled open the dusty metal.

Discarded equipment stared back at him. A random assortment of old broken machinery parts, outdated uniforms, spare hazmat suits.

Nothing of note.

Until one of the doors shifted back, bumped by his elbow.

The light filtered into the locker. It illuminated a large, brown hunting jacket, hanging on a hook.

He scanned it for a moment, fingers grazing over the fabric, rough and worn through too many years.

Then, he shifted.

The light fell over an old, weathered pair of shoes.

Converse. Scuffed, torn, the soles peeling at the sides. The black canvas faded. Then, he saw them.

The laces.

The rigid line of mismatched thread sewn into them.

The cold thrum of dread made a forceful return, vibrating against the back of his neck as he stared at them. He reached down and ran a shaky finger across the jagged lines of fraying thread.

You’d tried to mend them.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

☣︎ Comment if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series! ☣︎

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[lazarusawakens]

Viper - Lazy Afternoons

Viper - Part Seven: Lazy Afternoons

Summary: You enjoy your last day with Henry before heading back to work.

Ship: Henry Creel|Peter Ballard|Vecna|One/Reader

Tags: Fluff, Hand-holding, Whipped Henry Creel, ST 5 Fix-it

WC: 3.6K

A/N: Hello it's me again, tension is ramping up!!! Just so you know, there most likely won't be a chapter released this upcoming week. I am going on a weekend trip, and I usually write on the weekends, whereas due to that, I won't have that time. But you never know, miracles can happen. Also thank you for all the love and comments, especially to those who comment every week, it seriously makes my day and I love waiting to see your guys reactions!!!

PART SIX

It's impossible, said pride. It's risky, said experience. It's pointless, said reason. Give it a try, whispered the heart. - Sonu Sood

The sun was barely up this morning, but it still cast long pale stripes across the hardwoods of your bedroom floor. Usually, you would hear Henry shuffling about downstairs, but you had been surprised before, so it really shouldn't have shocked you today that he did something else new.

When you padded downstairs into the kitchen, your eyes rubbed from sleep, he wasn't in his bedroom. Instead, you found him standing in the kitchen next to the sink, leaning all of his weight on his good leg. He had one hand on the counter to steady himself, and the other was awkwardly, but determinedly wiping down the counters with a damp cloth.

He was wearing the same dark gray t-shirt from yesterday, his blonde hair uncombed and sticking up in a few places. He looked focused—unusually so—as he wiped up the crumbs.

"Henry?" you asked as you walked into the kitchen. "Am I still asleep, or are you doing chores right now?"

He didn't startle as you spoke, but he slowed down his swiping. He didn't look at you, instead doubling down his focus on a stubborn smudge near a vase of fake flowers. "I found myself annoyed at the various maple syrup rings and graphite powder."

"Uh-huh. So this is purely selfish?"

"Entirely," he muttered.

You walked over and took the washcloth from him, your fingers brushing against his in the process. He didn't pull away or stiffen at the contact. He looked at you, without a single hint of irritation in his eyes.

"You've been able to walk around? All by yourself?" you noted as you nudged him toward a chair.

"Yes," he said as he allowed himself to be guided into a seat. He watched as you started the kettle, his eyes quietly following you. "I've decided I no longer want to be recovering. I no longer want to be a permanent fixture on your furniture."

"I'm not sure if that's a decision you get to make, but you can sure try," you teased as you set down two mugs. "You are actually being really pleasant this morning, no complaining, no lecturing me. You are losing your edge, Henry."

You poured the water over a teabag and handed it to him, steam curling around his features. He took a slow sip at first, his eyes drifting over to the window where the morning light hit the trees.

"Perhaps I am," he said softly. "I've been finding it difficult to be grumpy when I no longer feel like my body wants to explode."

He tapped his fingers along the length of the table before speaking again. "Are you making breakfast? I assume you haven't forgotten how to."

"Okay, Bossy," you say, looking in the fridge for some milk. "Cereal okay?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"I have to head back to work tomorrow," you said as you poured the cereal and milk into a bowl for him. "My emergency leave can only go on for so long."

Henry stilled at the thought. He knew deep down that he didn't want you to leave, but it was unavoidable. The air in the kitchen grew heavier with his discontent.

"Do you have to?" he asked rather sheepishly.

"Yes, but I'll be back in the evenings," you said as you leaned against the counter. "The fridge should be stocked, and the phone is right over here in the kitchen. You are moving well enough that I think you can reach it if needed."

He finally looked up at you. There was a spark of something behind his eyes—not anger, but it seemed to creep towards annoyance.

"I see," he said, voice regaining a bit of its formal, clipped edge. " You must get back to your engineering. I suppose you cannot play nurse forever."

"Henry. I am not a nurse. I'm just… A friend who has been helping her very stubborn roommate," you corrected, not letting him fall victim to his shell of bitterness. "And you are doing fine. Better than fine."

He let out a short, dry huff of hair and looked towards his sketchbook on the island. "I suppose I'll manage, I have endured years of silence in the lab; surely, a few hours of your absence will not result in my psychological collapse."

"Is that so? I was getting worried that you would miss me too much."

"Never. I will suffer through this with my dignity intact," he counted, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Though I suspect I will continue to have to listen to the annoyance of these birds in the morning."

"One of these days, Henry, I will get you to smile. One day," you said, watching him, realizing that as much as he complained about the noise and chaos of your life, the opposite, the emptiness, scared him as well.

"I will be back before dinner," you promised. "I saw you staring at the piano the other night," you gestured to the corner of your living room. "If you get bored, you can play. I'm not sure how in tune it is."

He looked over and then back at you. "Maybe," he murmured.

You set your mug down with a clunk and got out an empty notepad from your drawer. "If you are gonna be home alone, I need to set some ground rules. I do not need you getting injured in the short time I am gone."

He arched one of his eyebrows, "Rules? How delightful. It is as if I am eight years old again."

"Very funny. Rule number one: No Mountain Climbing." You pointed your finger at him. "I am very serious, Henry. Do not try to get things you can't reach. I know you like the fancy tea I have up in that cabinet."

He let out a grumble.

"Rule number two: The phone." You gestured to the mounted rotary phone in the kitchen, its coiled cord dangling. "If the phone rings, take your time getting to it. Do not—I repeat, do not—sprint for it. If it's so important, they will call back. And if you need to call me, the number for my office is sitting on a post-it note next to it."

He looks at the phone as if it were an alien artifact. "I have no intention of sprinting anywhere."

"Rule number three: Ice is going to be your friend," you gestured down to his foot. "I know that you are healing, but if it starts throbbing, I want you to prop it up and get some ice from the freezer."

"If you insist," he muttered, clearly annoyed by your sentiment.

"Good," you said, tearing off the list of rules and sticking it to the fridge with a small fruit-shaped magnet. "Now, since today is my last day off, I'm thinking we can go sit outside, it's too nice out on the porch not to."

"Shall I go fetch my cardigan?"

"Hurry up, let's go."

The screen door gave its signature creek at your opening, Henry following behind slowly. The dewy air was crisp, and it carried the scent of freshly cut grass and mulch.

"Careful getting through the door," you cautioned as you held it wide open.

He quickly maneuvered himself over the wooden lip with a focused grunt. "I am perfectly capable of getting outside myself, thank you. Though I suspect you haven't painted your porch since before even I was in the lab."

"Hey! It has character," you shot back, pulling a wicker armchair close to him so he didn't have to move too far.

He eased himself into the chair and propped his foot up on the nearby ottoman. He pulled his cardigan on, and his eyes narrowed to adjust to the brightness of the real world.

"Your backyard is very green," he remarked as his gaze took in its expanse.

"Yes, because we are outside, Henry. It tends to do that in the spring." You sat on the porch railing and let your legs sway back and forth. "Better than inside, right?"

He didn't answer immediately; instead, he watched some blue jays land in the birdbath, his head tilting at the birds' erratic movements. The tension that he seemed to always carry lessened at the breeze of the calm morning.

"It's nice out. I suppose I can manage sitting out here, granted the birds do not get too noisy."

"Don't count on it. They seem to be very opinionated this time of year."

You both sat in silence for a long time, just taking in the nature. It was a quiet, but a well-needed rest.

"You know," you started, leaning against a porch post. "If you keep that look on your face, I'm going to start thinking that you actually like sitting out here. You almost look—glowing. I think it would be quite damaging to your reputation."

He shifted in the wicker chair, slowly and deliberately. "I do not glow. You are making it sound like I am some sort of radioactive material."

"Well, whatever you want to call it, you look healthy," you said, voice softening. "The way you were standing in the kitchen this morning told me that you are getting your strength back. You aren't the same guy I found practically dead on the road. "

He looked down at his good hand and flexed it, then finally looked back into the yard. "This version of myself is far more demanding. He requires tea and clean sheets."

"And he helps with the dishes," you couldn't help but grin as you reminded him. "Don't forget that."

"I am not your maid. Do not expect it to happen again," he huffed, but there was no real bite to his words.

"I wouldn't dream of it. I would probably find everything meticulously arranged or something equally as exhausting."

He let out a short and dry chuckle—the sound much fuller than it had been a week ago. "I suppose I should be thankful that you didn't try to 'heal me' with something truly dreadful, like these awful neon headbands I see the neighbors wearing."

"Don't say that, Henry. You might give me ideas. If I come home and you're bored, I might have to find you some spandex."

"If you bring spandex into this house," he said, his blue eyes flashing with his sharp wit. " I will be forced to reconsider your 'no mountain climbing rule' just to find places to hide."

"See? That's the spirit." You stood up, brushing some dirt off your jeans. "You are doing great, Henry. Really."

He didn't look up, but he didn't look away when you placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "I feel… much better. I don't know about great," he muttered as he settled deeper into the chair. He looked more like he belonged on that porch than any of the untouched furniture.

You both stayed out there chatting and in silence for hours, until the sun hung low and painted the sky into messy streaks of oranges and violets. Out on the street, there was the distant sound of a lawn mower and a dog barking a few houses down.

You remained on the porch, resting your chin on your knees, as you sat on the top step.

"The colors are too… loud," Henry muttered, breaking the deep silence.

"Too loud?" you questioned, glancing back at him. "I don't know if that's what I would use to describe it, but the sun is setting. It's supposed to be the most beautiful time of the day."

"It's just.. a lot," he said, pointing up to the changing colors of the night sky. "It's been a long time since I last saw one. I was probably a boy. The lab did not exactly have windows to keep track of the sky's patterns."

"Well, I suppose nature isn't known for being subtle," you spoke softly. "But I think it's probably better than looking at the never-changing ceiling?"

Henry leaned forward, the orange catching the lines on his face. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is better. It's just… it makes the world feel very big. I'm not used to that anymore."

"It will be here when I get home tomorrow," you said as the last of the sun dipped below the trees and plunged the evening into darkness. "The sky, the outdoors, none of this is going anywhere."

He shifted his gaze from the horizon to you.

"You are right. It will be here," he said, but this time it wasn't a snappy comeback; it felt genuine. "And while you are at work, I promise not to trip over the phone cord."

"Good. Because I was serious about the neon headband thing. If I catch you climbing on the counters, I'm going to bring one home and make you wear it."

He let out a real laugh this time. "I will stay on the floor," he promised as he steadied himself on the chair arms to push himself up. "For the sake of my dignity, if nothing else."

You stood up and walked over to help him, and as you both headed inside to the warmth of the kitchen, the house felt like it was truly full.

"I'm not quite ready to call it a night yet, what do you think?" you said, nodding towards the TV set. "We could see if there is a movie on or at least see what the weather is supposed to be like for my day back tomorrow."

