jane 🦇

#freaknation forever 💙 22 she/her

[twihs-blog]

06.10.2026.

[creelarchives]

Such a shame there is no continuation of this great story 😭

Omg I’m so sorry I’ve almost finished the next chapter but I’ve been extremely busy recently I’ve practically had no time 😭 I’ll do my best to publish it very soon!! <3

[creelarchives]

hiii !! are you still writing the henry creel therapist story??

hi! yes sorry i had a little break cause ive been super busy recently but im halfway thru chapter 4 atm so expect to see it soon <3

[b0werful]

The Monster Left Behind

CHAPTER TWO - Up Close

part one

-

SYNOPSIS: Free from the Mind-Flayer's control, Henry Creel is left a hollow, helpless shell of a man, resigning himself to a lifetime of self-abandonment and grief over a life so cruelly denied from him - until a new arrival into Hawkins takes a chance on him, the man everyone else has already given up on.

(alternative universe following on from st5 where henry survives the death of the mindflayer)

FANDOM: Stranger Things

CONTAINS: henry creel x f!reader, use of Y/N, slow burn, eventual romance, age gap (45 + 25), mental health/illness/dark themes, murder, lowkey making this up as i go along so ill add as i continue LOL

WC: 2.7k

NOTES: ty for all the love on chapter one :) im still kinda learning as i go so any feedback/suggestions would be appreciated!

SONG: Someone Was Listening - dodie

“Open the door, how do I know? Stillness means end or is danger just slow? I do not trust you, don’t trust myself. But someone was listening when I called for help.”

—-

Chapter Two - Up Close

The days unfolded one by one, time seemed to move slower in Hawkins like the whole town was permanently programmed on slow-mo. It was heavier there, lazier. The mountain of boxes that had once cluttered the already snug space slowly dwindled down, the cardboard neatly folded up and tucked nearly in the corner, while the contents had been meticulously placed with a mix of quiet, deliberate care. Trinkets cluttered the mantle, family photos hung as a reminder of a life well lived. Plants sitting lazily in the glow of the morning Hawkins light, spilling out the corner of the curtains - freshly watered and gently sparkling in the sun. The place was finally starting to look like hers. Starting to feel like hers.

Y/N pottered about the house, clutching her mug of tea and absorbing the slow morning on Morehead Street. She drifted towards the front window, further nudging the curtains open - squinting slightly as the sunbeams burst into the living room. She shuffled closer to the window to take in her surroundings once again. Helen’s garden came into view first, tangling with an array of bright cheerful colours. Y/N found herself pondering about how she could even upkeep something like that, something so beautiful. Y/N could barely keep the handful of house plants she owned alive, let alone a whole flower garden bursting at the seams.

Her gaze slid over to the house next door, a similarly built home with grey panelling and the same classic white trim. Out on the front porch, two young boys buzzed about playing some chaotic version of their own ball game. One blonde, and the other with a burst of fiery orange hair. They couldn't have been older than 8 and 10, brothers, she assumed – although she hadn't really had a chance to get to know the rest of the neighbours yet.

Her attention then directed itself back to the Creel house.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, her grip on the mug tightening until her knuckles glowed with a strained white tint as the memory of her previous conversation with Helen echoed in her mind. They say it wasn’t Victor who did it. They say it was Henry...

Y/N sighed, taking an unsure sip of her tea. The warmth doing little to comfort her. Her mind weighed heavy with the knowledge of what had happened in that house. The last few days of mindless unpacking had left far too much space in her brain for thinking, she caught her mind racing about the mysterious Henry Creel on several occasions – desperate to crack the mystery of the Creel murders. Every time, she scolded herself and made a feeble attempt to shrug it off, but she was struggling to fight her deeply rooted intrigue.

She paused, feeling the cogs in her mind churning as a decision clicked into place.

Fuck it.

She was going over there.

What was the worst that could happen?

Y/N recalled what Helen had mentioned to her a few days ago, about they “don’t often get new neighbours.’” If she was going to live next door to the infamous murder house, she might as well get on his good side at least.

She couldn't just turn up, though. Empty-handed and bombarding him with questions? No. That would seem too... threatening. Too bold. She didn’t want to press too hard and scare him off. She’d seen him staring at her yesterday from afar, a warning, maybe. Or maybe he just doesn't like new people, either way it sat heavy on her chest.

Y/N shifted her weight, still stood at the window fixated on the Creel house. Her mind scrambling to find an excuse to turn up there.

... a peace offering, maybe?

What would a stereotypical neighbour do?

...

Cookies?

I mean, that’s what they do in TV shows, right? Turn up with a plate of cookies and an artificially sweet smile?

Not that she was the best baker by any means, in fact, she was the kind of person who could set fire to her kitchen just by boiling a pot of water. But it was the thought that counted, she thought. It was decided.

Y/N pushed herself away from the window, setting her now almost cold tea-filled mug down on the table, making her way into the kitchen. She rifled through the newly filled cupboards with groceries she had bought the day before.

Butter...

Chocolate chips...

Flour...

She paused, frowning.

... Shit. I don’t have sugar.

She stood back, with a defeated sigh.

“Well there goes that idea.” she muttered under her breath, shoulders shrugging in defeat. She lingered for a moment, face twitching as she tried to come up with a new plan, when her eyes landed on a crinkled plastic bag on the far end of the worktop. The cookies she’d bought from the store yesterday.

Y/N crossed the small kitchen in a few quick steps and grabbed the bag, turning the packet over in her hands

“...is it cheating to pass them off as my own?” she pondered out loud.

She stared at them for a moment, before shrugging.

“Eh, fuck it. A little white lie never hurt anybody.”

She tore the bag open and started neatly arranging the cookies onto a round, white plate. Attempting to sell the facade of homemade goods.

Perfect.

Now she just had to actually give them to him...

A tight ball of anxiety grew in her chest as she reached for her beaten-up sneakers in the hallway, shoving them on and grabbing the first jacket she could find. Trailing back to the kitchen, eyes locked on the plate of cookies waiting for her on the counter. A simple act of kindness. Unassuming. Yet heavy with expectation. She slid her hands under the cool ceramic, gripping on with a slight tremor as she lifted it.

“Okay...” she breathed, more exhale than an actual word. “Here goes nothing.” *** Y/N blinked, and found herself standing at the front door of Henry Creel’s house, plate balanced in one hand, and the other suspended in the air as she attempted to muster up the courage to knock. The large wooden door towered over her, almost like it was a threat. The door held a mesmerising pane of frosted stained glass, revoking any clear sight into the house. Intentional, maybe?

Was she seriously about to do this? Knock on the door of a man who had potentially murdered his entire family and gotten away with it?

No.

Shut up.

Y/N pushed the thoughts out, a burning sensation of shame overcoming her. This was a man who had already been through the unimaginable, and then had terrible rumours stapled to his name on top of it.

Y/N forced her hand to move, and gently knocked three times.

Knock... Knock... ...Knock The echo of the last knock rung in her ears, she couldn't go back now.

She waited for Henry to come to the door, but nothing happened. The space behind the door remained empty. Maybe he didnt hear her?

Reluctantly, she knocked again.. A little more erratic than the previous, giving two quick raps.

She waited again, the pit in her stomach growing heavier, almost swallowing her whole.

Then - movement.

A faint shuffling from somewhere deep within the house, slowly making its way towards the door.

Step...

Step...

Step...

The familiar silhouette came into view from behind the stained glass, his shape muffled. The details of his face were again difficult to make out as they blurred into each other in accordance with the colourful stained glass.

The man did not open the door, he just stood there. A still and watchful presence, like a ghost.

“H-hello?” Y/n stumbled, the singular word catching in her throat. She hadn’t expected a glowing welcome, exactly. But she was taken aback by the lack of interaction.

The blurred figure remained motionless, but she could again feel the burning sensation of his stare. A heavy, unblinking weight.

Y/N pushed on anyway.

“My name is Y/N, I uh... just moved in across the street. I-” still stumbling, forcing an awkward chuckle attempting to sound friendly, “I brought you cookies... homemade!”

Silence.

“I thought I’d, you know... be a decent neighbour and introduce myself with style, I guess...” she finished lamely, the end of the sentence trailing off and melting into the thick silence between them.

Seconds ticked in the stillness, air thick with anticipation. Just as Y/N started to wonder if he was ever going to answer at all, a deep voice cut through door.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The sudden response caught her off guard, her body tensing up. Her mouth opened on instinct to respond, but was interrupted by a sharp click from the other side of the door as the latch released and the heavy wood swung inward.

There he was.

He was taller up close, more commanding, His presence looming over her, making the house behind him feel even darker. Honey blonde hair sat proudly in place, his soft waves feeling slightly contradictory to his intimidating nature. Round brown glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to his mesmerisingly blue eyes. He wore a beige. buttoned up shirt, tucked crisply into his warm brown trousers, with a matching waistcoat buttoned all the way; pocket watch proudly hanging from his left pocket, and a deep red tie knotted with pride. It was... controlled. Perfect. Surprising for a man who was the local hermit.

Y/N took him in, gaze flickering from his face, to his clothes, and back again to his stone-cold stare. There was something unreadable in his presentation, like he was studying her.

“You don’t have to pretend to be polite.” Henry said, his voice quiet but with an edge of undeniable coldness.

“I-I’m not pretending to be anything” Y/N said in reply, her words tumbling out as she gave a slight defensive shake of her head.

Henry’s posture stiffened, his jaw tightening and a shadow of irritation flashing across his face.

“I don’t do visitors.” He said finally.

“Yeah, I gathered that fairly quickly...” Y/N blurted before she could catch herself

An instant look of regret flashed across her face.

Henry didn’t take that lightly.

The door slammed in her face, the sudden bang making her entire body flinch.

Shit.

“Wait!” She frantically knocked on the door, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you... I-”

She drew in a sharp breath, mustering up the courage to admit the reason why she was really there.

“Look, I know what they all say about you” she admitted, voice dropping a little, “And I still came over...”

For a moment, all she could hear was the dull, frantic thud of her own heartbeat as her words hung in the air. Her stomach jolting with anticipation.

The door creaked open once again, a fraction, just enough for Henry’s face to be visible through the narrow crack.

“Why?”

A single word, soft, but somehow holding so much power.

Y/N swallowed.

“Maybe I just want you to know I’m not scared of you.” she said feebly, blinking rapidly as she looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Something in Henry’s face shifted, the first twinge of emotion Y/N had seen; his stone set features loosened by a fraction of a twitch at the corner of his eye, An emotion slipping through a crack that he hadnt meant to leave open, he probably didn't even realise it was there.

“You should be.” His voice still soft, but blunt. “That would be the smart thing to do.”

Y/N tilted her head, “Maybe what’s smart isn’t always what’s best.”

Henry remained silent, still looking at her through the crack, studying her. Heat crept up Y/Ns neck the longer he burned into her soul, but under the weight of his stare came a sense of... loneliness in his eyes. Instead of just being afraid of him, she found herself feeling... sorry for him.

“I don’t think you’re a monster.” Her voice gentle, “That’s all I wanted to say.”

She looked down at the plate of cookies, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look just standing there, she forced herself to look back up at him.

“At least take these,” an awkward, but thin laugh escaped her. “Don’t make me do the walk of shame back to mine...”

Henry stood, considering for a moment. Then, the door widened, the gap opening up just enough for Henry to emerge over the threshold - steps heavy and with caution.

He reached out for the plate, his fingers brushing against Y/N’s for a brief moment in the exchange as his hands wrapped around the ceramic. It was barely a touch, but sent a jolt through Y/N all the same. A stark reminder that he was real, he was human.