"I will watch with you," he said, turning towards the TV.

"Perfect!" You helped him settle into the sofa, which involved engineering in itself to maneuver his legs up. Once he was successfully propped up, you grabbed the remote and the screen hummed to life, first setting a blanket across the back edge.

The evening was starting to settle in, the floorboards creaking as the house settled. Instead of going to sit in the adjacent armchair, you plopped down right next to him on the sofa.

"Make some room, leg-man," you muttered, scooting over until your shoulders brushed each other.

Before he was able to protest, you grabbed the blanket and draped it over both of you, tucking it under his legs and over your lap. The weight of it trapped the two of you together.

"Is this supposed to be a part of my healing protocol?" he asked, voice rough.

"Hush, Henry. The movie is starting," you countered, leaning back.

The tension in his shoulders bled away. He didn't move away, but instead sank further into the couch, his attention fully focused on the screen. For someone who had been so touch-starved, he didn't seem to mind it.

You smile to yourself, it's a small victory. On the screen, there was a beautiful party with dancing and gowns, where the lead was making some grand romantic speech, but you weren't really listening.

All you could feel was the weight of him against you.

Underneath the heavy wool of the blanket, the heat radiating from him was as if you were in a furnace together. He was tall, and taking up more space than you were used to sharing, and the proximity was doing something funny to your heart rate. But sitting here, together, he felt much more like a man than you were willing to admit.

Get it together, you told yourself during a commercial break. He's just a roommate, one who is very tired and very grumpy. This is just… friendly.

Then Henry shifted; it wasn't much, but his head tilted, and his breath ruffled the stray hairs on your temple.

"You smell a lot like your lavender shampoo. It is… distracting me," he murmured, the weight of his voice settling deep in your chest.

"Are you complaining?" you asked, your voice coming out a little more breathy than you had intended. "I thought you said that you had liked it?"

He turned his head towards you, but because you were so close, he didn't have to move far. His face was just inches from yours.

"Yes, I did. I am not complaining," he said softly.

You found yourself looking at the line of his jaw and the way his lips were slightly parted. You are not staring at his lips right now, you told yourself, though it was undeniable. The only thing that mattered now was the space between you; the TV was just background noise.

You wondered if he could hear your heart thumping. You wondered if he knew that your hand was just inches away from his under the blanket.

Here I am. Making things complicated.

As you drifted through your thoughts, Henry did something unexpected. His good hand, which had been resting on his lap, moved towards you. He didn't lace your fingers together—not all of the anyways. But he let his pinky hook tentatively over yours. It felt like you had just been struck by lightning.

He didn't look away from you. "You leave in the morning," he stated, voice deep.

"It's only a few hours, I promise," you whispered.

"And those hours will be the longest I have ever felt," he said. He didn't pull his finger away. If anything, it was now gripping yours tighter.

The tension was so thick that it was choking the room. You suddenly felt the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to see if he was as warm as he felt through the sweater. But before you had the opportunity to collect your thoughts and decide if this was the best— or worst idea you've ever had, a car backfired on the street outside, breaking your trance.

Despite that, he didn't move his hand, keeping you both tethered together.

"I think I should let you finish the show in peace. Since you have a big day at work tomorrow."

"Nothing too important, Henry," you laughed. "For the tenth time, I'll be back before you know it."

"I'll be counting down the seconds," he said, though it didn't sound like he was joking.

The movie on the screen developed into a chase. But despite the enthralling picture, you still couldn't pay a lick of attention.

Stop overthinking this. He is just tired, and you are reading into things that aren't there.

But the way he was looking at the television suggested that he wasn't paying attention either,

"You are very quiet," he observed, but he wasn't trying to jab at you.

"I'm just thinking about what I am going to have to do when I get back to work," you lied.

"Liar," he muttered. He didn't say it in a mean tone, but you had no clue how he saw through your facade. He turned his head back towards you and leaned it onto the cushion. "You think this is a mistake."

You let out a small, shaky breath. "Is that what you think you are? A mistake?"

"I am disrupting… this. Everything you have here," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to your eyes. "And even now, I am taking up your evening."

"I'm not exactly complaining, Henry," you said, voice barely above a whisper. You decided to be brave for once—to take a risk, and you slid your hand over his until they fully met each other.

His sharp intake of breath startled you. For a second, you anticipated he might pull away, but instead, he relaxed and curled his fingers around yours. It was the grip of a drowning man, who finally found his raft to hold on to.

Oh, you thought. Maybe this isn't just… friendship.

"Tomorrow," he started, voice dropping to that deep register that always seemed to settle within you. "When you are at your desk, obsessing over lines and rectangles on your drawings… will you forget this?"

"No," you said, and you meant it. "I don't think I could forget this if I tried."

He looked like he wanted to say—or do —something else, something heavy that had been bottled up for three decades. He traced his thumb in circles over your hand.

Then, the TV cut to a loud and bright commercial, startling you both, making the reality of the hour set in.

"You should sleep, it's getting late," Henry said, hands still together.

"Probably, but the blanket is warm," you admitted, though it was not only the blanket.

"It is," he agreed.

He leaned in, just a fraction, so close that your foreheads were almost touching. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually bridge the gap. You could feel the warmth of his breath and the faint smell of your soap on his skin.

Then, with the squeeze of your hand, he pulled back.

"Go," he prodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Before I insist you stay up and watch the sunrise with me."

"Don't tempt me," you teased, feeling the rush of cold air as the blanket slid off you. "Though I thought you didn't like the colorful sky."

"I never said that," he countered with a smirk.

You felt a little lightheaded from his lingering touch. "I'll see you in the kitchen for tea before I leave. Don't break any rules."

"I do not know if I can promise that," he called after you as you retreated to the stairs.

God, these hours were going to feel so long.

Tags:@beessoulruins @frolickingbimbo @importantbarbarianwolf @mushroomwithinternetaccess @creelvx @hintofblueinagraysky @undead-lillian@c4nnibalxc0rpse1

[opera-ghost]

the colors of MASQUERADE | pulse one

[s0phslibrary]

STAY WITH ME; henry creel/mr whatsit x fem!hopper!reader (part 001)

synopsis; as a lure to get will, eleven, and the others to make their way into Henry's grip of obliteration faster, he caught you between his claws first. but what he sees in the process isn't just someone who will fight back or run. he finds someone who has had to survive on their own for far too long. and it peels away the cool layers he has, day by day.

content tidbits; (possibly) dead dove, reader has depression and OCD, suicidal ideation, hospital mention, reader takes medication, s/h mention, Henry and reader bond over mental illness lmfao, the mind flayer is almost like Venom but more of a puppet master than a symbiotic ally, canon compliant (for the most part, if parts don't line up with canon, let your subconscious handle the details), age gap but it’s not a major theme (reader is 21 and Henry is 27, aged him down bc I don’t know how to go about writing him older lmfao) former Eddie x reader (platonic), platonic Steve x reader, season 5, trauma from previous seasons, enemies to lovers themes, death mentions, swearing, threats, Henry tries to be manipulative but doesn’t get very far, reader is in the mindscape for 2 'months' before Holly gets there (courtesy of Henry extending time there rather than time lining up to the real world, in the real world it's actually just a week passed until she gets there), Henry The Therapist, eventual smut (in later parts), dr brenner is his own tw, henry's trauma, use of y/n

more content warnings will be added/changed per chapter!!

word count; 5.3k, mostly proofread, will likely proofread more over time

a/n: so i know i said i was working on the eddie fic. but henry as mr whatsit is in my mind heavyy rn. i have been depressed asf recently, and only lately have i started recovering/feeling better, and i wanna share that in my work. i also just love henry paired w forbidden love/enemies to lovers, so this lets me have that too!

song inspo; click here!

You were closer to breaking now than you had been in the last 3 years.

You grew up watching your little sister lose herself to a vicious illness. Your mother leaving, the weight of loss unbearable for her. You had seen the town you live in fall into the trap of a version of itself that was parallel to Hell. You watched as innocent children battled monsters. You watched your adoptive sister be responsible for the fate of the world, more times than you can count. You watched people you cared for die. You were tortured in a Russian spy base. Just to get out of it to find out your father had been obliterated, and your sister was moving across the country.

That was when things got to a point that they had never been before. A deep, visceral despair that would not lessen.

You were offered a chance to leave Hawkins too, but the idea of leaving behind the last traces of your father made your heart crush against your ribs. So you stayed. You stayed, moving in with Steve, who kept you afloat through it all.

Countless nights of him having to call Robin to come over, because he didn’t know how to tell you that you wouldn’t find a reprieve from the pain by killing yourself. Days where Nancy would stay by your side from dawn until dusk, making sure you were somewhat functional. But all you could do in the moments you weren’t sobbing was lie in bed and think of how life had been stripped from you.

You were not physically dead, but without your father, either of your sisters, your mother, any semblance of the normalcy you used to cling to, you may as well have been dead in every other way.

Then came the spring of 1986. Right when you finally felt like life would offer you a chance to keep living. You had landed a part time job at Family Video. You were thinking of college in the coming years. You were spending time with The Party, what was left of it. And you had befriended Eddie Munson. Who found you crying at the pier one night when he just wanted to come smoke.

Eddie did more for your healing than anything else could have.

And then the Upside Down opened its jaws again. And it took him, along with half of Hawkins.

Sarah, your mother, Eleven, your father, and now Eddie. Every person who truly breathed life into you had left you gasping for oxygen.

It was 12:31 AM the day after Hawkins split open when Steve Harrington called an ambulance for you after you told him you wanted to commit suicide.

The few days following were a whirl of medications, hospital beds, therapy appointments, ‘get well’ cards, Dustin visiting you with Steve, to give you a collection of guitar picks Wayne had salvaged from Eddie’s room. Eleven had come back to Hawkins after her own uphill battle, and you held each other, sobbing into the hospital sheets.

And then came your father, walking through the hospital doors. It made you think you had actually died. Or the meds were too much. But after multiple retelling from him of what had happened across the globe, you realised that he was not a spirit, nor an illusion. You, he, and El, sat in your hospital room, and wept for the time lost.

About 3 weeks later, you were sent home. The hospital would have had you sent somewhere out of Hawkins to recover, but the town had by now been put on lockdown, it wasn’t possible unless you had caused any legitimate harm to yourself. You were sent back to a freshly repaired version of the cabin with a schedule of long lasting therapy sessions, and enough antidepressants to sedate a small pony.

But you had your dad. You had El. That counted for something.

Until the stakes of Vecna’s plans fell back into focus, and suddenly it was like you were back to normal to the world around you. Obviously, you weren’t. The meds were helping, as was the familiarity of family. People tried to be around for you, but there was never any time for them to really check anymore. You weren’t angry. You understood. But the moments you would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of when you saw Eddie’s body, or the pure agony you felt as Steve called 911, or the way the tears drowned you into near catatonia more times in the last year that you could count; you just wished someone would see it.

That wish granted you more than you bargained for.

After a crawl the week before the start of November went wrong, you were stranded. Trying to make your own way back to the WSKQ, to grab some resources and head back to the others. But to your luck- your fucking car broke down. That was the first crack in the layer of composure you forced upon yourself. You tried a payphone not far away. No service, and you were left with no cash to try again. By now, the tears had started. The panic, the feeling of things never getting better. But you went back to the car, and used your walkie to contact someone, anyone. You got through to Steve.

"Jesus, where are you? You should have been back half an hour ago! We need the maps and tools now, what are you doing?"

"Steve, my fucking car broke down- I'm sorry. I tried to call for a tow on a payphone, but there was no service, and I ran out of coins-"

"Fuck sake, we don’t have time for this! You need to find a way to The Squawk now, get the maps, and meet us back at the cabin, now."

"Steve, I can’t go walking by myself- Steve? Steve?? STEVE?!"

He had hung up his end of the walkie.

"FUCK!!!" You yelled, sobbing. You threw the walkie out of the car. Which made you panic more, because you didn’t have a way to reach anyone now.

You wailed and clawed at yourself. You felt like a failure. An inconsolable, sinking failure.

And then the light in the phone booth flickered, in the near distance.

You jumped from your car, and sprinted to it. You would take any chance, any sign, of a signal. You dialled the number for the towing company that you had shacked away in your memory, and waited.

A dial tone.

Waiting.

Ringing.

When the call picked up, the silence aside from static was absolute.

"....Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"

No one was there.

Aside from an all too familiar growl, squelching, crackling, high pitched.

The phone slipped from your hand, and in your periphery, you could just catch the tall inhumane silhouette.

You didn’t even have a chance to scream before claws grabbed at the front of your shirt, and you were plunged into darkness.

In the middle of the deserted road, the broken walkie crackled to life with the frantic calls of Robin's voice. All she was met with was a distant, guttural cry of something monstrous.

----------

When you woke, everything was a hazy, distant dream. The grass beneath you was soft, almost plush. The sky was blue, littered with white clouds, fresh breeze, carrying the scent of a new spring. Spring. It was spring, in November. Nothing of this was right.

You sat up, and looked around. A field, plain and clean, full of wildflowers and grassy hills. You tried to gather your thoughts, but it was as if you had been drunk before this. There was only a few clips of recognition. The car, your tears, the despair, and the phone booth. And a chill, that went straight from your toes, to your head, and into your soul.

"You're awake."

You yelled, and turned.

There behind you, stood a man. A fair skinned man, with blond hair, cerulean eyes, in a brown suit, a matching fedora atop his head. And a smal, pleasant smile, that looked far to rehearsed. There was something far too familiar about him.

You were stationary, staring at him for a good 30 seconds. Then you bolted. You sprinted as fast as your legs could endure, but not fast enough. You found a house. A house you had seen before, in a much worse for wear state, in a much worse for wear place. But your survival instincts led you to the front door, yanking it open. You fell backwards, as the man stood in the doorway.

"I'd watch where you're going, if I were you. Don’t want you to get hurt now, would we?" He took a step forward, extending you a hand. You slapped it away, scrambling back. You stood to turn and run, but again, somehow, he stood before you, not allowing you to take a step in his previously opposite direction.

"You don’t need to run. I won’t hurt you. You are safe here."

"Fucking bullshit." You snap, standing, stumbling back away from him. You now knew better than to run. He seemed almost amused at your foul language.

"Come inside, Y/n." He tries to placate.

"How do you know my name?" You snap yet again.

"I know plenty about you. It's why I saved you. From the monster."

"That was you?" Your incredulous tone makes his smile widen. "No, that- fuck- nobody else was there. My car broke down, I tried to call for help, and-"

"And the monster got you. Now you're here, where it is safe."

"Nothing is fucking safe to me anymore. I don’t trust you, I don’t trust this, and I don’t trust that me getting snatched by a demogorgon was anything casual!"

"....Snatched by a what?" He tilted his head.

"Demogorgon. That thing, the monster. It's called a demogorgon."

"According to who?'

"Me. My friends. Everyone aware they exist."

"And how do you know they exist?"

"How do you know they exist?"

"Because I saved you from it."

"Then why don’t you know it's name?"

"Because I've seen them plenty, but they've never had a name."

That made you pause.

"You've seen them plenty."

You caught the way his eyes widen a fraction "Yes. Because they stalk around in the woods. One of them came further, to near you. It got you."

"They only live in an alternate dimension, which this is nothing like. How is it they just roam through woods somewhere I am supposedly safe? And 'it got me'. How could it have got me if you 'saved me'?"

"Don't be difficult."

"Don't be a fucking liar."

"I am many things, but I am not a liar."

"Then tell me this: who are you?"

"Henry Whatsit."

"Your last name isn't fucking Whatsit, that's a character from a book. Fine, Hen-....."

You look back at the house. Then to him.

"Henry."

"Yes."

"This is the Creel house."

"Is it? Is that the family that lived here perviously?"

"I think you know."

"And what makes you think that?"

You stand up, and take a closer look at him. "How old are you?"

His head tilts again. "27."

"Henry Creel killed his family. Enough years have passed to where if he was alive today, he'd be 27. Your name is Henry, you're 27, and you happen to live in his house? And the monsters, that Henry, now Vecna, and yes, we call him Vecna, don't fucking ask, controls the demogorgons, and you just HAPPEN to live in the only place they roam?"

He's silent. He walks up to you, and you know better than to move.

"You're more perceptive than I thought."

He leans in closer.

"That's dangerous."

You're thrown back into an abyss of darkness before you can even respond.

----

A bed as soft as clouds held your body as you came to.

It was like an illusion of safety. But god, was it a relief. It made your heart clench under your bones. As if all of the pain from the last 5 years had been washed off, like dirt down a shower drain. And it was warm, hypnotically so. But you forced the trance away, sat up, and looked around. A bedroom. A guest room, you would assume- but what caught your eye the most was how intentional the design was. It was full of items, trinkets, colour palettes that you desire for yourself. Yet it still had a distinct 1950s aura to it.

A flowing melody came from downstairs, something old, sweet, sarchine but not to a point of displeasure. It was then, you realised, you were forced into the house you were earlier outside. Henry's house. Or something akin to its previous state, before it was taken over by ruin and abandon.

You did not want to be stuck here, and you knew the repercussions of running.

But running wasn’t worse than leaving those you love with an unfortunate fate.

You didn’t bother putting on your shoes, or the slippers by the bed. You pushed open the crack left in the door, and crept down the stairs with a stealthy precision you've had no choice but to adapt over time. It was a challenge trying to not put pressure on the creakier steps, but you worked your way down in silence. The front door was just feet away.

The foyer of the house was silent as you didn’t let a single breath slip past you. Your hand was inches from the doorknob, when

"And what do you think you're doing?"

You didn’t even look to the direction of Henry's voice, you just yanked the door open and ran. The wind whipped through your hair as your socks caught on twigs and stones, and you had just made it to the edge of the woods. There was something blocking you. Moreso, pulling you away. You tripped over your feet trying to scramble away, but it yanked you back, all the way into the house. The door slammed behind you and you were swept over the floor, your back hitting the table in the entryway.

Henry locked the door and turned to you. His eyes were now more firm, set on you with an icy intensity.

"If you had given me time, I'd have explained the biggest rule for the time you're here, is to not leave. Especially not to go into the woods. You already broke that."

"Fuck you, and your fucking rules! And how was I meant to know? You abducted me! You haven’t told me anything!"

"I would have, if you had just stayed put. There is no reason to fight me here. I will not hurt you, unless you explicitly disobey me. And considering you weren't told anything yet, I will not harm you. You get a warning. Now, will you get up? Or do I have to look down on you further while explaining everything?"

What an insufferable, pompous cretin.

You manage to stand shakily, though your back persisted in the area of previous impact.

"I apologise for the force, but it was needed. I didn’t feel like chasing you through the woods. Not right now. Now, follow me. Sit in the kitchen, where I can see you. I'll make tea." He politely gestures to the kitchen, leaving you to pause until he was out of sight, then follow.

The kitchen was a comfortable and lush space, a large breakfast bar in the centre, mint and brick orange accents tha sat against sleek black and white furnishings, lifting the room into something startlingly reminiscent of the 1950's. The smell of tea and something sweet, like baking pastries, floated through the room. The whole thing exuded a fake warmth. But you hated that it was something of a known familiarity to you.

You sat at the breakfast bar, Henry's back to you as he steeped a teabag in a teapot.

"Is earl gray okay?"

"I'm not drinking your poison."

He turned, lips slightly quirked up. "If I wanted you poisoned, I would have been far more obvious. I like to make my prey watch what I'm going to do before I catch them. This however, is standard earl gray. Now, is that okay, or do you have different tastes?"

"Just give me it." You grit out.

"I take that as a yes to the flavour. Good, it's my favourite, too."

He grabbed two teacups from a nearby cabinet, two small saucers to sit them on. He pursed one in front of you, and in front of himself -- yet he remained standing on the opposite side of you.

He took a sip, then spoke.

"I imagine you're scared."

"I'm not scared, I just wish you were dead."

"What a lovely pleasantry. Trust me, I know. I haven’t exactly made life easy for you. But that's why I have you here. To make it up to you, to repay you for the troubles I've caused."

"You can do that by letting me go back to my friends and family, and giving up on your mission to blow everything up."

"If I haven't made it clear, you aren’t leaving for now. This is not a prison, but a safe haven. I've seen how you've been recently. You can't pour from an empty cup. You need time. In a space that will accomodate you, provide you with enough time and supplies to get back on your feet, so when you leave, you're well rested, and can do your part."

"I'm not an idiot, I know you have ulterior motives. I see what you do, what you have done. You're posing as this version of you, when you're a slimy, tentacle freak who tries to kill people for personal gain."

Henry stares at you, then shrugs.

"I suppose you're right. I have my.... unconventional methods. But I promise, I am not keeping you here to hurt you. What fun would it be to see you break further? And as for my current disposition, this is simply me, here. Not posing. I can shift states as I wish, but in this place, I am simply myself, no.... additives. You don’t have to believe me. But I hope as time passes, you will see that I only want what's best for you. I see far too much of myself in you to let you rot away unfairly. I'm extending a rare kindness to you, Y/n. I hope you come to be grateful. I am giving you a chance to heal all the pain that you carry. A chance to desire to live despite it."

Something in his words felt far too genuine. You couldn’t piece together which of it was, but it was there.

"I know you have different plans. I'm not here just because you pity me. You have me here for something according to what you want, but I know you won’t tell me. But tell me one thing. What will come at the end of this?"

"Peace. For you, me, everyone involved. I'll have you know that my plans are not as destructive as you believe. I simply wish to rewire the world, the systems that carry it. My goals are much more than a ruthless means to an end. I am doing this to save humanity in more ways than just the simple idea of a wipeout."

He didn’t break eye contact as he took a sip of tea, but you broke it when your gaze moved to watch the steam rise from your own. The mental exhaustion felt like a lead weight sitting on your shoulders, trying to melt you into the ground like quicksand.

Annoyingly, he could tell.

"I know what you're thinking right now." His tone is much more gentle now. "It's unfair that this is your only chance to release what you need to let go of. The only other feasible chance the last year and a half has been the idea of death. But this gives you another chance. To do so, in a contained environment, where you will not be judged or ignored. You can do that here."

"Where even is 'here?" You mumble.

"Somewhere in a far better state than the world we are used to. The specifics are rather complicated, but know it is all real. And I emphasise, will not cause harm to you. As long as you stay out of the woods, where there are things that will try to hurt you."

"Demogorgons?"

"....If that's how you wish to refer to them. Yes. And know that since I am, as you know, familiar with them, here, only I can withstand them. So if you were to encounter one, chances are, you wouldn’t survive."

"You still are a sociopathic maniac ,and I still hope to one day see you on fire."

"But?"

"There's no 'but'." You push away your tea, and walk up the stairs. He follows.

"Maybe I am those things, maybe I'm lesser, maybe I'm worse. But I will have you know, here, I am purely human. with many abilities, but in my prominent physicality, I am as simple as you."