Henry stood back once again, and stepped back into the shadow of the hallway. He gave out a small nod, a small curve forming in the corner of his mouth, before something inside him decided to shut it down, smoothing his face back into the same stone-cold stare.

Then, without another word, the door closed again. The muffled sounds of footsteps moving away from the door as he sunk back into the house.

Y/N was again met with the now too familiar grain of the wooden door. She released a long breath that she didnt realise she had been holding, as a soft ache settled in her stomach. The brief crack in his armour lingered in her mind, a glimmer of humanity breaking through his closely guarded shield. She felt… satisfied. Sure, it didn’t go nearly as she had expected it to, in fact she had even more questions than before.

What even happened that night? Where did Henry go? How could someone just vanish off the face of the earth for 28 years?

It didn’t make sense. Any of it. But still, she broke through, albeit slightly. For a man who supposedly never spoke to anybody, it was a win.

Y/N forced herself to move from the spot she had been frozen to, turning her back on the door and making her way down Creel’s porch steps and back out onto the cobbled street, walking back to her own home. She shoved her hands into the warmth of her jacket pocket, the cold air now prickling at her skin as she forgot how chilled she was, until now. Henry had made her forget about the weather entirely.

By the time she reached the front of her house, her curiosity continued to tug at her. It was small at first, a little twinge in her mind. But it grew larger. Louder. Harder to resist. Until she couldn’t anymore.

She shouldn't look back.

She looked.

The house stood solemn. Still. Towering over the tiny street, with its windows seeming to drink every last ounce of light and convert it into endless darkness. The place almost felt... alive. She could almost hear it breathing.

Then, she saw him.

His figure was dark and out of focus, but still undeniably him. Henry. Looming in one of the upstairs windows, staring down at her on the street.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, how long had he been watching?

For a few moments they stared back at each other, like some stupid silent western standoff you’d only see in the movies.

He wasn’t going to be the one to break the contact, she could feel it. She had to.

She offered a small nod, a slight dip of her chin. More of an acknowledgement than anything.

Then she forced herself to turn back around and walk the last few steps to her front door, feeling Henry’s burning glance on the back of her neck. Suddenly desperate to get inside - her fingers, trembling and clumsy, fumbled in her pocket for her keys, battling to slot the cold metal into the hole.

The key finally slotted in, releasing the lock with a small click.

She couldn't help herself, she glanced back one last time.

He was gone.

She pushed her door open, and stepped into her house. The familiar scent of soil and leaves mingled with the lingering aroma of the sweet vanilla candle she was burning the night before, it did little to smooth the touch left by Henry. On the kitchen counter, laid a scattering of cookie crumbs she had neglected to clean before leaving the house. Proof she hasn’t imagined any of it.

A plate of store-bought cookies dressed up in a white lie wasn’t much, but it was something to remind Henry that there was humanity still out there she hoped. An offering for the man everybody has already judged.

Y/N made her way towards the sofa, sinking down into the plush cushions, heartbeat finally beginning to slow, mind starting to clear – but the thought of him came creeping back.

She’d seen the monster up close.

But he didn’t look like one at all.

***

[creelarchives]

Behind Closed Doors

TAGS:

Fandom: Stranger Things

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Henry Creel x Female Reader

Additional Tags: Mental Health, Therapy, Paranoia, Therapist x Patient, Explicit Sex (in future chapters), Teasing, Manipulation, SLOW BURN

3.8K

Session Three

She shouldn’t have come back. She was only meant to come for one session. And now it’s two weeks since their first meeting, but her feet led her back there anyway.

The thought followed beside her as she made her way down the short corridor to the office, pacing beside her like a warning she refused to hear.

The receptionist didn’t really talk to her this time, like she had the last two occasions when she saw Y/N walk in before she sat down. Just a quick direction pointing to the hallway, and a small, knowing smile. “He’s expecting you.”

Of course he was.

Dr Creel didn’t rise when she opened the door and welcomed herself inside the office. He didn’t have to. The space around him already felt arranged - deliberate and controlled, just like everything else about him.

“You came.” He said quietly. Not surprised, and not grateful. Just certain. “Close the door.” Not a command, not quite anyway.

She hesitated - just long enough for him to notice, and then shut it. The soft click of the door feeling louder than usual.

He gestured toward the chair angling towards his, opposite him. “You look tense.”

“I’m not.”

He watched his patient walk across the room, a pattern she was starting to notice - he keeps his eyes on her at almost all times.

Their first session had been clinical.. neutral. But, the second session, the last time she was there in that office. It was different.

She tried not to think about it, about the way Henry stepped closer when she’d stood up to leave. About the warmth of his palm pressing against the small of her back as he guided her out the door.

It was light. Professional. Barely anything.

That’s what she told herself in the car aftward. Therapists touched patients sometimes. It’s a reassuring gesture, grounding.. normal. Except, he hadn’t needed to guide her. She knew how to walk through a doorway. And his hand stayed a second longer than necessary.

Hadn’t it?

She’d played it so many times in her head now that the memory felt unreliable, and in some versions it was nothing. In others it felt deliberate. Predatory.

What kind of person overanalyses a hand on their back? The paranoid kind. You’ve been so deprived of physical touch you just want something to maybe be there.

Y/N dismissed herself quickly in her own mind, sitting down and smoothing out her skirt in a motion she hoped looked casual, but it was out of habit.

She was wearing her clothes slightly different than what she usually did for work, somewhere she had to come straight from to Dr Henry Creel’s. She didn’t have time between her work and the appointment to change.

She wore a soft silk blouse, structured enough to hold its shape, but then enough to move when she did. The collar sat neatly at her throat, modest and professional, though she left the top two buttons undone - not deliberately provocative, just breathable, and certainly not for him.

Her skirt a different one to the longer one she usually wore, but still appropriate. It was plain black, high waisted and tailored. It skimmed her hips before falling cleanly a few inches above the knees. Conservative, and office appropriate.

The fingers of his right hand traced lightly over the fabric of the armchair as he watched her sit, studying her like a problem he intended to solve. And he noticed.

“I see you’ve adjusted the way you present yourself.” He spoke mildly, but with no hesitation.

“I dressed the way I usually do for work.” She stilled a little, heat blossoming to her cheeks almost instantly.

“Yes,” he replied. “You did.” The faintest pause. “Except, last time your presentation was more guarded. This time, you’ve gone for structure.”

Y/N scoffed a little, her eyes rolling ever so slightly, anxiety throbbing in her chest. “And what is that even supposed to mean?” Playing it off, as if she just threw the outfit on blindly.

His fingers lifted from the armrest, relaxed and gesturing lightly towards her waist - eyes following too. “The tailored lines. The high waist.. it’s deliberate.”

“It’s just a skirt.” She insisted, trying to move on.

“It’s armour.” He corrected, almost unbothered.

“You’re reading way too much into it.” Her jaw tightened, a small puff of harsh air exiting her nostrils.

“Am I?” His eyes briefly flickered to the collar of her blouse. “You’ve left the top two buttons undone.”

Now the heat really was rising in her neck before she could stop it.

“That’s normal.”

“It is.” He agreed with a smooth tone. “But not for you. Which makes this interesting.”

The atmosphere changed, not because of what he said. But how he said it. She underestimated his observational skill set.

He casually adjusted himself in the chair to get more comfortable, as if the exchange meant nothing.

“I pay attention to details. It’s my job.” He said lightly. But the way his gaze briefly returned to the precise line where her blouse disappeared into her skirt made her feel something else entirely. But he dismissed himself quickly, moving on.

“You debated coming, again.” He observed.

“That’s an assumption.”

“It’s a correct one.” He promptly chimed in.

“You’re the one who told me to come back.” She muttered under her breath.

As usual, he let the silence stretch. He was good at that, he let in press in - let it force her to fill it. It was a tactic, and she knew it was a tactic.

“You implied in our last session that I had avoidance issues.” She finally gave in with a sigh, even though she knew it was true. Though, she didn’t like admitting it. “I don’t like unresolved implications.”

“So you came back to resolve them.” A single eyebrow rose above the rim of his glasses again.

“I came back because I guess..” Y/N spoke through gritted teeth, “I don’t respond well to being told I won’t.”

There it was - the real reason.

“You don’t like being predicted.” Henry said, gaze sharpening slightly and interest flickering beneath the calm exterior.

“I don’t like being managed.” She corrected.

“Yet, you returned after I insisted.” He let the words hang between them, not raising his voice a notch or leaning foward. Just stating what he knew as fact.

She felt something heavy on her chest - irritation, she told herself. Not something else.

“You didn’t insist,” Y/N huffed, “You merely told me what you wanted.”

“I told you to come back.”

“You don’t get to decide what I do.” She pushed back.

A pause.

“And yet.” He suddenly spoke softer, eyes staying on hers but head tilting ever so slightly. He folded one leg over the other. Relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.

Her breathing became shallow, and she became acutely aware of the space between them. How far apart their chairs were. Of how easily the distance could be closed. Y/N hated that she even thought that.

“Tell me what bothered you last time.” No notebook yet.

“Nothing bothered me.” She stiffened.

“Your breathing changed when we were by the door.”

“That’s called standing too close to someone.” She hissed back, that same tendency to bite back rose again. She knew she was defenseless.

“Ah.” That small sound, thoughtful, maybe even a little pleased - made something coil in her stomach. “When I touched you,” he said so casually, “you flinched.”

“No, I didn’t.” Her heart gave an unwelcome jolt.

“Your shoulders had tightened as well.”

Replaying the memory in her head again, she almost felt his phantom touch on her again.

“I think you’re misremembering.” Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“Am I?” His hands came together, folding in his lap.

“It was a professional gesture,” she could hear the defensiveness in her own voice, “you guide clients out the door. That’s normal. Why would I flinch at that?”

“Yes.” He agreed all too easily, but he didn’t break eye contact with her. That was the problem. He kept making everything feel like it was a test she hadn’t agreed to take.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her arms - and immediately untangling them because it felt too obvious. He noticed, of course he noticed.

“I’m curious. Why did that small touch stay with you?” He continued lightly.

“I didn’t say it did.” Suspicion laced in her tone.

“You’re thinking about it now.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. He wasn’t wrong. She had absolutely thought about it. Not because it was inappropriate, but because of how aware she felt of it afterward. Of her skin. Of the exact place his hand rested on her back. Of the way her body reacted before she could control herself not to. She hated she didn’t know exactly what her reaction implied.

“I notice things all the time,” she muttered quietly, “it’s not the same as-“

“As wanting it?” That stupid habit to finish her sentences.

“Okay, I did not say that.” Eyes widening, creating more space between them as she leaned back in the sofa chair with brief confusion.

“No, you didn’t.” He exhaled as he stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit trousers. The air immediately felt thinner. He broke eye contact, hands holding each other behind his back - taking patient steps to the wall of cracked leather books.

Henry lifted his right hand, letting his index finger trace along one of the shelves collecting dust on the tip.

“I’d like to try something different today.” His tone turning deliberately clinical. Detached. “Another exercise, different from last time.”

“What kind of exercise?” Her breath faltered, watching him casually take attention to the sun faded spines of the books.

“One that focuses on psychological response.” He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to. Her body had immediately become hyper aware.

He steadily turned to face her, taking his time to approach her chair - and she suddenly felt vulnerable. Though, he gave her every opportunity to object. She didn’t. That feeling unsettled her more than if she had.

He let his feet take him behind her seat, stopping there. Not touching, not yet.

“In our last session,” Henry started to speak in a lower, quieter tone, “you weren’t sure whether you imagined intention, or purpose.” His words were neutral, but his proximity wasn’t.

“And today,” his voice falling rougher at the edges again, “we’ll clarify the difference between imagination and reaction.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, not sure what he was planning on doing. She told herself it was irritation.

Only irritation.

“Stay still.” He murmured. When he leaned down and closer to her, the space between uncertainty and her awareness felt dangerously small. She sat rigidly, once again aware of everything - her exposed line of her neck, the way her hair fell down the back of the chair, the vulnerable curve of her ear.

“Remember, this exercise is about your response.” She felt the warmth of his breath just pricking the edge of her ear, triggering goosebumps over her thighs. “You have a habit of anticipating sensation.” The low rumble of his voice echoing over her shoulder.

“I want to observe how your body reacts.” His fingers came to rest lightly on the top of the edges of the chair, one hand of either side of her shoulders. Not on her.

“Don’t move.” He murmured. So close to the shell of her ear, but not touching. “Look at you. You’re already reacting..” He cooed softly.

The words were clinical, but his delivery was not in the slightest. She swallowed, trying not to make it obvious - eyes fixed straight in front of her.

His lips hovered a fraction from her skin as he continued, voice dropping a notch lower now - textured. Roughened at the edges that felt dangerously close to a growl.

“Your pulse changed the moment I stepped behind you.” The sound of his voice vibrated directly against her ear.

Y/N took a sharp breath in but not loud enough to hear, shoulders tightening.

“There..” He muttered. One hand behind her shifted slightly, fingertips just grazing the fabric on her shoulder - not gripping, just a whisper of contact and grounding her in her place.

“I’ve barely touched you.” He spoke in a low whisper, the faintest scrape of his lower lip brushed against the outer curve of her ear. It was subtle. Plausible. But, it was contact.

“And yet,” he paused, letting out a restrained breath against her skin, “you’re preparing for it.”

His lips pressed gently against her ear.

Not a kiss, but not lingering. It was just enough to feel the weight of it. And, her breath caught sharply for a second time, but loud enough in the silence of the room. He didn’t pull away at the response. Instead, he remained so close that when he spoke again - his voice was felt more than heard.

Her thighs ever so slightly started to tremor.

“Y/N.. you’re trembling.” That low, almost growling undercurrent threading through his tone as he continued a whisper. “You can tell yourself this is something I’m doing. That I’m the one creating this response.”

His thumb traced a slow and barely perceptible line along the back of her shoulder, controlled and deliberate.

“But you walked in here, knowing that I would probably stand this close to you again.” The manipulation grew subtly, announcing an implied but quiet ownership.

“You wanted to see if you’d react again.” His lips brushed her ear once more as he exhaled. “And you have.”

He let a pause stretch again, his lips still just about touching her ear - his presence enclosing without fully restraining her.

“Now,” he remained in his place, but his voice smoothened back into something deceptively calm, “tell me what you’re feeling.”

Her throat felt tight, biting at the inside of her mouth while her chest continued to rise and fall. Henry’s gaze momentarily landed on the gap between the buttons of her blouse that pulled tight across her breasts, and then back on the edge of her twisted expression.

“I.. feel aware.” She hesitated, fingers twisting in her lap.

“Of?”

“You.” The word came out rougher than she intended, forcing her hands still. His breath warmed her ear again, but he didn’t speak.

“My chest feels tight.” She continued quietly. “My pulse isn’t.. steady.” A slight shift behind her, adjusting. Listening.

“And?” He prompted, pushing for more.

“It’s not fear,” Her voice was unsteady, matching her body’s reaction despite her effort to keep it neutral. There was silence, and he didn’t react outwardly - but she felt something change. A stillness that almost felt like satisfaction.

“Go on.” That soft voice announced its presence again. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to close them.

“It’s anticipation..” the word felt dangerous on her tongue, “I don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do.”

That was safe. That sounded resistant.

What she didn’t say is that she liked the fact of not knowing what he could do.

“You like the uncertainty.” He corrected, lips brushing again as he exhaled.

“I didn’t say that.” Her breath hitched.

“You didn’t have to.” That faintest scrape of his lower lip lingered once more before he finally straightened. It wasn’t too quick, but the sudden absence of him felt cold - and air rushed back into the space around her.

The loss of contact on her ear was immediate. Sharp. Y/N didn’t move at first, she told herself she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to let him see how desperate she was to have him back up against her. Her fingers twitched in her lap.

Slowly, almost involuntarily, she began to turn her head as if she could reclaim the sensation again without admitting she wanted it out loud.

She couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the need on her face.

“Don’t you dare look at me.” His voice shot through the air, low and commanding. He didn’t raise his voice, it was just certain.

She froze, not out of humiliation, but something else. Something else that was tightening in her stomach.

There was a faint sound of a drawer sliding open, fabric shifting. She felt his presence edge closer again, unhurried. The sense of him behind her felt heavier now, more charged.

What is he planning to do?

“This, is when we really start to see results.”

She felt the air move around her as she realised he was lifting his hands to either side of her head. A strip of fabric brushed brushed her cheek before settling over her eyes. She naturally closed them, and everything was dark, immediate and complete.

He tied it against the back of her head, firmly but not too tight - his knuckles grazing the back of her neck in the process.

Her breathing deepened, and the uncertainty that lingered in the air had her trying to steady her trembling thighs.

“You’ll focus on what you feel.” He instructed. “And nothing else.”

Y/N was too full of running thoughts in her mind to speak, knowing that if she did, it would probably be a mess of words that didn’t make sense. So she simply nodded once.

Henry’s hands didn’t rush. They traced the air above her shoulders, but not touching. It was close enough that she felt the promise of it, the heat from his fingertips cutting through the fabric of her blouse.

She could hear the stretch of his suit ever so subtly leaning over her from behind, as finally, the tips of his fingers brushed lightly along her arm.

Her body reacted before her mind could analyze it. A subtle arch towards him she hoped he didn’t notice.

“Interesting. Heightened response.” He murmured softly as if he was collecting data.

His fingers lifted and ghosted again over to her chest, letting them dance gently over the curve of her it. Not grabbing, or claiming, just letting his hand glide over her. The pads of his fingers skimmed slowly from the right side to the left, mapping the shape of her through the fabric.

She felt his face right beside hers now - over her shoulder as he watched intently.

Her body betrayed her immediately. Her skin tightened, and she could feel herself pressing against the padding of her bra.

Is it noticeable? Can he see it? Can he see right through me?

The rise and fall of her breathing felt less steady, less controlled as her hips shifted in the seat. This was unbearable.

“Still.” He reminded her. But, his free hand followed by his arm crept over her left shoulder from the back now - fingers starting to slowly curl around her throat.

His right hand kept tracing the same movements again, slower this time - circling over her peaked nipple on the right side, deliberately testing.

Her back arched in the chair, almost imperceptibly as his left hand brushed up from her throat and caught her jaw between his fingers - tilting her face toward his without force. It was just enough to expose more of her.

Y/N couldn’t help but for her lips to part, a quiet whimper slipping out before she could restrain it. Heat pooled low in her stomach, spreading outward down her thighs in slow waves.

He moved his face even closer, mouth hovering above hers as his eyes gleamed in interest, looking down at her. Her pulse fluttered wildly in her throat, showing any sign of neediness she was hoping to conceal.

“Elevated pulse. Increased respiration.” Henry watched over her, whispering, it was like he was getting off on collecting facts and figures.

Then, his lips just pressed there.

Not rough, but intentional. A simple, claiming kiss that stayed long enough for her knees to soften. Once again, making a small sound against his lips that she hadn’t meant to.

And - he pulled back, withdrawing his hands from her jaw and chest, leaving her suspended in the absence of sensation. But, she felt her need for him claw up her spine, the urge to beg him not to stop.

“Interesting.” Carefully, and almost tenderly, he slid his fingers beneath the soft fabric - the material loosens, brushing against her eyelids. He lifts it slowly, not in a rush. Light spilt across her face as the blindfold was risen, her eyes adjusting to the sudden yellow glow of the lamp in the office.

Henry’s hands lifted the blindfold completely, his steps taking him back to the drawer he took it from before tucking it away again from wherever he kept it behind her.

Despite everything, he stepped back around her chair and took no time returning back to his seat with infuriating composure. As he sat, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and clearing his throat as though they had just completed a standard clinical assessment.

Y/N tried regulating her breathing before bringing her face back up to meet his gaze. When she did, his expression was unaffected and neutral - observant and professional again.

“Thank you for your compliance.” He spoke up, as if she had just discussed an issue with him in HR at an office job, as if he didn’t just have his mouth pressed up against her. She folded her hands tightly to hide the trembling he pointed out just moments before.

“That concludes our session today.” He said, glancing at the clock on the far wall. They hadn’t even taken up their time yet, he was cutting her off. The abruptness of it made his patient furrow her eyebrows, blinking.

That’s it? Am I completely overreacting to what’s just happened? Did I just imagine that?

“You look disappointed.” Henry’s brow lifted, imperceptibly. Heat flooded her face.

“I just-“ She hesitated and regathered her thoughts. “It felt unfinished.”

Did that sound too desperate?

He leaned back in his chair against the embedded cushion, studying her with the same unsettling calm.

“Well, you don’t like to leave things unresolved.” There was no smile, but a hint of intention. “You said so yourself. Unfinished things have a way of bringing people back here.”

Y/N averted her gaze, eyebrows knitting together, looking at the squat table between them - head jerking just a bit to the side in frustration with pursed lips. She stood, grounding herself in the structure of her skirt as she pressed her hands to run down the fabric, trying to regain the control she had walked in wearing.

When she got to the door, she hesitated, waiting for something. She wasn’t sure what she felt this time. Confused? And this time he didn’t move from his seat, nor did he even touch his notebook the whole session. Instead, he just simply watched.

“Same time next week.” He called out. It felt inevitable, he was taking control.

She opened the door, pulse still thready.

“Yes.” And she hated how easily the word came, shutting the door behind her and leaving her unanswered question behind trapped in Henry’s office.

————————————————————-

Thanks for reading chapter three! Lmk if the layout is making it harder to read, like if the paragraphs need to be spaced out more!

Please forgive any mistakes or weird sentences, I wrote this over two real exhausted nights and my brother ain’t here to help me proof read 🫩👎🏻

[wadesknife]

There Must Be Poison in Those Fingertips of Yours - Act I

pairing: henry creel x fem!reader

word count: 4,025

warnings/tags: henry himself is the warning, mature themes, eventual smut, predator/prey, improper use of vecna claw, manipulative!henry, enemies to lovers, no use of y/n, chronically online/gallows humor, breaking the fourth wall, breathplay, crack treated seriously, dubious consent, twenty-first-century-reader plopped into the '80s

hook: "Abyss Boy hijacked your life without sending an invitation card.

Usually, he’d stalk his targets. He’d introduce himself as his warm, slightly off-putting alter ego “Mr. Whatsit,” gradually gaining their trust until they’d voluntarily follow him through the stained-glass door of Camazotz.

This wasn’t the case for you. Just your luck, right?

The only man who ever gave you his undivided attention just had to be Mr. Satan himself. When you pled to God to be someone’s first choice, this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind...

You need to be more specific at Sunday church next time."

notes: ayyye this is my first time ever publishing a fic ! playlist i curated - here !!