You don’t answer, slamming the door to your room behind you, locking it. You slump onto the bed, heart heavy with the reality you currently face. How is it that things are constantly on a downhill track?

And then the door unlocks.

Of fucking course.

Henry stands in the doorway, then enters. He takes in the space, surveying the various items. "I made sure this room would specifically suit your needs and likes. A home away from home. Did I do okay?"

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to.

"I did. I can read you well enough. I will say, you are tricky in ways. Not like anyone else I've met. You're less.... simple. But that's beside the point. I want you to know you have all forms of your favoured entertainment, cosmetics, food, and clothing here. Though I will say, the clothing was slightly altered. Somewhat more vintage. A personal preference of mine. But nothing too severe. You deserve comfort outside of my own wishes. For once."

That made your temper flare. Comfort? Provided by him? He, who is responsible for so much of the reason why you lack so much comfort in the first place. A hypocrite.

"You don’t have to answer. I won't force you to, when you're distressed. I have my ways of getting the answers anyway, as I assume you know of. For now, I shall leave you be. Rest. You need it. Otherwise, what's mine is yours. The house is yours to roam, as long as none of my personal belongings are meddled with."

He paused in the doorway, then turned back to you.

"And Y/n? If you need anything, have any questions, or need any adjustments, I will be in the library of the house. I'm here for the rest of today. I will alert you if I have to leave at any stage. Get some sleep."

He offers a small smile, and watches you for a minute; with something in his gaze you can't pin. He then turns and closes the door, footsteps retreating down the hall.

You're left with a silence that could pierce the very atoms that build the space. You're far too exhausted to devise an escape plan, or accept defeat. Sleep takes you under before you can even try.

-----

When you wake, the sky is a deep blue, littered with stars. The clock on your bedside reads 10:05 PM.

You sit up, feeling far too well rested. It's almost uncomfortable to think of. You haven’t rested this well for far too long. Yet, the rumination wastes no time kicking in.

Vecna has kidnapped you.

Here, he has placed you in an inescapable realm that feigns both normality, and magic. But it is far too polished to be correct.

He knows you know some of his intentions, but will never tell you the truth of it.

He says you are here to recover, but won’t tell you his exact reason why, aside from empathising with you.

Your family and friends likely do not know you're here. They probably don’t even know where you went missing. They’re probably too busy. They won’t be able to save you like this.

Did Henry do anything to you while you slept?

You rise from the bed, and make your way into the attached bathroom. You check over yourself for a good 10 minutes, trying to point out any hidden indication he did something to change you. The lack of result unerves you more.

Tears sting your eyes as you go back to sit on the bed, arms around yourself like shields. You are trapped. Yet again, in some various form, trapped from a life that could so easily be simple. Your mind swirls and dizzies you, too many thoughts fighting each other. He said that here you would have a break from it all. Yet the only break you have at this moment is the break of your mind, bit by bit crumbling under the fact that this time, you truly can not fix it.

You don’t hear the door open some minutes later, or notice Henry's ice blue eyes on you until he steps forward into the space.

"Get the fuck out, you snake."

He doesn’t gratify your words with a response, instead pulling out the desk chair, and sitting it in front of your bed, leaning forward to look at you closer.

"What's the matter?"

"Let me fucking leave. Now."

"You already know that isn’t an option."

The refusal tears at you. Your nails find your arms, digging into the skin that is all too familiar with self-inclicted incisions.

Henry notices. "Don’t do that to yourself. I understand it feels like the only method of relief, but you know it's always shortlived."

"Get out of my head."

"I'm not in your head. I'm just not an idiot."

It made your eyes roll internally to know that much was truth.

He continued; "Now, i'll give you as much time as you need. But I need you to talk to me. Tell me what you feel. What I can do to help."

"Right now, I really wish you had killed me than taken me here. Would have been much better." You express bitterly through the tears.

"I hear that. And I see that you think death would be the more merciful option. But I see the fire in you as well. You don’t want death. You want the pain to leave. Which, again-"

"Is why I'm here, I get it! But me being stuck here is making it worse! I want out! I want all of this to end! I want you dead, I want El safe, I want Max to wake up, I want Hawkins to be safe, I just don’t want to live like this!!"

For a short moment, Henry was silent. And when he at last spoke, his words were not what you expected to hear.

"I know the exact feeling. When I was in the lab, everything was like a liminal space of no return. No joy. No light. No reprieve. Just sterilisation, control, and no way out. I can’t tell you how often I had wished one of the punishments I endured would just fully take me out. But to Papa- To Dr Brenner- A worse fate lied in continuation. Waiting to be let out of mortality."

The words stumped you. You had heard from El how awful the lab could be. It offered no calm to anyone there. But to hear Henry- Vecna himself- say so, twisted the knot that sat stubborn in your heart that refused to see any of his current humanity as fact.

"And I know that's how you feel now." He continued "I apologise for it. It's not at all what I want you to feel. But if you can take one thing away from my story, it's that in some way, escape is possible. Something better waits on the other side of the pain. You just need to withstand long enough to find it. To keep living. For yourself."

The words were a balm, and sedative, all at once. It exhausted you to think that you had to wait it out. But odds be damned, you were being offered a chance to use Vecna as an inspirational figure. It set your teeth on edge.

“How can I live for myself when it feels like the collapse of the world will be my fault if I don’t do one thing right?”

“Collapse isn’t your responsibility. Rebuilding after collapse is. And the world isn’t even new to collapse, and vice versa. That’s why I do what I plan to do. It’s rebuilding. And I do it for myself, I live for myself, because someone has to be the one to do it. And that, of all things, motivates me to live. It may be an egotistical thing, but imagine the pride you feel for continuing, when so many other people roll over.”

“It’s not people’s fault for killing themself.”

“I’m not talking about suicide. I’m talking about the people who let things fester. Those who don’t even bother with a way through. Even when they know there’s many ways. Do you not wish to feel proud of yourself for not being one of them?”

“I can be proud of myself while still empathising with them.”

“That you can. But don’t be afraid to be selfish of it’ll keep you alive. You can balance caring for others while balancing your own needs, as long as your needs are actually met. You have to be the first decision maker in that. People and tools may help you. But ultimately, you save yourself.”

That should not have been what gave you the sliver of hope to continue living. But one thing you should have come to realise much earlier was that Henry Creel was not a man of predictability.

You wiped the tears from your face.

“Even though I’m in an unknown location that’s stuck in the past and I have no clue what my fate will be anymore, and you were responsible for the deaths of many people from an indirect standpoint.” You deadpan, and you catch a genuine grin flick on his face for a moment.

“Yes. You may as well make the most of unpredictable situations. Especially the ones you don’t know the direction of. Life is all about the experiences. You have the choice to get excited about that.”

He rose from the chair and placed it back at the desk. "I'll leave you with that for now. But know that self harm will heal over, and anything aside from yourself will kill you in this house. I made sure to implement those factors into place. But feel free to do anything else. Cry. Eat. Sleep more, though I'll have you know, you slept for 13 hours. Most of the day, into the night. But there's the television in the living room, books in here ad the library, crafts in the study, and much more. Settle in. And for the love of all that is good in the world, don’t use the fact you can’t kill yourself here to try and see what would happen if you attempted. And don’t try anything with the antidepressants. Before you ask, yes, you still need to take them, do not whine."

Against your better judgment, you bit your lip to hold back a grin at the last few requests, the absurdity of it. Henry notices, and something in his still calculating gaze seems to loosen up. A speckle of something human.

"Good. I'll be back in the study until midnight. Do try to sleep again at some point. Your mind needs it if you wish to recuperate. Shout if you need me."

He steps out, and closes the door.

Your stomach drops a small bit when you realise that you, if you really had to, would take him up on that.

You swear to god, if you end up warming up to Vecna because of your desperate fight between attachment and isolation, you will off yourself.

But for now, begrudgingly, you are safe.

For now.

[tiggywrites]

Wren & Legolas

P.S. I think this is my favorite one yet

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Hidden (Part 1)

Twilight

Caius x Reader

Request: Can you write a series (it can be long or short) where the reader is the daughter of Marcus and Didyme? I know it will make it not cannon but it's fiction. She meets Marcus later in life and when they do meet he sees a bond between the reader and Caius. You can come up with the rest.

Rating: M for later Chapters

Ao3 Link

_____

Hiding. That had been a skill that you had perfected over the span of your lifetime. If you tried hard enough, no one would ever find you.

I messed up one time.

You grumbled as two guards held you tightly.

“Hey big guy, can you loosen up a bit?”

You grumbled but he didn’t ease up.

“Just be quiet.”

The first one grumbled. You rolled your eyes, taking extra care to keep your mouth shut (no matter how difficult it was). You let your guard down once. Now you were being hauled to the Volturi.

You hadn’t committed any crimes. In fact, you took extra care to stay hidden as an innocent sheep in the herd. You had a feeling it was about what you were…A half-breed.

You had heard it all of your life from the vampire who looked after you.

Stay hidden and stay quiet. If you are found, they may kill you.

That led to your current predicament. You let your guard down once and here you are.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

The other vampire grumbled.

“I’ll take note of that.”

You replied. The bigger guard gave you a cold glare.

“Chill. He spoke to me. Sheesh.”

You grumbled before being practically dragged into another room. If this were to be your death, this is where it would occur.

Before you sat three men. This is them. You silently decided what bullshit you were about to attempt to feed these men to let you go. Maybe you could come up with something creative? Something told you that was a bad idea, and they wouldn’t enjoy creativity.

The moment their eyes fell on you, all three looked completely stunned.

“I love when people look at me like that.”

You commented as the bigger guard shoved you. Turning around you glared at him.

“Boy, if you shove me again I am going to punt you across the room! You are exceeding the limits of my medication.”

“Y/n?”

You stopped and turned back as the one on the right was on his feet.

“Possibly.”

You replied as the one in the middle was hurrying down the steps. When he reached you, he turned back to the one who said your name.

“You didn’t tell me?”

“Do you blame me?”

You looked between the two, raising an eyebrow before looking back at the blonde who hadn’t moved from his seat. He sat glaring at you as if you had personally offended him in some way.

“You know I love being part of a conversation that I have absolutely no idea about what is going on. I’ll just head on out…”

You said casually before heading to the door.

“Stop. You aren’t going anywhere.”

The blonde snapped. Turning, you gave the three of them a look. Something in his eyes made you freeze exactly where you were. If he didn’t sound like an ass, he may have been good-looking enough.

“It appears there are a lot of secrets that are coming out. Your name is Y/n. Do you know who I am?”

The one in the center said in a suddenly pleasant tone.

“The jokers I have been hiding from for the better part of forever.”

“Watch your tone.”

The blonde snapped.

“Caius, that’s enough. Y/n, I am Aro. It appears I did not know you because your father, Marcus, over here had you hidden.”

It was your turn to be shocked. Your eyes went to the other man, who looked as if he had seen his better. This was your father!

“Oh wow. That’s heavy.”

You muttered as Aro started walking around you. His red eyes looked completely fascinated.

“Where did you come from, dear?”

“Up the road a ways. I don’t stay in one place long.”

Marcus finally was able to formulate a thought. You were alive! Alive, and you looked so much like your mother.

Aro kept looking between Marcus and you. Marcus finally spoke.

“How did you stay hidden?”

“It’s my gift. I can hide so well that even the best trackers won’t find me. You want something hidden, I’m the person to talk to.”

Aro grinned before holding out his hand

“If you don’t mind…I would like to see your thoughts.”