AO3 link - here !! this is a three-part story... hope y'all enjoy ! :)

(@lokiustruther and @wadesknife on twt)

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻𐕣༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

"Can't take my charm Can't take my humor Can't take my wealth 'Cause it's just a rumor

Nothin' you can take was ever worth keepin' No, nothin' you can take was ever worth keepin'

Thinkin' you're so fine Thinkin' you could have mine Thinkin' you're in control Thinkin' you'll change me, maybe rearrange me Think again if that's your goal" - Rachel Zegler

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ACT Ⅰ

FADE IN: 

EXT. WOODS OF CAMAZOTZ – ESTABLISHING – LATE AFTERNOON 

“The cave —,” you heave.  

“I’ve gotta get to that fucking cave.”  

Henry trails a few feet behind — Vecna arm unsheathed, steady at his side. 

It’s cute — you genuinely believe you can outrun him. 

You’re inside his mind, for Christ’s sake. 

You knew you were always a bit of a deluded bat, but not this deluded. 

He permits your feeble escape attempt anyway... 

Even monsters can be gentlemen. 

Sure, he could manipulate the mindscape into anything his wretched heart desires. 

He could deem it so that your next step involves plummeting to a demise 90 feet straight down a ravine with the mere “flick!” of his wrist.  

But he doesn’t. 

He’s demented.  

He’s enjoying this. 

Where’s the fun in hunting something that doesn’t fight back?  

“Fuck!” You mutter as you almost topple over a loose tree branch. 

Your chest is searing from the ache of continuous sprinting — heart pounding at a thousand beats per second — an amount of adrenaline that could flatline a Victorian child courses through your veins. 

No matter how much you run, Henry somehow manages to maintain less than 20 feet between both of you. 

He isn’t even trying to run. He’s speed walking as if he were late for a mandatory HR meeting with the Grim Reaper.   

This relentless bastard has been chasing you for what feels like hours now. It’s only been roughly 30 minutes. Damn...  

You really shouldn’t have skipped leg day.   

Your lungs are screaming louder than a pit of prepubescent girls at the Eras Tour. You’re pretty sure you’ve tasted copper for the last ten minutes, and you're 80% certain your soul has already left your physical vessel to wait for the rest of you at the finish line. 

You’ve definitely reached your 10K daily steps goal on MyFitnessPal. 

“Sweetheart...” Henry coos with insincere affection.  

"It’s simply exhausting to watch you fight for a life that was never truly yours. Join me — we will create a world worth living in."  

It comes off not as a suggestion, but as a command.   

Oh, great... here he goes again. For the trillionth time since you met this guy.

His infamous “The world is broken. And it’s my job to fix it,” spiel. 

If he weren’t actively trying to twist your ligaments into an Auntie Anne’s pretzel, maybe you would’ve offered to visit a rage room together. Or the local Pilates joint? He looks like he could pull off a mean swan dive. 

“Go to hell. And take your internalized homophobia with you!” You retort — your voice sputtering like electric battery acid.  

You mean every word. 

Abyss Boy hijacked your life without sending an invitation card. 

Usually, he’d stalk his targets. He’d introduce himself as his warm, slightly off-putting alter ego “Mr. Whatsit,” gradually gaining their trust until they’d voluntarily follow him through the stained-glass door of Camazotz.  

This wasn’t the case for you. Just your luck, right?  

The only man who ever gave you his undivided attention just had to be Mr. Satan himself. 

When you pled to God to be someone’s first choice, this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind...  

You need to be more specific at Sunday church next time. 

Henry doesn’t flinch at your jab.  

Instead, he lets out a soft, huffed breath that might have been a laugh in another life. He tilts his head, watching the way your chest heaves with defiance, his expression nearly... fond. 

Like a scientist watching a particularly stupid lab rat try to find the chunk of pepper jack cheese. 

"Hell?" He scoffs, the word tasting like a bitter yet all too familiar memory on his tongue. "I’ve already been. I found the scenery much more honest than Hawkins."  

"But since you’re oh, so eager... Let’s settle on a compromise. I’ll go to hell... If you agree to come with me.” He creeps a tread closer, his goofy-ahh pocket watch rattling like a death knell. 

“Not a fucking chance,” you snark, accelerating your sprint.  

If that affront had come from anyone else, he would’ve popped their eyes straight from their sockets like water balloons by now. 

You’re the only one who’s ever been foolish enough to taunt Lord Vecna himself. For some reason, he cannot seem to hate you for it.  

In fact — he’s captivated.  

How could someone be so moronic, yet so… fearless? 

The sun is blinding you more than it should at half-past five. 

You’re willing to bet your pet Izzy the Iguana's life that this was Henry’s doing. He’s desperate enough to catch you that he’s literally manipulating the rays of the sun.  

Aw, were you that special to him?  

Your feet ache worse than a scare actor after a graveyard shift at Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights — you can practically smell the chemical fog juice and stale costume sweat permeating your lungs. 

As you bolt through wolves' claw-like branches and shadows that may devour... 

The cave makes a soft launch into your vision.

 

You’re in the homestretch. 

You only need to pray that you don’t stumble over another branch.  

“Almost there... Almost there...” you repeat nonverbally. 

You just got to secure yourself inside that goddamn cave. 

Then, you’re free, mama. 

Free.  

You’re less than five feet from the mouth of the cave — charging with the vigor of a real-life Temple Run player — 

You step a half foot inside the cave until — 

THWACK! 

Henry shoots his serpentine tentacles — tumbling you over as he yanks your feet — attempting to snatch your brand-new Skechers. 

“MOTHERF —,” you faceplant gracefully into the cave. You grip a sizeable stalagmite — your temporary buoy. The spiked edges abrade your palms as you cling for dear life. 

“GET YOUR NASTY PAWS OFF ME —,” your feet bash the walls from side to side — slicing and dicing his tendrils like calamari along the barbed stalagmites. 

“ARGH —!!!!” He howls, retracting his arm like a built-in measuring tape. 

He brushes his vest, trying to regain a bearing of composure. 

You flip him off with both hands and blow a raspberry as he stares daggers at you. 

Henry stumbles, pawing at his bruised hand and ego. He limps away — his posture rivaling that of an 80-degree scoliosis patient. 

What a pussy. 

At last — 

You made it. 

You mount yourself off the cave floor — your adult-sized light-up Twinkle Toes sparkling like a disco ball amongst the shadows. Even as you’re well inside — you don’t surrender your sprint until you land at a secluded spot. 

You collapse to your knees in exhaustion — legs weaker than a jellyfish carcass. You steady your breath as you process your victory.  

“Holy shit,” a jagged, hysterical laugh rips out of you.  

“I did it. I actually fucking did it!”  

Your drained voice echoes, the only sound in the cave’s suffocating silence. 

You press your palms into your eyes, trying to stop the world from whirling. For a minute, there is only the rapid thrum of your own pulse... 

“PUM-PUM-PUM-PUM-PUM-PUM...” 

“Tick.” 

“Tick..” 

“TICK...”  

The air grows heavy — like the calm before a hurricane. 

The temperature doesn't just drop — it plummets. The air turns into a saw-toothed, clinical frost that makes your breath look like low-res pixels in the dark. 

“Tick.” 

“Tick..” 

“TICK...” 

You peel your hands away — expecting to see the jagged mouth of the cave. Instead, you notice two polished leather shoes standing inches from your knees — 

Your gaze crawls upward — past the trousers and brown vest — 

Until you hit those blue eyes — eyes so pale they look like they were bleached in a lab. 

He’s already pinned you with a stare — his stillness that of a huntsman spider, vibrating with the silent frequency of the web he’s built around your mind — a hum worse than a migraine with aura, scrambling the static between your ears as the world begins to fray at the edges. 

“Aw,” he tsks, the sound a sharp glitch, his lips curling into a slight pout.  

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” 

He raises his index finger, and you involuntarily shoot up quicker than Mike Wheeler can fumble a bad bitch — like a puppet on a string — feet backing towards the wall. 

If your soul hadn’t evaporated earlier — 

It surely has now.  

Gut-punched, your entire body trembles as your mind scrambles to how this could be possible. 

This was supposed to be your haven. Your sanctuary. 

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way — 

He paces around you — his gaze growing more and more voracious as you inch towards the corner. He isn’t just catching a butterfly — he’s collapsing the horizon until the only thing left in your universe is him. You aren't just trapped in a web — you’re trapped in his vision, and he’s finally decided you’re ready to see it. 

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head like a specimen he’s been trying to catch in the right light. 

He isn’t just looking at you — he’s indexing you — bookmarking this specific flavor of your terror to his private archives — a different folder for each of the innermost nooks of your soul. 

And for some reason... you let him study. 

How could someone born with violence hardwired in their DNA be capable of such... gentleness? 

For a minute — you question whether he’s about to get down on one knee or snap your neck smoother than a fun-sized Twix bar — 

Henry’s hand lingers, framing your skull like a halo. He leans in until your temples almost touch — his voice dropping to a shiver-inducing velvet. He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear ever so delicately.  

"You’re shaking," he observes, his voice bearing a hint of rasp. 

His thumb traces the line of your lower lip as he smirks, delighted by the sheer effect he has on you. 

“Is it fear... or the suffocating gravity of a God... who’s finally decided to stop watching the stars — and start watching you?” 

His obnoxiously bright red SpongeBob-coded tie is escaping from his vest. The sleeves of his off-white dress shirt are rolled past his slightly dirt-covered forearms, barely exposing his elbows. The wool’s stained with a few splotches of sweat — nastay! 

His hair’s fallen out of its usual picture-perfect state — front strands running amok and slightly drenched from pursuing you. His irises twinkle with the bloodthirst of a viper — a viper who hasn’t caught a rabbit in months. He’s famished. Ravenous. 

He’s a hot mess. And you are at fault. 

It was borderline... endearing. 

“You’re watching me? Oh, I’m honored. Just touched. You think you can see me?” You scoff, blowing a gust in his face. 

“The only thing I see is a man with severe mommy issues. You don’t ‘see’ me at all, hon.” 

“Firstly... you’re a terrible liar...” he beams, unperturbed. 

“You and I both know I see more than anyone who’s ever walked this Earth... Anyone and anything with a pulse is a novel... that only I wield the key to read...” 

“Including you.” 

“I don’t just read the pulse, dear... I composed the rhythm. Each one of your secrets is just a line I’ve already memorized. You aren’t an open book — you’re my favorite poem. A ballad written by my hand, dedicated to my glory.” 

He leans in, his breath a humid sin against your freezing skin. At his mental command, your palpitating heart falters, easing into a steady, guarded tempo in tandem with his — the final punctuation on the poem he’s spent a dozen lifetimes crafting.  

“Pum-pum... Pum-pum...”  

“Pum-pum... Pum-pum...” 

Even with his lips ghosting your flesh, you can’t help but note his lustrous hair. 

It’s genuinely a crime that a telepathic domestic terrorist has better volume and fewer split ends than you. His blond locks are silkier than satin — yours could be mistaken for straw from a horse barn.  

You can almost swear you smell lavender-scented shampoo wafting from his curls. 

What is his routine? 

Is there a deluxe all-inclusive salon in Camazotz? 

Which stylist would he refer a friend to for a five-dollar discount? 

He could be a Pantene model if his nine-to-five wasn’t global annihilation... It’s never too late for a slight career change — 

“Tell me... do you truly believe you’re a mystery to your own Maker? I don’t just see the lies you whisper — I provided the vocabulary for them. I was there for every sleepless night, watching you ache for a savior who wouldn't just tolerate your wreckage, but consecrate it. Those scars they told you to bury? They aren't 'dreadful,' to me. For the record, I find them... ethereal. They’re the only honest thing about you...” 