You hesitantly took his hand. Aro blinked quietly before letting go.

“Fascinating.”

“She’s a half-breed.”

The one introduced as Caius said coldly. His red eyes were hyper-focused on you.

“That’s not very nice.”

You said a little more sassy than planned. He raised an eyebrow.

“And she has a mouth.”

“You have no idea.”

You grumbled as your apparent father looked between both of you. Marcus felt instantly sick. A bond. He saw a bond between Caius and yourself.

There will be no way.

Marcus thought coldly before turning his attention back to you. He had to get you away from Caius as soon as possible.

“I’ve looked for you for years. I thought you were dead. You look so much like your mother.”

You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man in front of you. All you could sense was sadness.

“That’s nice. Is she around? Since we are having a family reunion I might as well meat everyone.”

“I’m sorry she’s dead.”

Marcus said, his voice dropping.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

You replied. Growing up, you had hoped to find your family at some point. No one would give you much information on anything so you hoped someone would clue you in.

Aro rushed forward again.

“Your mother was my sister. You really do look so much like her. You can’t leave now. We’ll be glad for you to stay here.”

“Aro, this isn’t the center for unwanted orphans.”

Caius said coldly. Both Marcus and Aro turned to look at Caius with matching displeased expressions.

“She isn’t an orphan.”

Marcus said, his voice turning icy. For the first time in thousands of years, it sounded like he had some life to him.

Caius stood up and stormed out of the room without another word. You watched him leave before turning back to Marcus and Aro.

“He takes himself a little too seriously, huh?”

Aro chuckled.

“You have no idea. You’re welcome to stay. We would love to have you, and I would love to know the story of your existence. Marcus?”

Marcus’ red eyes fluttered to Aro’s face before going back to yours.

“It’s exactly what you expected, Aro. Didyme got pregnant. We knew that neither Caius nor yourself would accept it. Neither one of us wanted Y/n harmed. This happened when Didyme and I disappeared for a few months. We stayed hidden until Y/n was born, then I changed Didyme. We left Y/n in the care of a vampire couple that could keep her safe. It appears Y/n developed her gift and hid so well I never had a chance to find her.”

Aro looked between the two of you again, carefully. Looking at you was like looking at his little sister again. Could this be a second chance? Could Aro right all of the wrongs that he did when he killed Didyme? Even if he couldn’t, he could at least make himself feel better and acquire a vampire with a new gift in the process. You could also possibly get some life back into Marcus.

“Regardless of the circumstances of her birth being right or wrong, she’s here now. You deserve to have a proper family.”

Aro said with a coy smile.

“Okay, we can give it a shot. It would be nice to have something other people have…for once.”

You replied. Aro looked thrilled before turning to Marcus.

“I’ll let the two of you chat. We can answer some more questions later.”

Aro gave you another smile before walking from the room.

“We didn’t abandon you because we didn’t want you.”

Marcus said, calmly. You moved to sit down.

“I don't blame you. I really don’t. I see what you are here. You’re kind of a big deal.”

You replied. Marcus began to pace the room slowly. He found himself staring at you periodically. He stopped in front of you and reached for your hand.

“Big deal or not, you deserved to know the truth from the beginning. We can get to know each other properly. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

“What was she like?”

You asked. For the first time in years, Marcus smiled.

“She was wonderful. Everything about her was magical in every way. She had a talent for making others happy. To know her was to love her…when she was killed…it destroyed me. I still haven’t gotten over it. To have the greatest love of all time and have it taken from you is a pain I hope you never experience.”

Marcus sat down beside you. His heart ached for Didyme yet again. She would have been so happy to know their baby was alive.

“To be honest, I’ve never experienced the whole love part. I’m sure there is someone for me out there….somewhere. The poor fool may stick in a tree or something.”

Marcus smirked, then remembered the bond he sensed between Caius and yourself.

“I’m sure there is. In the meantime, I think it’s best you stay out of Caius’ way.”

You nodded.

“Yeah, I may try to fight him or something. He seems like an arrogant dick.”

Marcus blinked.

“He is. He’s awful. I’ve dealt with him for centuries.”

“Noted. I’ll avoid him like the plague.”

Over the next few weeks, you had gotten into a groove. You no longer wanted to punt Felix and Demetri across the room. They were pretty amusing when he wanted to be. Both seemed to appreciate your sense of humor.

Your relationship with Marcus and Aro was moving along positively. Marcus appeared to be coming “back to life.”

Caius was the one who was still floundering along. The two of you still weren’t talking. There was some progress made; the two of you could be in a room together without insults flying. Now he just stared at you coldly. At first, it was annoying, and you nearly asked him what his deal was. Now you tolerated it and honestly were beginning to like knowing his eyes were on you.

What is happening?

You had thought the first time that you felt something when looking at him. Was this the butterfly feeling all of the girls talked about? A better question was, why was Caius giving you butterflies? The literal last thing he said to you was calling you an orphan.

This day, you found yourself sitting with Heidi while she and Demetri were talking about some humans being too bold.

“So what is Caius’ deal?”

You finally asked. Both Demetri and Heidi looked up with wide eyes.

“What do you mean?”

Heidi asked.

“Is he a dick to you all?”

Demetri smirked.

“Caius can be a dick. Look, he has a reputation to keep up. His reputation doesn’t involve him being happy and friendly. He’s kind of the professional hater here. In his defense, he kind of had a reason. He almost got himself killed by hunting werewolves.”

Heidi hummed in agreement. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t standing behind her.

“He has been worse than normal since his wife left him. Her name is Athenadora, and she got tired of all of the rules. She ran off with a man that she used to hate. After that, Caius has been more intense.”

You winced.

“That makes sense. I’m pretty sure he wants to light me on fire.”

Demetri shook his head. He, too, had noticed the Volturi king’s eyes had been on you a little longer than necessary.

“He doesn’t. I wouldn’t put too much thought into it.”

You sighed.

“Maybe I should threaten to punt him across a room as I did you. He may take it as a hello…or he may cut my head off.”

Demetri chuckled.

“I would advise not kicking him.”

The next afternoon, you stood in an upstairs room looking out the window. A couple of humans had been spending the better part of an hour “attempting” to change a tire on their car.

“What are you doing up here?”

You turned to see Caius glaring at you with his typical frown.

“I’ve come to watch the show.”

You replied, going back to the mortals below. Caius frowned.

“Show?”

He questioned before curiosity got the better of him and he came to join you at the window. Caius watched you out of the corner of his eyes.

Why does she have to be so damn pretty?

Caius thought before dropping himself. The last time he loved something pretty, he had his heart broken. Yes, you weren’t Athenadora, and comparing the two of you wasn’t fair, but Caius had to keep his heart safe.

“They have been trying to change this tire for the better part of an hour. I could have helped them, but it’s probably best for them to learn. It’s been a comedy of errors.”

Caius rolled his eyes.

“They are useless unless it comes to blood.”

You let your eyes roll up to Caius’ perfect face.

Damn him and his perfect jawline.

You thought before sighing.

“They aren’t so bad. Some, not all.”

You replied. Caius tilted his head before turning to look at you fully.

“You’ve lived amongst them for so long and still have some kind of reverence for them.”

You shrugged.

“Again, some. I used to like to give out vigilante justice to the ones who did crimes. If I came across one doing something wrong…BAM, they were dead.”

Caius shook his head.

“They didn’t treat you well. No one has. I’ve heard what your father said about how you were treated as a child.”

You shrugged and moved to sit on the table. This has been the first civil conversation you had with Caius, and so far, it wasn’t awful.

“Just because you exist doesn’t mean people will be kind to you. There’s good and bad in everyone..even if they don’t want to admit it.”

You watched Caius’ face carefully when you said the last sentence. His eyes flickered down to your face.

“Can you be sure of that?”

You stepped closer, keeping your eyes on his.

“Yeah, I thought you were a massive arrogant dick the first time I met you. Now you don’t seem so bad.”

Caius chuckled when you said that, but stopped as you got to him. He reached out, putting a hand on your face.

“I never thought I would see an angel with such a sassy mouth.”

“An angel, huh?”

You questioned before standing on your tiptoes and moving to kiss Caius. What made you kiss this man? You had no idea. It had to be your body running on curiosity and adrenaline. Caius didn’t move away. He stood motionless for a moment before kissing you back.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you didn’t fight as the kiss turned hungry. All you could focus on was the sensation of Caius’ lips against yours.

He was the first to pull away. He placed his forehead against yours, keeping his eyes closed. Of all the women that he had ever kissed, he never felt like this afterwards.

“Don’t hurt me, Y/n.”

He said in a voice that wasn’t at all like the Volturi King you had known him to be. You nuzzled your nose against his. For being a first kiss, this was definitely one that rivaled a movie.

“I won’t. I’m not Athenadora.”

Caius jumped back at that. He stared at you as if you had poured scalding water on him.

“Don’t you dare say her name. How the hell do you know about her?”

He was nearly yelling by the end. Startled, you stepped back.

“I…I…”

You stammered. You didn’t want to throw Demetri and Heidi under the bus.

Caius wiped a hand over his mouth. At the moment, he wanted to get the taste of your lip gloss out of his mouth. How did you know about her? Just who had you been talking to and what did they tell you? The last thing Caius wanted was for you to know about how he had made a fool of himself.

“You sure know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?”

He turned and stormed out of the room without another word.

_____

@geeksareunique @jessyballet @knreidy1 @fific7 @teletubiswszpilkach @spideyxalmighty @lucasfilms77 @dumbbunnys-safes @dumybitch @readtomeregulus @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @s-we-e-t-t-ea @iluvthe-marauders @woohoney @abaker74 @regulus-black-223048 @saramaple @missgorldafirst @millies0bsimp @stelleduarte @jag9000 @bennyberry @f4iryluvy @panpride @haroldpotterson @marichromatic @goldensunshineshit @padf00ts-l0ver @ravenhood2792 @playmore-zeppelin @authoressskr @emiwrites3reads @knight-of-gleefulness @summer-novak @rogue-nyx88 @shaylybaby2032 @coffeeaddictednymph @livshifts @ell0ra-br3kk3r @ad-astra-again @regulusblackswhorecrux @kindestofkings @criminalyetminimal @rubes-xoxo @li0nh34rt @untoldshortsofthefandoms

[a-red-scarf]

Visit Original Link

Anna Zavelson's Wishing at Phantom London!

My god, what a voice! What acting choices! She was one of the stronger acted Christine's I've ever seen - I wonder if that has to do with her experience in the immersive show and being up close with the audience. She was really huddling in her scarf and cloak in the beginning, freezing in the graveyard, before opening up into the most beautiful Wishing.

Lovely Christine with a stellar voice that really captures the quality of a songbird - highly recommend you catch her if you can!

Full audio available for trade upon request :)

[big-poppa23]

Join Me In Death

synapse: In 1978, henry creel glimpses hawkins lab’s oldest and most dangerous secret, y/n, the blood-soaked girl from prom night he never forgot

pairing: henry creel x carrie white inspired!reader

contains: dark romance, religious trauma, blood, death, physical violence

a/n: this is just an idea that’s also based on the succubus idea. i just want to see how it’ll do or if people want it. no, im not gonna stop writing for after class so dont jump to that conclusion. lmk if I should write more. also ik henry was a freshman in 1959 but for story sake, he was a sophomore instead

. . .

1958

The spider moved carefully across Henry Creel’s palm, its legs thin as black thread against the pale cup of his hand.

He sat in the grass near the edge of the yard, knees bent, head lowered, watching it with the sort of attention he rarely gave to people. People were too loud. Too obvious. Too eager to prove they were ordinary, like dogs pressing their noses against a fence and barking at anything that dared to pass.

Spiders were different.

They did not pretend.

This one stepped over the curve of his lifeline, delicate and sure, as if it knew exactly where it meant to go. Henry held still for it. He liked the feeling of its tiny feet against his skin, liked the patience required to keep from frightening it. There was something honest in such a small creature carrying so much fear inside other people.

Behind him, through the living room window, the television flickered.

His parents were watching the news.

Henry could not hear much of it from outside. Only the muted rhythm of a man’s voice coming through the glass, flat and grave, swallowed by the hum of evening insects and the distant pulse of sirens somewhere far off in Hawkins. The words came in broken pieces, too muffled to fully understand.

Tragic incident.

Hawkins High School.

Senior prom.

Electrical malfunction.

Multiple students.

Dead.

Henry did not turn around at first.

He kept his eyes on the spider.

Inside the house, the blue-white glow of the television flashed across the window. His father’s shape stood stiff near the sofa. His mother sat closer to the screen, one hand pressed over her mouth.

Henry could see her face reflected in the glass.

That was what made him look up.

Virginia Creel was not crying. Not exactly. His mother was very good at keeping herself arranged, very good at folding horror into something presentable. But her expression had changed. Her eyes were wide and wet-looking, her lips parted around some prayer or gasp she had not let out.

She looked frightened.

Not sad.

Frightened.

Henry stared at her reflection, curious despite himself.

Then something moved beyond it.

At first, he thought it was only another trick of the glass, a smear of shadow, a pale shape crossing behind his mother’s reflected face. But then the shape stepped into the glow of a streetlamp, and Henry’s fingers went still.

A girl was walking down the road.

Barefoot.

Her shoes were gone.

She moved slowly, as if every step had to be remembered before she could take it. Her feet were dark against the pavement, one of them leaving faint marks behind her. Her dress, once pretty, hung from her like a ruined flower. Pale fabric clung to her knees and waist, soaked through in places with something too dark to be rain.

Blood.

It was everywhere.

On her skirt. On her arms. Streaked at her throat. Dried along one side of her face where it had tangled with her hair. The curls or waves someone must have tried to arrange for her had fallen loose, wild around her shoulders, pins hanging uselessly like broken little stars.

Henry knew her.

Not well.

No one knew her well.

She was the sophomore girl from Hawkins High, the one who always walked with her books pressed tight to her chest, as if holding them there could keep the world from touching her. The one with the long skirts, the plain blouses, the sleeves buttoned at her wrists even when the weather turned warm. The one other students whispered about with cruel little smiles. 

He had seen her before.

In town. Outside the school. Once in the grocery store with her mother gripping her arm hard enough to leave finger marks.

She was always looking down.

But not now.

Now her head was lifted slightly, her face empty in a way that made Henry’s chest feel strangely hollow. Not peaceful. Not calm. Empty, the way a house looked after a fire had eaten through the rooms and left only the shape of where a life had been.

And still, even covered in blood, Henry noticed what no one else would have.

She was beautiful.

Not in the shiny, laughing way the girls at school tried to be. Not like the girls who curled their hair and painted their mouths and learned how to smile so people would look. Her beauty was quieter than that. Stranger. Like a saint in a cracked church window. Like a doll left too long in the rain. Like something delicate that had been mistaken for weak until it shattered in someone’s hand.

The spider reached the edge of his palm.

Henry did not feel it at first.

He was watching her.

The girl slowed.

For one moment, she seemed to sense him there in the yard. Her head turned, and her eyes found his through the dark.

Henry stopped breathing.

The streetlamp threw a thin, golden line across her face. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and terribly alive. They did not look like the eyes of a girl who had walked away from an accident. They looked like the eyes of someone who had seen the inside of the world and found it rotten.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Neither of them spoke.

Inside the house, the television continued flickering. His mother’s reflected face hovered in the window like a ghost, pale with fear. His father shifted behind her. Somewhere far away, another siren rose and fell.

Henry thought, suddenly and with a sharpness that startled him, that he should do something.

Step forward.

Say her name.

Ask what happened.

Ask if she was hurt.

But the thought came and died in the same breath.

He imagined his mother seeing. His father opening the door. The neighbors peering through curtains. The police asking why Henry Creel had been outside speaking to the blood-covered girl from Hawkins High.

He imagined the whispers turning.

Not just about her.

About him.

So he stayed still.

The spider slipped from his palm into the grass.

The tiny loss broke whatever spell had held him. Henry looked down quickly, searching between the blades for the black shape, but it had already vanished into the dark.

When he looked back up, the road was empty.

The girl was gone.

Only the streetlamp remained, buzzing faintly above the pavement, shining on nothing at all.

. . .

Y/N did not remember the walk home ending.

One moment, there had been pavement beneath her bare feet and streetlights above her head, humming like tired insects. The next, she was standing on the porch of her childhood home with blood drying stiff on her dress and her hand wrapped around the doorknob.

For a few seconds, she only stared at it.

The brass was cold against her palm.

Inside, the house was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet. Never that. The house had never known peace. It was the kind of quiet that waited with its teeth hidden, the kind that made her shoulders pull inward before anything had even happened.

Y/N pushed the door open.

The smell of lemon polish and old wood met her first. Then candle wax. Then the faint, sour scent of her mother’s perfume.

“Momma?” she called.

Her voice barely sounded like her own. It was small and scraped thin, like someone had dragged it over broken glass.

There was no answer.

Y/N stepped inside, leaving faint red marks on the floorboards behind her. Her eyes moved over the familiar room in pieces: the worn rug, the stiff-backed sofa, the Bible open on the side table, the little wooden crosses nailed above every doorway as if God needed directions.

She wanted her mother.

That was the worst part.

After everything, after the laughter and the blood and the screams folding into each other until the whole gymnasium became one terrible sound, Y/N wanted her mother. She wanted arms around her. She wanted someone to say it was over. She wanted, foolishly, desperately, to be somebody’s child.

Her mother appeared in the hall.

For one fragile second, neither of them moved.

Her mother wore her robe over her nightdress, hair pinned back so tightly it pulled at her temples. Her eyes traveled over Y/N slowly, from the ruined hem of her dress to the blood on her throat, to the mess of her hair, to her bare feet.

Y/N’s lips trembled.

“Momma,” she whispered.

Her mother’s face changed.

Not with relief.

With horror.

Then disgust.

“I knew it,” her mother breathed.

Y/N took a step toward her anyway. “Please—”

“I knew it was in you.”

The words struck harder than a hand. Y/N stopped in the middle of the room, chest rising and falling too fast beneath the sticky weight of her dress.

“They laughed at me,” she said, and the words came out broken, childlike. “They all laughed at me like you said.”

Her mother’s mouth twisted.

“Because they saw you.”

Y/N blinked.

A tear slipped down her cheek, cutting through the blood like rain through dirt.

Her mother moved fast.

The slap snapped Y/N’s face to the side.

For a moment, all she could hear was the ringing in her ear.

Then another hit came. A hand to her shoulder. Fingers biting into her arm. Her mother shook her once, hard enough that Y/N’s teeth clicked together.

“You wicked girl,” her mother hissed. “You filthy, wicked girl.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Y/N cried. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t—”

“Liar.”

The lamps flickered.

Neither of them noticed at first.

Her mother shoved her backward, and Y/N stumbled against the edge of the sofa. Her knees nearly gave out. She grabbed at the fabric to steady herself, leaving red smears across the faded flowers.

“I was right,” her mother said, voice rising. “All these years, I was right. I tried to beat it out of you. I tried to pray it out of you. I tried to save you from what you are.”

Y/N shook her head, sobbing now. “Please, Momma, please don’t—”

“They laughed because they knew.” Her mother pointed toward the door as if the whole town stood outside listening. “They saw the devil wearing my daughter’s face.”

The lights flickered again.

The Bible pages on the side table fluttered though no window was open.

Y/N pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s eyes sharpened at that.

“Then pray.”

Y/N froze.

Her mother grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the little corner of the parlor where a wooden crucifix hung above a narrow kneeling bench. Y/N had spent half her childhood there, knees aching, hands clasped until her fingers went numb.

“No,” Y/N whispered.

Her mother yanked harder.

“On your knees.”

“Momma, please—”

“On. Your. Knees.”

She forced her down.

Y/N hit the floor hard, pain bursting through her knees. She folded instinctively, shoulders hunched, head bowed, hands coming together because her body remembered obedience even when her mind was falling apart.

The house groaned around them.

Her mother stood behind her, breathing heavily.

“Beg,” she snapped. “You beg Him to forgive you.”

Y/N stared at the crucifix through blurred eyes.

The figure nailed there looked back at her with carved wooden sorrow.

She did not know what to say.

All her life, she had prayed to be good. To be normal. To be quiet enough, clean enough, small enough. She had prayed until the words became stones in her mouth. She had prayed while her mother stood behind her and told her every strange thing inside her was sin.

And still, the blood had come.

Still, the gym had screamed.

Still, everyone had looked at her like she was a monster.

“Pray,” her mother snarled.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

“Our Father,” she whispered, voice shaking, “who art in Heaven…”

The walls gave a low creak.

“Hallowed be Thy name.”

A picture frame rattled on the wall.

“Thy kingdom come…”

Her mother’s breathing changed behind her.

“Thy will be done…”

Something cold touched Y/N’s back.

At first, she did not understand it.

Then the pain came.

Sharp.

Deep.

White-hot.

Y/N’s prayer broke into a strangled gasp.

She looked down, stunned, as if her body belonged to someone else. Her hands opened against her lap. The room tilted. Behind her, her mother made a sound that was almost a sob and almost a laugh as she held a bloodied kitchen knife in her hand. 

“I won’t let Him have to look at you anymore,” her mother whispered.

For a second, Y/N was only a girl.

A hurt girl.

A frightened girl.

A girl who had come home wanting comfort and found the final proof that there had never been any waiting for her.

Then something inside her opened.

Not like a door.

Like a wound.

The lamps exploded.

Glass burst outward in glittering sprays. The crucifix ripped itself from the wall and flew across the room. Her mother stumbled back with a cry, but Y/N did not turn around. She stayed on her knees, eyes wide and wet, breath coming in little broken pulls.

The house began to shake.

Not all at once. First the floorboards trembled beneath her. Then the walls. Then the ceiling groaned overhead, dust raining down like pale ash.

Her mother screamed her name.

Y/N heard it as if from underwater.

Every candle in the room flared high, flames stretching thin and bright. The Bible pages whipped back and forth violently, tearing loose one by one. The little crosses above the doorways cracked down the middle.

“No,” her mother gasped. “No, no, no—”

Y/N turned.

Her eyes were no longer soft.

The fear was still there, but it had changed shape. It had teeth now. It had hands. It had spent sixteen years being swallowed and had finally clawed its way back up.

Her mother stared at her.

For the first time in Y/N’s life, the woman looked afraid of what she had made.

Y/N did not speak.

She only cried.

The force of it tore through the room.

Furniture slammed against the walls. Windows shattered inward. The ceiling split with a sound like thunder cracking open above them. Her mother was thrown back, disappearing into the chaos of splintered wood and falling plaster.

The house screamed.

Or maybe Y/N did.

It was impossible to tell.

The walls bent inward as if some giant hand had wrapped around the home and squeezed. The staircase buckled. The roof groaned. Smoke curled from the curtains where candleflame kissed fabric and spread. Fire crawled up the walls, orange and hungry, lighting the room in flashes like the last moments of the prom all over again.