He delivers the sermon with the practiced, predatory charm of a detective who’s already found the murder weapon and the exact river the body was dumped in. 

You leave his "gospel" dangling in the air, a final, tattered thread of hope. 

Then, you offer the only prayer a god like him deserves... 

You spit on his face. 

“Did your Magic 8 Ball see that coming?” You snicker, his patience still unwavering. 

He wipes your saliva onto his vest without his hands or moving a centimeter away from you, mischief blooming across his face. 

“Poor thing... I almost pity you.” Henry’s rosy, plush lips a perilous less than half a millimeter from your own.

“... Almost,” he whispers — pulling back from your aching ruby lips. His fingernails trace a teasing line down your jaw, barely scraping. 

SLAM! 

A thunderous boom ripples through the walls as the mouth of the cave slams itself closed like a broken jaw. Razor-edged tendrils erupt from the widening rifts, weaving a chaotic, thorny shroud that latches the entryway shut. 

Fuck. 

He locked the pearly gates. 

Sealing you in with him. 

KRACK! 

Another exit obliterated. He was systematic — burying any lingering crumb of hope under a fresh mountain of wreckage. 

One. By. One. 

He grants you a final treacherous smile as the lanterns begin to flicker, bleeding out with the remaining sunlight. 

WHABOOM! 

The final escapeway doesn’t just close — he pardons it from the burden of existence. 

You’re royally.  

Absolutely.  

Fucked.  

Not even the real God could save you now...  

But did you truly wish to be saved?  

The cave shrivels to black as his warmth retreats, leaving you shivering in the aftermath of an unasked “blessing” you never asked for. Your skin doesn't just crawl — it recoils, mourning the heat of a deity who just forsook you from his “divine” radiance. 

The lanterns flicker rapidly until — suddenly — they extinguish, along with his luscious golden curls. 

As the shadows sharpen, your heart hammers against your ribs — 

Lurking on the other side of the cave is Henry...  

In full Vecna form.  

“Fuck. He activated Sicko Mode —,” the three last cells in your brain scramble, desperately trying to locate where exactly in the emergency manual the What to Do if Henry Whips Out His Vecnussy Without Your Consent protocol is.  

As the lanterns’ embers breathe back to life, they shift to a deep scarlet maroon, engulfing the cave in its luminescence.  

It’s giving “early 2000’s strip club that exclusively plays Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ on a ten-hour loop”. You swear, if Henry the Trashy Hoe breaks into a mid-temp burlesque routine, you might just spare him from breaking a sweat and ruining his full face of Red Dye 40 foundation by slitting your neck with the damn fire poker yourself.  

You're no longer staring at Redken's number 001 client — 

You're witnessing a man who looks like he’s been marinating in Tabasco sauce and pure spite for the last thirty years. Welcome to WatchMojo — today it begins we’ll be ranking the top ten white boy glow-downs!  

At number 001, we have Henry Creel AKA Vecna AKA Mr. Whatsit AKA Mr. CanYouPleaseJustChooseOneAlterEgoAndStickWithItYouAbsoluteDiva? 

Your fight or flight strikes quicker than a bullet train as you scavenge the cave for a bat, a shotgun, a goddamn bazooka — anything to defend yourself.  

You rummage through the cave’s clutter until your eyes stumble upon a fire poker. It was no M16... 

But you didn’t have time to ferret out an honorable weapon.  

The grandfather clock is tolling — it’s final boss battle o’clock. 

You have a crimson demon to put in his place.  

Henr — you mean Vecna — was approaching at an agonizing leisure rate. He’s granting a head start — as if you stood a chance against an all-powerful entity like him. 

Your perseverance is admirable, he must admit. 

“Henry?” His voice resonates not through the air, but through your mind.  

Oh, LORD.  

He’s inside you.  

**Not in a perverted way, freak nation. At least, not yet...**  

“Henry’s on sabbatical, my darling.” He purrs, his velvet voice reverberating through your mind, body, and soul. 

“What's the matter? You don’t think I look pretty like this?”  

Every syllable is a serrated edge, carving through your thoughts with a sense of utter violation. He already took you as his captive in his atrocious mind — now he’s also in yours — parading through your head like a partner with severe trust issues, nose-deep in their lover’s incognito tabs.  

“Get. Out.” You scorn, chest heaving with resentment.  

“Why?” He taunts, knowing damn well how much power he wields.  

“Afraid of what I might find?”   

“Pretty cocky for a guy named after the world’s geekiest board game,” your voice slightly trembling. 

“The Emoji Movie terrified me more than you. You’re just a GMO-enhanced blood clot that got clogged in the drain on the second day of Shark Week. So, unless you want a gay porno projected into your cabeza, I suggest you exit. Ahora, por favor!” 

This woman was absurdly relentless. 

Fuck, why is this provoking every milliliter of blood in his deep-fried body to rush down to his —   

Watching the soul drain from his victims’ eyes has always been adrenaline-inducing — since the day he took his mother and sister’s lives — but you...  

You’re different.  

You’re exhilarating.  

You’re giving him a battle worth dying for.  

He scoffs, with an audible smirk, as he departs from your heinous psyche. 

He resumes his full Sicko Mode strut down the cave’s non-existent runway — tentacles trailing each step like a bloody Victoria’s Secret angel demon.  

You plant your feet into the ground as the icy handle of the rusted fire poker bites into your flesh. You grip it with such force that your knuckles turn whiter than a Kirk rally.  

Your mind has effectively become a 2011 Chromebook x360 with 4GB of RAM and forty open tabs — and for the love of the Holy Spirit and everything sacred — you cannot detect which tab is auto-playing the Jaws theme.  

Despite bringing the equivalent of a knife to a gunfight against the five-star general of the Abyss, you muster your courage and holler, 

“Come and get me, you BALD BASTARD —!”  

Vecna doesn’t spare another second. 

He launches his vivacious tendrils from his left towards your right — a mere inch from striking you as you dart away via summersault. It was going to take more than a jump-scare tickle grab to K.O. you. 

He knows this. He’s counting on it. 

You stumble over the cave’s jagged floor. You stabilize yourself, returning to your previous fighter stance. “Has Peepaw Vecna grown rusty during his 18 months chilling in Mindy Flare’s thrumming bussy? You are pathetic,” you jest as you dare to hawk another loogie in his direction. 

He doesn’t falter. But... 

What the hell was a “bussy”...? 

He continues his stride, his footsteps reverberating through the cave. 

He splays his coiled fingers and jolts his arm towards the cave’s ceiling — yanking your feet off the ground along with it. 

His telekinetic clench on your trachea feels like an arctic, invisible hand aiming to drain the eternal flame of life out of you. 

You're not sure whether you should be pleading for mercy or yelling that his form is terrible — but you're definitely not going to let this fucking diva get the satisfaction of the first option. 

There’s absolutely no chance in hell you’ll ever be at peace if your gravestone is engraved with “RIP — Strangled to Death by Boogeyman. She Was Lowkey into it Though. IJBOL” 

His grasp tightens — tantalizingly constrictive.  

Your death wasn’t going to be swift, no... 

Especially not after you kept forcing his knee to witness just how far he’d go... 

He craves to relish it... 

To drown in it. 

How your breath hitches as you gasp and suffocate on your own saliva... 

How your limbs flail at your sides, unable to break free... 

How your eyes flutter ever so delicately before falling into a “forever sleep”... (Kind of like an opposite Snow White’s true love’s kiss. How... romantic.) 

“Is it always so... loud?” He probes, referring to his glimpse in your mind a minute ago, constricting your windpipes further... and further... 

“Consider this...” 

Salvation.”  

“You’re mine.” His empty, heartless eyes declare. 

“Fuck. You.” Your gawk returns. 

He clenches and unclenches his hold — teasing you with brief intervals of air — a slow, rhythmic crushing that turns your resistance into his thrill. Each of your spasms fuels his own pleasure. Every kick. Every swing. Drives him closer... and closer... to bliss. Would that count as an orgasm? 

“Look... Is that… PATTY NEWBY?!” You manage to utter between gasps, motioning frantically at a flickering shadow behind him — 

The effect is instantaneous. 

The name-drop flashbangs him like an ironclad knee to the testies. 

Patty Newby — a distorted anomaly from a life he thought he’d incinerated along with what remained of his humanity decades ago. 

For a glorious, naïve second, the five-star general actually tweaks. His head snaps around — bulging bloodshot eyes scouring the void for a phantom — nowhere to be seen. 

First, you blasphemized his chrome dome. Now, you’re shading his ex-high school sweetheart? 

Those are low blows, even for you... 

As he’s facing the other side of the cave — briefly mourning his ancient situationship — he unconsciously relinquishes his chokehold, plunging you to the ground like a frayed stage sandbag with an unceremonious thud. 

You don’t waste this window of opportunity. 

You push your palms off the floor and pounce towards Hawkins’ Mussolini, swinging your dingy rod with more vigor than Will Smith whacking the absolute dog shit out of Chris Rock at the 2022 Oscars. 

“Keep Patty’s name... OUT your FUCKING mouth.” You half-expect Vecman to roar. 

The iron clashes with his macerated cheek as he whips his cranium and non-existent Ariana Grande high pony around — a thwack that would surely earn you a lifetime expulsion from the Academy rips through the rocky enclosure. 

You swing the poker back over your shoulder and repeat the blow, this time witnessing how the areas of his wounds contort from Vecna to human form. 

You unleash a banshee howl and land another wallop on his half-monster half-human visage, his blood splattering like paint on his face, your hands, and cheeks.  

That’s the final straw. 

He seizes your brittle wrist with his right hand and your neck with his claw, coercing the poker out of your grip. 

It clatters to the ground in a futile clang with the brisk, effortless command of his hands — as if he’s been training his whole life for this. For you. 

A catastrophic “Oopsie daisies!” crescendos across your face... as you realize you just triple ratio’d a God who doesn't believe in take-backsies or notes app apologies. 

“Shit,” the inevitable repercussions dawn on you as you begin rough drafting your own eulogy. 

This plane is crash landing into a seismic volcano, folks — it’s been a pleasure being your unqualified captain. You genuinely would’ve been better off booking Spirit Airlines, my guy. 

You brace for impact — bolting your eyes shut. 

You prepare to be scrubbed from the scripture like a sacrilegious typo 

— like a Sim whose Creator just deleted the pool ladder and replaced the water with molten lava. 

For a blow that never arrives. 

He loosens his chokehold the slightest degree, swiping his thumb back and forth over your neck’s warm pulse point with a wicked reverence. 

He could halt your heartbeat in less time than it would take you to say, “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” 

It’s what you deserve, after all. 

Wouldn’t you agree...? 

END OF ACT Ⅰ 

[creelarchives]

Behind Closed Doors

TAGS:

Fandom: Stranger Things

Rating: Explicit (eventually)

Relationships: Henry Creel x Female Reader

Additional Tags: Mental Health, Therapy, Paranoia, Therapist x Patient, Explicit Sex (in future chapters), SLOW BURN

2.7K

Session Two

The emails had been short and efficient. Y/N mainly felt defeated, irritated by her guard being let down. By wanting to go back.

Thursday at 4pm again. I’ll be there.

That was really all she said to him in the email exchange, nothing in the message really hinting anything more than something small tugging at her to revisit.

Now she found herself in the waiting room again, pulse steady but heightened - like she was getting stage fright. Y/N heard his door click open - not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet that was the awkwardness between patients in the room. That clean metallic snap of a door latch releasing somewhere down the hall was followed by measured footsteps. The steady press of soles against the carpet grew from muffled to clearer as he got closer, his presence only being announced by the halt of rhythm on the floor.

Henry stood in the end of the hallway that lead into the waiting room, scanning the space with that same dull and quiet expression, ready to call her name.

Y/N had looked up and seen him before he saw her. The heat bloomed across her cheeks again, she hated this part. Having attention drawn to her in front of everyone else. Even though she was clearly aware everyone was there for the same purpose, her paranoia ate at her and couldn’t help but have her thoughts reeling.

Look at me. I need help. Something’s wrong with me. I’m fragile.

It was a silent announcement that she was a broken person. She imagined everyone lifting their heads when her name was called, imagining their fleeting curiosity made her stomach turn. Just like it did last time.

Before Henry could say a word, Y/N stood up abruptly. The movement startled even her - it was too quick. Too sharp. She may as well have just called her own name out to the room. She crossed the room in small, hurried steps, closing the space between them.

“I’m here.” She spoke in a half whisper, voice tight with shaky breath. Not quite a greeting, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor and their feet facing each other.

Henry paused, his eyebrow twitching to rise a little above the rim of his glasses, looking down at her. He adjusted his expression quickly, softening his face into the same one he wore in their last session - there was no surprise there, just understanding.

“Of course.” He replied in a gentle tone. And just like that, without her name ever echoing in the room, he turned around leaving the waiting room undisturbed - and her dignity still intact, just about.

Making their way down the short hallway, he opened the door for her. No words, his posture relaxed but deliberate, eyes staying on her. She walked past him into the office, aware of the quiet click of the door shutting behind her. Keeping his hands behind his back, Henry kept his gaze on her just over the rim of his glasses subtly watching as he moved over to his usual chair. But he didn’t sit immediately, he waited for his patient to find her place first.

“You look more at ease, this week.” He observed.

“I don’t feel it.” Y/N spoke back almost immediately, eyes still focused on the grainy carpet and her feet taking her over to the chair she sat in at their last session.

A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth.

“No. You feel repressed.” She chose not to respond to him, and let the words linger between them as she took a seat. He wasn’t wrong.

He sat slowly, folding one leg over the other - but no notebook yet.

“Last week,” His tone lower than she remembered, like he was treading carefully with her, “we talked about control. About how you.. shrink yourself. Because you don’t want to overwhelm others.” He paused mid sentence, like he was trying to find a word that wasn’t too harsh but not too dismissive.

“Yes.” Her throat bobbed subtly, an attempt to swallow but her mouth was dry.

“I’d like to try something different today.”

Her fingers dug into her thigh, she could already feel her lungs getting shallow again.

“I can tell you’re anxious again, Y/N. There’s no need to be-“

“No shit.” She hissed back, chest rising and falling, she dropped her gaze back down his shoes again. Her mind pricked at her conscience immediately, before her brain had time to catch up with her mouth. It was like it was a reflex more than an intention. An apology hovered over her tongue, but her pride stitched her lips shut before it could escape.

But, Henry wasn’t fazed by it. In fact, it’s like he dismissed it entirely. There was a pause where he blinked a few times, keeping his eyes on her - and then spoke again.

“It’s an exercise in one’s self of ownership.” He continued smoothly. “I noticed in our last session, you struggled to say certain things out loud. So we’ll say them together.”

Y/N exhaled cautiously.

This is cheesy.

“What things?” Her head tilted almost in frustration, as she pushed herself to look back up at him - biting the inside of her cheek.

“Affirmations.” His gaze didn’t waver.

Great.

“Repeat after me.” He said. He let the silence between them sit for a few seconds, waiting for her to agree.

“Alright..” She shifted in her chair, quietly clearing her throat and letting her arms rest on the cushioned sides.

He leaned forward, untangling his legs and let his hands hold each other with his elbows resting on his knees. And as he began to speak, his eyebrows raised, like he was comforting her.

“I deserve to be seen.”

She hesitated, her throat still stuck dry.

“Say it.” He said with a slightly harsher edge to his voice.

“I deserve to be.. seen.” Y/N was extremely uncomfortable, her stomach felt tight and this was all very useless in her mind.

“Again. But slower, this time.” Almost a command.

“I.. deserve to be seen.” Her tone was lowered, mumbling and embarrassed.

“Good,” he murmered, “and when you say that, what do you notice?”

Confronted with questions like this, Y/N’s mind truly goes blank. Is there a right or wrong answer here? Will she look stupid if she just guesses what he wants to hear? Henry could see she wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Your breathing changed, Y/N.” He said quietly but with a hint of pride laced in with his tone - like he was uncovering something he’d been searching for. “You hold tension when you assert your presence. Listen to what your body is telling you, and close off your mind.” He tapped the side of his temple with one gentle touch of his index finger, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“Let’s do another.. I am allowed to take up attention.”

Her lips parted with hesitation.

“That feels..”

“Uncomfortable?” He supplied the word, finishing her sentence. “It shouldn’t.” He held her gaze deliberately. “Say it.”

Goosebumps started making a trail up her thighs, scratching tight against her tights stretched across her legs.

What was that?

“I am allowed to take up attention.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. The air shifted, but he never broke eye contact. He just leaned back into his chair, expression relaxing, almost seeing a glint of satisfaction.

“And how does that feel now?” He asked.

Y/N could feel her heart beat creeping up to play in her ears again.

“Intense.”

“Yes.” His voice dropped half a notch. “But, intensity isn’t something to be afraid of. You can embrace it.”

The pause stretched, always waiting to see if she had something to say between his sentences.

“Right,” he left his posture relax a little more, arms going back onto the armrests as his fingers curled over the edges. “Last one.”

“Okay.” She responded blankly, itching to get it over and done with.

He paused, anticipating a reaction out of her from what he was about to say. Henry knew what he was doing.

“I am allowed to enjoy the way someone looks at me.”

Her pulse quickened at the softness in his tone, the way he was unbothered. Heat rising up her neck, and bleeding into her cheeks again.

“I am allowed..-“ She started, and then faltered. A humiliated scoff of refusal came from her mouth, a small and subtle head shake as she broke eye contact. “I can’t.”

“Look at me.” He almost snapped at her, jaw clenching. “You can. Say it.”

Her breath caught and her eyes flickered back to it, feeling like she was being disciplined.

“I am allowed to enjoy the way someone looks at me.” She almost rushed to speak.

“And how do I look at you, Y/N?” He asked quietly, his voice rough at the edges. His eyes held hers for a second longer than necessary - deliberate and a little dangerous in how attentive they were.

She inhaled through her nose, head pulling to turn away and look somewhere else, but she didn’t. What was his motive here?

“Like I.. matter?” She guessed, not sure in herself and not sure what answer he was expecting.

He nodded once, with one blink matched to the rhythm of it. He leant forward to pick his trusty black notebook back up off of the table, pulling the pen out of the spine and taking the lid off - flicking through the pages to find her notes.

“Like you’re hard to ignore.” He mumbled to himself, just a notch under his usual quiet tone, hidden under his breath.

What did he just say?

Her eyebrows furrowed, she heard him mutter something but didn’t quite catch it.

“What was that?” She asked lightly, as he was jotting something brief down.

Henry paused midway through writing and looked back up at his patient with a blink, the slightest hesitation before he recovered.

“I said.. keep your eyes off the door.” His tone had shifted seamlessly back into its professional register. Measured and neutral, bringing his attention back down to his notepad.

Her gaze instinctively of course, flickered back over to the door. She didn’t even look over there.. did she? Well, of course that’s what he would’ve said - he knows she has a habit of glancing over to the door occasionally.

Pen balancing between his fingers, Henry took a sharp breath in - chin lifting again.

“Tell me what happens when you walk into a room and feel like everyone is watching.”

Y/N hesitated. “I don’t think they’re watching me.”

“But it feels like they are.”

“..Yes.”

“And what does that feel like?” His pen started to fiddle in his fingers, eyes squinting just a little.

She kept her eyes fixed on him, not wanting to feel defeat or shame - but it bled through anyway. “Exposed.” She said through gritted teeth.

Henry didn’t write anything down, he just let the words settle in the silence. But, the air was thicker than before. Not awkward, just.. charged. She became aware of the way he was looking at her - something small and ever so subtle had changed. It wasn’t a clinical stare like their first session, not exactly anyway. He stayed steady and focused on her, as if she were the only thing in the room worth observing.

Y/N adjusted herself in the seat, crossing her legs.

“You hold eye contact longer than most people.” He muttered quietly, as if he were making a mental note.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” His mouth twitched faintly again, tugging at the corner for a brief second. “It’s.. disarming.”

Her pulse skipped. She wasn’t sure why that word felt like it carried weight. Did he mean she was disarming him? Letting his guard down?

He leaned forward slightly now, his notebook balancing on his thigh, pen in between his fingers in his right hand - while simultaneously folding his hands over his knee that lay on top of his other leg. The distance between them hadn’t really changed, but it felt like it had narrowed. She had caught a faint hint of his scent as he moved closer, it was subtle and clean, nothing too strong. Not something she had noticed before.

“You’re very aware of how you affect people, aren’t you?” He continued.

“I try not to be.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

Y/N’s eye twitched, vision going hazy momentarily. Frustrated? Angry? She wasn’t too sure what she felt in that moment. She told herself this was projection, transference. Those words he mentioned in the last session they had together. That’s what this was.

They had eventually moved on. She spoke about work. About a dinner she had cancelled because she didn’t want to be ‘looked at’ and she didn’t trust him. She saw something subtle glint in his eyes when she mentioned the date but she dismissed it.

Henry continued to ask measured questions, each one careful and deliberate. The conversation had found its rhythm again - safe territory. Cognitive patterns were brought up. Avoidance. Coping mechanisms.

But something small had shifted in him. He didn’t interrupt her as often. When she paused, he let it stretch longer than usual. Waiting for her to continue.

At one point, she had glanced up mid sentence and caught him watching her. Watching her lips move. Was that a normal thing therapists did? His pen rested idle against his thumb. But he looked away that first time, clearing his throat softly before asking another question that almost felt rehearsed.

Y/N found herself relaxing in her speech, not being so careful as to what words to use - slowly but surely getting more comfortable. She was still very aware of her posture, her hand placement, her voice - but she felt okay.

He mirrored her movements without seeming to realise it, leaning back when she did and tilting his head when she tilted hers.

The clock ticked on. And eventually, he glanced over to it. Just a flicker of his eyes, then back to hers. That chime again, just on time. The professional mask slid back into place with practiced ease.

“We’ll stop there for today.” She gave a disappointed nod, lips pursing as she chewed the inside of her cheek - shutting up.

She stood, and felt the same hint of embarrassment she did last time when the session ended. Like all she did was yap for an hour.

That’s the whole point of being here, you idiot. She tried to reassure herself.

Henry stood as well, and they both made the few steps together that took them to the pine door. For a second as they stood together, about to watch Y/N leave, they were closer than they’d ever been. No table between them, no chairs. Just shared air.

They both reached for the door handle at the same time. Their fingers didn’t touch, but it was close enough to feel the heat of him brush over her hand.

She pulled back her hand first.

He grabbed the handle and twisted it, patiently opening it for her and taking a small step back to make way. “Same time next week.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t bait her to bring it up like he did last time. He wanted her to come back.