Y/N staggered to her feet.

Pain ripped through her back, and she nearly fell, catching herself on the edge of the broken kneeling bench. Her blood dripped onto the floorboards, mixing with the trail she had already left behind.

“Momma?” she whispered.

There was no answer.

Only the crackle of fire.

Only the groan of the house coming apart.

Y/N looked around at the place that had kept her small. The prayers. The locked doors. The hands. The rules. The shame pressed into every corner like dust.

And then the house gave way.

By the time the neighbors came running, there was little left but flame and ruin.

By the time the police arrived, the fire had chewed through most of the roof.

By the time the men from the laboratory stepped out of their black cars, Y/N was sitting in the ashes of her childhood home, still wearing the ruined prom dress, her knees drawn to her chest and her eyes fixed on nothing.

She did not look up when they called her name.

She did not cry when they covered her shoulders with a blanket.

She did not ask where her mother was.

The girl who had walked home from prom was gone.

And Hawkins, hungry for a cleaner story, would bury her before morning.

. . . 

1978 

Hawkins Laboratory looked cleaner than it really was.

The floors shone beneath the fluorescent lights, polished to a dull reflection. The walls were white. The doors were white. The coats were white. Everything had been scrubbed and bleached until the building looked less like a place where children cried in their sleep and more like something holy.

Henry Creel knew better.

He walked near the back of the group with his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression mild, almost empty. Around him, several other orderlies moved with the same careful silence, trained to become part of the hallway rather than people within it.

Dr. Brenner walked ahead of them.

He always did.

The new doctors followed him like parishioners behind a priest, nodding at every word he said, eyes bright with curiosity they mistook for intelligence. They looked at the laboratory as if it were a miracle.

Henry watched them look.

He found it almost funny.

“This wing is restricted for a reason,” Brenner said, his voice calm and practiced. “Much of the work conducted here predates our current program.”

One of the doctors, a young man with nervous hands and glasses too large for his face, glanced toward a sealed door as they passed.

“Predates the children?”

Brenner smiled faintly.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Henry’s eyes shifted toward him.

A manner of speaking.

That was one of Brenner’s favorite ways to lie. It sounded gentler than no. It sounded more educated than yes.

They continued down the corridor. The lights hummed above them. Somewhere behind one of the doors, something metal clattered, followed by the sharp scrape of a chair being dragged across tile.

No one in the group reacted.

They had already been told not to.

Brenner stopped outside a room at the very end of the hall.

Unlike the others, this door had no number printed at eye level. No cheerful color marker. No observation schedule clipped neatly beside it. It was heavier than the rest, reinforced along the frame, with a small rectangular pane of glass set high enough that a child could not have looked through it without standing on their toes.

Henry’s attention sharpened.

He had been in this hall before. He had cleaned it. Carried trays through it. Walked past this door a hundred times with his gaze obediently forward.

The room was never spoken of.

Not by the children.

Not by the orderlies.

Not by anyone who wanted to continue breathing comfortably beneath Brenner’s roof.

“This subject,” Brenner said, “is one of our earliest acquisitions.”

One of the doctors leaned forward slightly. “Acquisitions?”

Brenner did not look at him.

“Yes.”

The word settled into the hallway like dust.

Henry felt something move at the base of his skull.

Not pain. Not exactly.

Recognition before memory.

A faint pressure, like fingertips pressing against the inside of his mind.

Brenner placed one hand near the door, not touching it. Even he seemed to understand there was something different about this room. Something that did not belong to the orderly system he had built out of numbers and punishments and carefully measured rewards.

“She was brought to us in 1958 after an incident in Hawkins,” Brenner continued. “At the time, the event was attributed publicly to electrical failure and structural damage. Privately, it became clear that the situation was… unusual.”

Henry went still.

The year unfolded somewhere deep inside him, old and dark, like a photograph pulled from water.

A road beneath streetlamps.

A blood-soaked dress.

Bare feet against pavement.

Brenner’s voice continued, clean and distant.

“We considered integrating her into the later program, but she proved unsuitable.”

“Unsuitable how?” one of the doctors asked.

Brenner’s expression did not change.

“Her responses were difficult to predict.”

Another doctor glanced toward the sealed door. “Violent?”

“At times.”

The answer was too simple.

Too clean.

Henry’s eyes remained on the little glass window.

“Her condition does not behave as neatly as the others,” Brenner said. “The children can be instructed. Encouraged. Corrected. Their gifts, while varied, are measurable. Hers has always resisted that kind of structure.”

“What can she do?” asked the nervous doctor.

Brenner paused.

Only for a second.

But Henry noticed.

“That is not the question we ask anymore.”

The doctor frowned. “Then what is?”

Brenner looked at the door.

“What happens when she is allowed to?”

The hallway went quiet.

No one asked another question right away.

Brenner clasped his hands behind his back and continued, voice smooth again.

“She is not to have unsupervised contact with the children. Nor with most staff. Prolonged exposure has produced complications in the past.”

“What sort of complications?”

“Unreliable reports,” Brenner said. “Emotional disturbances. Memory irregularities. Physical symptoms without consistent medical cause.”

“That sounds broad.”

“It is.”

“And dangerous?”

Brenner finally turned his head toward the man.

“Everything here is dangerous, Doctor. The difference is that most things here can be taught to sit when asked.”

His gaze returned to the door.

“She does not sit.”

Henry’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Inside the room came no sound.

That bothered him more than screaming would have.

“Does she have a designation?” the nervous doctor asked.

“Before our current numbering system, designations were less standardized,” Brenner replied. “In early records, she was referred to as Project Liminal.”

“Liminal?”

“Existing at a threshold.”

“Between what?”

Brenner smiled faintly.

“That has been the matter of debate for nearly twenty years.”

Another doctor looked uncomfortable. “And what do you call her now?”

Brenner’s gaze hardened just slightly.

“Contained.”

No one laughed.

From inside the room, still nothing.

Brenner stepped away from the door, signaling the end of the discussion.

“You will not be assigned to this subject without direct clearance from me. You will not attempt conversation. You will not observe her alone. You will not open that door unless instructed to do so by me personally.”

A woman doctor shifted uneasily. “Is that level of restriction necessary?”

Brenner looked at her.

“Yes.”

That was all.

Not an explanation.

Not a warning.

A fact.

The kind men like Brenner used when they wanted fear to do the rest of the talking.

The group began moving again, white coats shifting like pale wings beneath the fluorescent lights. The orderlies followed. Henry took one step with them.

Then stopped.

No one noticed immediately.

Brenner’s voice continued farther down the hall, already discussing another room, another subject, another living thing reduced to a category. The doctors turned the corner one by one.

Henry remained at the door.

For several seconds, he only listened.

Nothing.

No footsteps inside. No breathing he could hear. No movement.

Only that pressure at the back of his mind, soft and terrible. Familiar in the way childhood nightmares were familiar. In the way old bruises remembered fingers.

Slowly, Henry stepped closer.

The glass panel was narrow and smudged from the outside. He leaned in just enough to see through.

The room beyond was dimmer than the hallway.

Not dark. Brenner would never allow true darkness unless it served a purpose. But the light inside was low, grayish, softened by distance and neglect.

At first, Henry saw only the bed.

Then the wall.

Then a thin figure sitting near the far corner with her knees drawn close, head turned slightly away from the door.

She was older now.

Of course she was.

The girl he remembered had been sixteen and drenched in blood beneath a streetlamp. This woman was no longer that girl, not exactly. Time had sharpened some things and hollowed others. Her hair fell loose around her face. Her skin looked almost colorless beneath the laboratory light. She wore the same plain clothing they gave the others, but on her it seemed less like a uniform and more like another burial shroud.

Still, Henry knew.

Not from her face.

Not first.

From the stillness.

That same terrible emptiness he had seen from the yard all those years ago. The look of a person who had walked out of one life and never been allowed to enter another.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Memory came fully now.

The spider in his palm.

His mother’s frightened reflection in the window.

Sirens.

The road.

The blood.

Her eyes finding his.

And then nothing.

He had done nothing.

Henry stared through the glass, and for the first time in years, something like guilt moved through him.

Not soft guilt. Not human guilt.

Something colder.

Sharper.

A resentment aimed at himself, at Brenner, at the whole rotten little town that had seen two children becoming monsters and had only watched from behind glass.

His lips parted before he decided to speak.

“Y/N.”

The name left him quietly.

Barely more than breath against the door.

But inside the room, her head turned.

Henry’s body went still.

She moved slowly, as if returning from somewhere far away. Her face angled toward the glass. For a moment, the dim light hid her eyes beneath the shadow of her lashes.

Then she looked directly at him.

The hallway seemed to disappear.

No doctors.

No orderlies.

No Brenner’s voice echoing from around the corner.

Only her eyes through the narrow pane of glass, older and emptier than before, but awake. Terribly awake.

Henry felt the pressure in his skull deepen.

Not an attack.

A recognition.

Her gaze searched his face.

He wondered if she remembered him. The boy in the yard. The one who had watched her pass barefoot and bloody and had chosen silence because he was afraid of becoming part of her story.

Her lips parted.

No sound reached him through the door.

But he saw the shape of the word.

Not his name.

She did not know his name.

Not yet.

Her mouth formed something smaller.

A question.

Henry leaned closer to the glass.

For the first time, the faintest expression crossed her face.

Not fear.

Not quite.

Curiosity.

Then, behind him, footsteps approached.

“Peter.”

Henry’s expression emptied at once.

Brenner stood several yards down the hall, watching him with the calm of a man who missed very little and forgave even less.

The doctors were gone. The other orderlies waited behind him, carefully pretending not to stare.

“You were instructed to remain with the group,” Brenner said.

Henry stepped back from the door.

“Yes, sir.”

Brenner’s eyes moved briefly to the glass panel, then back to Henry.

There was a pause.

Small.

Measured.

Dangerous.

“I would advise against developing an interest in this one.”

Henry lowered his gaze with practiced obedience.

“Of course.”

Brenner held him there a moment longer.

Then he turned.

Henry followed.

He did not look back.

Not until they reached the corner.

Only once.

A final glance over his shoulder toward the door at the end of the hall.

Through the little glass panel, Y/N was still watching him.

And this time, unlike 1958, Henry did not forget the color of her eyes.

[dustineila]

Bound by Sweet Syrup - henry creel/mr. whatsit x reader

a/n: for all my henry fluff lovers! yall said you wanted more of him, and so did i, so i made more of him for us all 😌 i hope this brings you joy today, writing it definitely made me veryyy happy.

content/warnings: fluff, sfw, gn reader BUT henry uses sweetheart, dear, sweet, etc. no pronouns are used. reader loves mötley crüe (personal spice added no sorries 🤭) and acts less traditionally than most henry x readers do, they're more contrasting to henry if that makes sense. they're very head over heels for one another and reader calls henry sexy, that's really it!

wc: 1.1k

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You put yourself onto your tippy toes, reaching for the knob of the kitchen cupboard. After struggling for far too long, you slump back down onto your heels. "Henry..!" You call out into the room adjacent to the kitchen, where Henry usually tends to his work. "Yes, dear?" You peak around the doorframe, smiling with an innocent facade. "I need the measuring glass, and it's in the obnoxiously high cupboard above the fridge. I need you." He chuckles softly, removing his glasses and putting them on his desk before rising to follow. "Of course." He murmurs contently. You grab his hand to usher him into the kitchen, and gesture him to crouch down. You sit yourself upon his shoulders, before he carefully starts to rise. Henry knows that you're reluctant to ask for help, so he's grown a routine of giving you boosts rather than doing something for you. He could certainly pull down the measuring glass on his own, but he knows you'd much rather have the chance to receive it yourself. He tightens his grip on your thighs as you reach into the cupboard, and lowers you back to the floor after you've gotten what you need. Your feet hit the tile and Henry gently brushes your clothes back into place. "What is it that my love is up to this morning?" He asks, smiling down at you. You grin excitedly, spinning your way around the counter. "Chocolate banana pancakes... you should help me." He exhales happily through his nose, humming in response. "I suppose I could make the time... Anything for you, of course." You clap your hands excitedly, immediately organizing the ingredients. "Turn the stove on, and grease the pans as well... please." He smirks, immediately going to perform your tasks with grace. To anyone else, Henry has a chilling, controlling presence to him. With you, he's embarrassingly obedient. He loves being bossed around by you, as ironic as the fact is.

While he preps the pans, you go to play music on your recently recorded cassette tape. Of course the most complementary artist to Henry's elegant, welcoming home would be none other than Mötley Crüe. You can hear him chuckle as the music starts to play. It's always been one of his favorite things about the both of you, how much contrast there is between you and him. Before you, his environment was constantly collected, simple, and composed. You came along and filled his space with a unique, fun-loving sparkle. He noticed it in small things, like your clothes amongst his, the scent of your perfume throughout the halls, and of course, your music blasting in every room. He never thought it would be something he welcomed into his life, but now it's something he needs. Henry watches as you crack the eggs into a bowl, a familiar warmth spreading across his chest and enveloping his gaze, toasty flames sparking in his eyes. Putting the last pan aside, he gets eager to feel your skin against his. When he approaches, you feel a soft breath against the back of your neck, and the secure grip of his arms come around your ribs. He nuzzles his nose into your shoulder. "You smell so very sweet." He mumbles, pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. A pleasant chill makes its way up your spine, spreading across your shoulder blades and casuing you to sink back against his chest.

You stay cozied up against eachother up until the mixing process is complete. As soon as he lifts himself off your back, you turn to slap a dollop of batter upon his nose. He raised his brows, hands immediately clamping around your wrists before you can try to escape. "You want to start that game with me, darling?" His voice is scarily calm, and you're already regretting your choices. "Wait, wait, no, don't-" In the next moments, all you can feel is the pinching and poking all over your body. Henry knows your biggest weakness is how unbelievably tickilish you are, and he loves to use it to his advantage. You giggle, laugh, and even try to bite at him, and he concludes his acts before they can become too much. You catch your breath and fold your arms in defiance while he has a sickening look of pleasure across his face. He swipes the batter off his nose and licks his finger clean before smirking up at you. "You know I'll always win." He winks, and you roll your eyes, but you can't help but smile. You adore his antics, and how sexy it is that he knows you so well. You shake your head, smiling as he tucks your disarray of hair back into place.

Despite distracting each other with kisses and taste tests, you guys finally finish up the pancakes. You go to set the table while Henry cleans the dishes. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, cleaning each dish with precision, as he does with everything else. Your eyes watch his every gesture from behind, grazing his hair to his feet. You almost miss the table while putting his plate down, completely distracted to a point where you're nearly embarrassed. "I can feel you staring, you know..." Damn it. Your cheeks instantly erupt a flush pink, and you go back to setting the table like nothing happened. "Don't know what you're talking about. Just setting the table." You clear your throat, huffing out a laugh. So subtle, huh? "Oh, is that so?" He hums, shutting off the faucet and wiping his palms on a cloth. He exits the room and returns with his glasses resting on his nose. He comes close, panifully close, and studies your face. You don't know how to keep eye contact under his scrutiny. The heat is already creeping back onto your face. "Ah ah, look at me, dear..." You oblige. As difficult as it is, you eat it up. His striking eyes bore into yours, a loving tease hiding behind his irises. "Mmh, just as I thought. You're blushing, are you not?" He smiles softly, the heat only blazing higher. "No, Henry. You're- you're crazy." He nods in response, bringing his palm to rest against the meeting of your neck and your jaw. He leans in and presses a hot, lingering kiss against your lips. Your breath stutters when he pulls away, just a centimeter. He notices, of course, because he always notices. Lips pressed towards your ear, you're already smiling down at the ground before he speaks. "There's nothing you can hide from me, sweetheart."

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[64feet]

Um. You two (yes, I'm implicating Christine in this because she is obviously into it). You are ON STAGE in front of an AUDIENCE.

Phantom hands in Christine's hair appreciation crowd will like this one, I'm sure. I mean, it's all hands everywhere.

[creelsclock55]

The Benefits of Sacrifice

Synopsis: Y/N has helped Max and Holly escape camazotz by letting Henry take her back instead. Which, would be heroic if she didn’t secretly have dirty intentions on her mind.

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, she/her pronouns, female!reader, sub!reader, Smut!, a little hint of plot, Dom/sub dynamic, oral (M receiving), P in V, manipulative Henry, self-doubt, degradation, degrading names, begging, he’s rough and mad.

Henry and Y/N entered the house, his hand in hers pulling her through the hallway.

“Oh Y/N… no matter what you tell yourself, you did not allow her to escape because you’re a hero. You did it… because you were desperate for my attention. Well good news sweetheart, you’ve got it now.” Henry told her. “Are you happy with yourself?” He asked.

Y/N feared he might be right. She was at war with what she knew to be moral in her mind and what she felt in her body. Of course she cared about Holly and Max’s safety but another part of her was glad it was just the two of them again. No kids, no secret meetings with Max in the woods… just her and Henry here in the world of his mind. She pondered in silence too afraid to get to the truth on wether her journey to get Max and Holly to safety was truly self-sacrificial… or simply just self indulgent?

Y/N said nothing.

“Are you going to answer me, pretty girl? Or do I have to search your mind… again?” Henry asked her, his tone laced with sarcasm and an ever growing annoyance.

“No I-“ Y/N began.

“I’m right.” He smirked. “How selfish of you… and now because of your self-centredness my whole plan is ruined.” Henry continued, his frustration tainted the infliction of each word.

“Good.” Y/N declared, not nearly as afraid as she should be.

Henry’s eyes darkened.

“What did you say?” He asked a rhetorical question that was used in an attempt to push her back into submission.

“I said good. I’m glad your horrific plan is ruined and I’m glad that they’re safe… away from you.” She replied. No matter how angry Henry got, Y/N could not find it within herself to be afraid, or to be quiet. She somehow just knew he would never hurt her, even after the multitude of empty threats that left his mouth when someone defied him.

Y/N began to walk backwards towards the living room, a futile attempt to increase the distance between them. Henry followed, stalking over with his eyes wide open with rage, fixed on hers. She began to feel a little nervous now… but mostly excited. Every part of her wanted to see what he might do now that she had sabotaged him. Her legs finally hit the sofa and her body plummeted on top of it. Henry was still standing, but above her now.

“My pathetic little slut. I should’ve known it would be dangerous to keep you around. I’m trying to transform the world… and all you can think about is fucking me.” His words held a truth that she wasn’t quite ready to admit. She was obsessed with him. The way he would talk to her, touch her, and then hold her so gently afterwards as if his hands weren’t built for killing.

Y/N’s eyes began to scan down to look at his hands. He lifted his left hand up and grabbed her chin to tilt her eyes upwards.

“My eyes are up here, silly girl.” He spoke before tutting in disappointment. “You should be relieved I can see the truth Y/N… otherwise I might have thought your intentions were to betray me. In that case I’d have had no choice but to let the black thing take you… just as it took all the others who stood in our way… but I’ve never met anyone like you before, no. People detest me. They always have. Yet you… You worship me.” He stated and a heavy silence fell between them until he added, “and don’t you dare go trying to deny it Y/N. Lying doesn’t work with me sweetheart.” He moved his hand from her chin to her head as he spoke, tapping her temple lightly. “I see everything.” He finished.

Y/N could not speak, if she were to speak she’d be forced to be honest. She simply continued to breathe and her body fidgeted under his gaze.

“Don’t you have anything to say? You seem pretty quiet for a girl with so many dirty thoughts.” He taunted.

“Henry…” she began.

“Come on now… you can do it. Ask. What do you want from me now that we’re alone?” He asked, his voice moving from the domineering softness to an increasingly stern tone.

“I- I want… your dick Mr. Creel.” She complied.

“Get on your knees and say please.” He ordered, a smug smile painted across his face where a scowl used to be.

Y/N moved immediately, her head eye level with the zip of his trousers.

“Please Mr. Creel. You’re right about me, please let me worship every part of you. Please.” Y/N spoke as she looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“Mmm good girl… now you’re going to help me relieve the stress you’ve caused.” He responded as he began to unzip and remove the only barrier between her face and his cock. “Open.” Henry instructed.

Y/N opened her mouth expecting him to use her immediately, but he kept her waiting, mouth agape and needy for a long agonising moment. She shuffled on her knees in agitation. Henry stared down at her, that familiar smirk still stuck on his face,

“Are you sure you’re ready to take me darling?” He asked as he pushed one of his fingers into her mouth, testing her throat. He left her mouth for her to respond.

“I’m so ready Henry please, let me make you feel good.” She responded.

“Atta girl.” He replied whilst gripping the back of her head and pushing her mouth onto his dick.

She knew the feeling of her lips around his hard cock was driving him wild because he was finally no longer teasing her with his words. The only sound leaving his lips was a series of pleasure filled grunts. As his hand in her hair loosened she began to make her own pace on his dick, taking him deep into her throat. She felt a sense of pride over the way his posture had relaxed as he stood above her validating her talents with the sound of his moans.

Hearing him only made her all the more desperate. She moved her hand and rubbed her clothed pussy until she felt the fierce grip of Henry’s hand against her neck. He pulled her off him.

“That’s enough my little whore.” His tone was assertive.

“What… why?” Y/N began to whine.

“Shhhhh stand up.” He told her and she complied. “I’m going to fuck you now.” He began to whisper in her ear. “and you… are going to be fucked so brainless that you won’t ever have the mind to conspire against me or my plans for the world again. Do you understand?” He asked her.

“Yes, sir.” She agreed.

At that, Henry grabbed Y/N and pinned her down onto the sofa. He crept under her skirt and, whilst working his hands up the sides of her legs he brought the fabric to her stomach revealing the pants she wore underneath that he swiftly removed.

He ran one finger through her slit and Y/N’s body jumped at the touch.

“Mmm so wet just from sucking my cock you dirty mischievous girl.” He mocked.

“Please Henry sir. I need you.” She began to beg for more.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my love. Tell me, remind me of what you’d like me to do to you.” He refused to go any further without hearing it from her voice first.

“I want you to fuck my desperate pussy so hard that I won’t be able to think about going behind your back again. Please.” She finally responded.

He did not hesitate. He lined himself up and began his thrusts in and out of her. The sound of his cock entering and exiting her pool of arousal mixed with each of their moans was enough to drive them both to the edge, Henry’s pace quickened and he began to rub her aching clit with his hand.

“Mhmmm Henry… sooo close.. please.” Y/N’s mind was filled with nothing but bliss and Henry stood at the centre of her idea of what pleasure could be.

“Come for me now.” Henry ordered, his voice raspy and desperate as they both hit their climax.

Henry let his body drape beside her and she settled into his hold.

He began to leave small gentle kisses across her arm.

“I’m not mad at you anymore.” He began. “I don’t need other vessels to combine the worlds… not when the release you give me keeps me strong.” His words filled her stomach with a toxic mixture of dread and pride in the gratification that he needed her as much as she did him