Her fingers curled over her sleeves tightly in awkwardness as she could hear the receptionist at the other end of the hall, not wanting to be perceived. She gave her therapist a simple nod and a short hum of approval. And then-

His hand found the small of her back. Light. Just enough to guide. It was professional, but his palm lingered for a beat longer than it should have. Not long enough to be obvious. But enough to be undeniable.

Her breath faltered. A barely-there hitch she hoped he didn’t hear, or feel in her back. And for a fraction of a second, his thumb shifted - almost imperceptibly - like he was grounding her.

Then his hand withdrew.

“Take care.” He said, his voice steady.

She nodded once more with a brief and quick swallow, not looking back and treading back down the hallway. Painfully aware of the placement of where his hand had been.

The door clicked shut behind her once more.

—————————————————————————

Thank you for reading!! Hope you like chapter two! Chapter three is where it gets interesting 🫦😼 Let me know if there’s any specific things you’d like to see from Dr Creel! <3

[b0werful]

The Monster Left Behind 

CHAPTER ONE - THE MAN IN THE WINDOW

SYNOPSIS: Free from the Mind-Flayer's control, Henry Creel is left a hollow, helpless shell of a man, resigning himself to a lifetime of self-abandonment and grief over a life so cruelly denied from him - until a new arrival into Hawkins takes a chance on him, the man everyone else has already given up on. 

(alternative universe following on from st5 where henry survives the death of the mindflayer) 

FANDOM: Stranger Things

CONTAINS: henry creel x f!reader, use of Y/N, slow burn, eventual romance, age gap (45 + 25), mental health/illness/dark themes, murder, lowkey making this up as i go along so ill add as i continue LOL 

WC: 2.3k 

NOTES: this is my first time properly writing and posting a fic so pls bare with me if there’s any errors! im lowkey working this out as i go along hahaha so constructive feedback is very welcome <3 

SONG: Freak – Seb Lowe 

“He’s a freak, his hair’s a mess and he only wears a nightdress, and he’ll sharpen his teeth. Run around on Halloween, strangest lad you’ve ever seen.” 

---

Chapter One – The Man in the Window 

Hawkins in the fall was picture-perfect, a scene of rich, fallen leaves, crunching underfoot while the slightly cold, pine scented air filled your soul. A perfect scene, almost too predictable, too suspicious. The kind of beauty that almost felt rehearsed. It was a perfect juxtaposition to Hawkin’s deeply rooted mystery, a small town previously plagued by torment and grief.  

On Morehead Street, the air laid heavy and unmoving, as if the town itself was holding its breath. The calm was abruptly torn apart by the sudden, growing hum of a small but packed moving van, followed closely by a beaten-up Volkswagen spluttering out a concerning amount of fumes; engine struggling as it crawled down the cobbled road. A car that was well loved, made obvious by the peppering of scratches and bumps collected throughout the years, but realistically should’ve been sent to the scrap yard at least 5 years ago. 

Y/N scanned the street as she gently pressed the brake, letting the car come to an excruciatingly slow stop as she pulled up towards what was supposed to be the beginning of her new life. The rusted streetlights illuminated in the thinning daylight, the old houses stood proudly alongside the amber-touched trees whilst the cold, crisp autumn air caressed the leaves, coaxing a few of them free as they fluttered down to the ground to rest, resigned to wither away. 

A quarter-life crisis - she had told herself - lead her to uproot her entire life and start over; but realistically this wasnt a brave, new reinvention. She needed to escape, from the pressure and expectations that came with the big-city living of her previous life in Chicago - where her every move felt like a performance to conform with the idea of ‘success’. She needed a fresh slate to find herself again, and there was no place more perfect for that than a small town like Hawkins, where the air felt softer. Safer. Whilst also shrouded in mystery. Comfortability, but also something to sink her teeth into. 

The car came to a halt, behind the van that held all of her belongings, her memories. Little fragments of a life she was trying to reassemble. She paused for a moment, her anxious, shaking breath suspended in the cold air of the car. This was it. She forced herself to release her hands from the steering wheel, her white knuckles regaining their colour back to a soft pink as they recovered from her previously tight grip. She pulled the handbrake up, its old mechanisms groaning until it gave a sharp click, she nudged the gear stick into neutral, and released her seatbelt with a thud. Drawing in one more unsteady breath, she reached for the doorhandle. Her hand shaking slightly with nerves, but also excitement for her new beginning, she came into contact with the cold metal and pushed the door open, taking a confident stride out onto the street that would be her new home. 

“Y/N?” 

Her ears pricked at the sudden voice, turning around to seek it out. 

“1847 Morehead Street? This the right place?” The deep voice called again. Before her was a tall, stocky, bearded man in a tight-fitting khaki polo and black chinos, branded with the moving company’s logo. Clutching a clipboard with a slightly crumpled piece of paper hastily clipped onto it, and one hand gesturing towards the porch in front of them. 

“Yeah, this is it.” She replied, lifting her gaze to take in what would be her new home. 

There stood a small, but cozy bungalow. Its faded yellow panelling framed by a chipped white trim, paint worn off by the slow passage of time. The front steps sagged slightly under the weight of the ghosts of its past inhabitants, clinging onto the memory of all the feet that had crossed them. It looked straight out of the 1800s, stubborn and out of place. Standing its ground as if the world around it moved and changed whilst leaving it behind. The house sat on the end of a small cul-de-sac with no more than 4 other houses on the street, it was the kind of neighbourhood where everybody knew each other. Typical sickly-sweet suburbia. Perfect for that quiet life she wanted. 

The man accepted her confirmation with a small, slightly uninterested nod. She was sure this was probably his fifth job of the day and was eager to get it all over with. He got to work without requiring much direction, hauling boxes off the van and up the front porch steps. Y/N followed behind him with a smaller box hugged to her chest. She fumbled with the metal front door key, missing the hole a few times as she battled to see over the box she was holding. The key finally slipped in, and with a twist the door swung open with a creek. The first whiff of the air smelt like old wood and dust, a scent she thought typical for such an old house.  

The pair worked together to unload the boxes into the house, when they finally finished she waved the man off at the door, watching as he climbed into the now empty van and sped off into the wash of the late afternoon light. She let out a long tired sigh, preparing to start the gruelling job of unpacking her belongings. Her hand met the cold metal of the doorknob and she begun to swing the wooden door closed, then a flicker of movement caught her eye – a woman making her way towards the house. 

“Yoo-hoo!” She called, her sweet voice floating across the cul-de-sac, catching Y/N by surprise. She blinked and stepped towards the doorway again, opening the door fully to see where the voice had come from. 

A short, frail woman, with brunette hair that was visibly greying, scraped back into a sensible low bun made her way carefully up the porch stairs. She wore a floral blouse neatly tucked into a black pencil skirt that stopped just below her knees. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of an old family photograph, a sweet, almost grandmotherly figure. 

“You must be the new neighbour!” she chimed, her voice bright whilst the corners of her mouth widened with a gummy smile. 

“Oh- Hi! Yeah, I’m Y/N.” Y/N replied, stumbling over her words as her tone betrayed to cover her surprise. “Sorry! I just, uh... wasn't expecting a welcome committee” she continued, rubbing her neck and giving a small nervous chuckle, leaning her hip against the wooden door frame. 

“It’s good to meet you, Y/N” The woman said warmly. “I’m Helena, but you can call me Helen” she ended with a playful wink. 

“It’s great to meet you, Helen” Y/N smiled, now warming up to her new acquaintance. 

“We live just across the way” Helen gestured behind her to the house directly opposite, a similarly timeworn house just slightly bigger than Y/N’s, front garden proudly covered with bright flowers and a large, slightly overgrown rosebush.  

“I’m sorry for the sudden visit” her voice dipped into a softer, slightly more serious register. “It’s just... we don’t often get neighbours. Hawkins can be...” her voice lingered on the last word, dragging the syllables like she was trying to figure out what to say next. 

 “Well, not a lot of people choose to live here if they can help it, it’s always nice to see new faces around here.” Her smile brightened again, but the earlier uncertainty hung in the air as she was holding something back. 

“Well, that’s reassuring” Y/N said with a soft, nervous chuckle. “You make it sound like there’s something I should know.” 

Helen’s seriousness returned, her smile shrinking, dimming like a fading lightbulb. 

“It’s nothing really, there's just people- well...” She stuttered, fumbling over her words. “Someone... you should probably be wary of.” 

Y/N furrowed her brows, giving out an inquisitive “Hm?” as Helen diverted Y/Ns attention to the house in the middle of the street. 

“Henry Creel.” 

The teal, almost mansion-like house towered over the quiet of the street, an interruption in the quiet rhythm of Morehead Street’s suburban nature. Almost like a warning. It was by far the largest house on the street, practically dripping in grandiosity. Compared to the rest of the old, worn houses on the street – Creel's house looked too perfect, like it was frozen in a moment of perfection, and it refused to let time tarnish it. The pristine white trim proudly framed the large, spotless windows, where underneath every blind was drawn. Out on the porch laid a perfectly green lawn and well-manicured bushes enveloping the bottom of the house, a strange sight for the time of year where most greenery was scarce, touched by the orange glow of Hawkins autumn.  

“Henry Creel?” Y/N repeated, probing for more information. “What’s up with him?” 

“He’s... strange...” Helen replied, the words leaving her mouth with caution, still with a slight hesitation. 

“Strange...how?” 

Helen’s gaze remained fixed on Creel’s house. “He just... doesn’t interact much. With anybody. At all.” 

“How come?” 

Helen drew in a slow, deep breath, before releasing it through a defeated sigh as if she were bracing herself. She tore her eyes away from the house and back at Y/N with a tight, pained expression. 

“In ‘59,” she began quietly, “his mother and little sister were found murdered in that very house, killed by his own father. Victor Creel.” Helen muttered, swallowing hard. 

“Henry was nowhere to be found, and was presumed dead too.” she continued, voice dropping lower.  

“They searched for days. Weeks. Everyone thought he was dead too, body discarded somewhere nobody could ever find. Then five years ago... he just. Turned up again. Walked into that house like he’d never left, like he hadn't been presumed dead for 28 damn years.” Helen scoffed slightly in disbelief at what she was saying. 

“He refuses to speak to anybody, he hasn't really left that house since. I don’t blame him, really. Poor soul’s probably traumatised. But...” her head turned back towards the house. “There’s a certain air about him, something that just doesn'tseem right. You know what it’s like in a small town, people talk.” 

Her gaze turned once again back to Y/N with a guilty expression, mouth twisting slightly as if she didn't quite approve of what she was about to say. 

“They say... it wasn’t Victor who did it. They say it was Henry, but of course that’s just stupid small-town gossip” she added quickly. “But still, if I were you... I’d steer clear. Just in case.” 

Y/N turned her attention back to Henry’s house, Helen’s words lingering in the air. 

As her eyes met the upper windows, she saw movement. Only slight, but there was something there. Someone in the window. There stood a tall, dark silhouette standing behind the glass. The figure stood perfectly still, watching. She was too far away to make out the man’s features, the light within the house was dim and swallowed any detail she was so desperately seeking – but Y/N still felt the weight of his stare. Strong. Sharp. Measured. Burning into her like a laser. 

“Is he looking at us?” Y/N’s voice came out thinner than she intended, the words catching in her throat. 

“Yeah... he does that”, Helen said calmly, also looking over at the man in the window. “He’s harmless, really. But he watches.” 

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, then, just as quickly as he appeared – he withdrew back into the shadows.  

“But don’t let him put you off”, Helen chimed, clearing her throat and attempting to lighten the conversation again. Y/N snapped her gaze from the window back to Helen, seeing the return of her smile, warm and welcoming. “I promise we’re a lovely bunch around here. You’ll love it, I’m sure.”  

Y/N gave a small nod, still slightly shaken from what had just happened but attempting to allow Helen’s enthusiastic tone smooth the edge off her nerves. “Yeah, I’m sure I will”, Y/N mustered, fingers tightening around the doorframe. “Thanks for stopping by Helen. Really.” 

“It’s no problem at all, I best get back before Bill sends out a search party for me!” She chuckled, “You know where I am if you need anything, dear.”  

Helen reached for Y/N’s shoulder, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze before making her way down the porch, across the street and back toward her too-bright garden. Y/N watched her go for a moment, then eased the door shut. She spun around and leaned her back into the wood, as the weight of everything she had just been told washed over her, and the memory of Henry in the window lingering in her mind. 

She felt her mind exploding, what really happened to Henry? To his family? Were the small-town rumours true, or was everyone circling a poor, traumatised man because it fit their own gossip-fuelled narrative? She held onto those thoughts for a while, a battle within her mind as she picked apart her own half-baked theories – until reality snapped back into focus and her gaze caught the mountains of boxes cluttering her new home. She didnt have time to ponder about something that, quite frankly, was none of her business. With a long, drawn out sigh, she pushed her now aching body off the door and took a step further into the house, ready to make a start on unpacking her belongings. Still, Henry Creel burned in her mind, stubbornly pricking away at the corners of her brain, still feeling the lingering burn of his stare. But for now, she told herself, she had shit to do. 

Maybe tomorrow she’ll try to solve the mystery of the elusive Henry Creel. 

---

thank you for reading! again im open to constructive feedback! <3

[creelarchives]

Behind Closed Doors

TAGS:

Fandom: Stranger Things

Rating: Explicit (eventually)

Relationships: Henry Creel x Female Reader

Additional Tags: Mental Health, Therapy, Paranoia, Therapist x Patient, Explicit Sex (in future chapters), SLOW BURN

2.8k

Session One

The waiting room was too quiet. So profoundly quiet that the faint thumping of Y/N’s own blood became audible in her ears.

Her pen hovered over the question for too long.

Do you experience intrusive thoughts?

“Yes..” She quietly hissed to herself under her breath, almost embarrassed to tick the box as she brought pen to paper.

“Ms Y/N?” The voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It was.. measured. Y/N looked up. He looked younger than she expected he would. Her first mistake, she thought to herself.

She gave a cold smile regardless, a slow blink and stood, too awkward to even utter a simple ‘Hello’ or ‘Yes’ for now. Hopefully that would fade away soon, although she had a small feeling it wouldn’t. A faint pinkness crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. Her stomach tightened a little and the room suddenly felt too open.

Standing slowly, she smoothed her skirt even though she didn’t need to. She was aware of everything. The ticking clock, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the other patients glancing over to watch her walk out and lay her raw feelings out on the table for the next hour. Were they watching her? Expecting something from her?

Y/N approached the man, not taking much notice of him as her paranoia swallowed her, she tended not to make eye contact when she was nervous. As he turned on his heels, she followed close behind back down the hall he came from, each step making her stomach drop a little more. The carpet swallowed the noise of their strides, but she still felt exposed as if she had eyes on her back.

The man opened the door to his office.

It was ordinary. A soft lamp light. An intriguing bookcase filling the whole of the back wall. Two cushioned sofa chairs angled towards each other, and a low, small table between them. It had box of tissues placed too deliberately in the middle, with a small black book perched on the edge. A large window at the back too that was half protected by blinds that let in a thin strip of light.

It was all too ordinary. Like he was trying too hard to be a typical therapist, which somehow made her feel worse.

She stepped inside with hesitation, head ducked a little like she was entering a trap. Y/N didn’t sit right away. Her eyes scanned the room, corners first, then bookcase, and the smoke detector. Was there a camera? A recorder? Her gaze flicked briefly to his desk.

Stop being so dramatic. This is exactly what you’re here for. She scolded herself, trying to let the paranoia wash over her.

The man, who she didn’t even dare to point her gaze toward yet, shut the door with a soft controlled click, taking slow and paced steps over to his desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and leant against the front of his desk on the back of his thighs, then resting one ankle over the other - watching her.

“Please, sit wherever you’re comfortable.” He said with a gentle tone. Living in the chaos that is London, she heard the British tone every day; yet his was.. more polished, it had a comfort about it, a grainy texture to it.

Comfortability was closest to the door, in Y/N’s mind. When she finally allowed herself to sit, she stayed perched on the edge, back painfully straight and her hands knotted tightly in her lap. She could already feel that heat spreading across her chest again, cheeks burning. It was obvious she didn’t want to be there. Instinctively, her knee began to bounce.

“I don’t want to be here-“ She blurted out, a complete burst of built up anxiety that made her eyes squeeze shut out of embarrassed for a split second. Biting her lip hard, staring at the floor, she tried again.

“I’m not.. crazy.” She spoke too quickly. Heart thumping. “I’ve just been.. noticing things recently.” Her breathing was shaky, but not emotional. Her eyes glanced over to the window, no one could possibly be out there. They were four floors up and it’s not like there was even a balcony. Eyes flickered back to the door opposite the window now, just for a fleeting moment. It was still shut, but not soundproof.

He said nothing. He just watched intently, trying to read her, head tilting just a little and eyebrows furrowing a bit with slightly squinted eyes behind those glasses. The man noticed the way her eyes would erratically scan the place, she probably thought she was being discreet about it.

The therapist didn’t answer immediately. In fact, he let her words hang in the warm lamplight - she wasn’t as closed off as she came off to be, but then again maybe he could see that because that was his job. He could see her shame and defensiveness, her fears of being perceived.

His silence scared her. Y/N pushed herself to look at the man, lifting her head. She couldn’t bear to keep sitting in a painful silence. She confirmed from earlier that he was younger than she expected, his hair a blend of ashy and golden brown colour, side parted with a soft wave. Classic, round glasses sit on his nose and a rusty brown waistcoat fitted neatly over a shirt with matching trousers - and a red tie. There was no softness there, no room for error. This was a man who did his job properly.

He gave himself momentum and pushed himself off the desk, untangling his legs and arms, taking a sharp breath in through his teeth. He moved past her without hesitation and took the seat opposite, allowing himself to lean back in the chair, arms on armrests keeping eye contact with his patient. Only then did he speak.

“Do you believe I’m recording you?” He said evenly and calm, no reassurance layered into it. Just what he saw.

The words struck her in the chest, she felt waves of anxiety pulse through her body. Biting the inside of her cheek, her lips pursed a little. That voice again, it scraped slightly at the edges like it was dry but controlled. Just as Y/N went to speak, lips parting - he interrupted her thought, a small but rushed breath in to speak could be heard.

“If I were” he continued, voice still carefully measured, “you would have been informed.”

Her lips closed shut again, not really sure of what to say. Not really sure whether to trust him.

He reached for the small black notebook that was sat on the edge of the table between them. He didn’t rush to grab it, leaning back into the chair and lifted it beside his head.

“I do take notes. Brief ones.” Setting it back down onto his lap, he gently rested one leg over the other, taking the pen out of the spine of the notebook. His eyes flickered back up to meet her gaze. There was something analytical and detached about the way he looked at her, as if he were observing specimen and not a human, as if he wanted to categorise her.

“You said you’ve been noticing things.” He took the cap off his pen and clicked it back onto the top of it, hovering above the paper, waiting.

Her breath was taken from her lungs, eyes that couldn’t leave his and an empty head. Y/N really had no plan of what to say, teeth clenching and her knuckles getting whiter while her fingers entangled tighter in her lap. Her hesitance was observed, and the man realised he may have been too quick to jump into it. He broke eye contact, and rested his pen to lay on the book in front of him.

“What about we start with introductions before we get into it, hm? My name is Henry.” He finished his sentence with just a blank stare back, waiting for an answer.

Y/N wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for and didn’t see a point to introductions. They had maybe had three or four emails exchanged over the last week before she pushed herself to come here. She was sure he knew all he needed to as far as introductions went.

“You already know my name.” Y/N pushed back, getting impatient already. He didn’t answer immediately. In fact, he picked his pen back up with slightly pursed lips and wrote a quick note.

What did he write?

“Yes.” Nothing in his tone suggested amusement, irritation, or an apology. Just agreement. The silence from Y/N wasn’t empty, it was pressed. She shifted uncomfortably - barely.

“But I’d still like to hear you say it.” He added. Not quite a question, his hands linked and folded over his book. “Because there’s a difference between information and consent.”

That was new. She wasn’t all too familiar with that word, she didn’t hear it often. His expression remained calm, not giving anything away, but she still felt she was being analysed.

“You’ve read the file. You’ve seen our emails.” She spoke hesitantly but with force, not enjoying the feeling of this power dynamic she may have imagined in her head. “You know why I’m here.”

Another pause.

“I know what was written.” Henry gently corrected her. His tone set the atmosphere of patience, not dominance. The kind that felt like he could see right through her - and she didn’t like that.

“And what are you suggesting wasn’t written?” She challenged.

There it was. An invitation. She was opening up for discussion, in his eyes anyway. He didn’t smile, but something in his posture eased, as if his patient had shifted into alignment with him.

“That,” Henry paused, just so subtly lifting an eyebrow, “is entirely up to you.” Henry let his words settle in the air, no follow up question. No prompt. He purposely wasn’t filling the silence.. he was giving it to her. Which somehow made this feel worse.

Y/N hated that he said it like that.

Entirely up to you.

As if the choice to answer that was so clean and simple. As if she hadn’t spent the last ten minutes hoping the clock on the wall would malfunction. Each movement of that second hand landed like a quiet accusation. She shifted in her chair again, breaking eye contact and clearing her throat a little, but nothing followed. Under pressure.

Her fingers dug ever so slightly into the armrests, as his presence just.. stayed there. Henry wasn’t staring her down, he was waiting without demanding. Her gaze flickered back to him once, then twice in uncertainty - not sure what to say.

He wasn’t writing anything. Was that for better or for worse? It irritated her.

“I don’t really know what you’re expecting me to say.” Y/N muttered finally, eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder and on the window behind him, focussing on the door in her peripheral vision.

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

Of course he didn’t. That was the whole point. Her jaw tightened. She had walked in the building today a nervous wreck, but determined to push through it. Tick the box, tell whoever insisted she go that she’d tried. She would not ‘unpack’ anything, and she absolutely would not come back.

“You keep looking at the door.” He says softly.

Her head snapped back up. “No, I don’t.”

A small lift of that same eyebrow. Not challenging, just observing. She bit her lip just a little in frustration, her own eyebrows edging closer in a frown of annoyance. Henry’s eyes flicked down to her mouth for a fraction of a second and back up to meet her eyes. What was that? But she dismissed it - she was only thinking if he could read her thoughts, he would know the real reason she kept glancing at the door is because she was measuring the distance. Calculating how ridiculous she would look if she had just stood up and left.

“Look, I just don’t want to waste your time.” She said.

“You’re not.” He was trying to be gentle with his words, but she knew that was unnatural for him. Y/N chose Henry Creel for this session because if she was going to do therapy, it would be with someone who was emotionally detached. That was what he was known for, online anyway. She did her research before emailing him. Henry Creel was a highly respected therapist known for his work, his ‘ways’.. of getting through to patients that other therapists couldn’t. She’d read somewhere that he was best known for his structured and straightforward dynamic.

Y/N paused before speaking up again. A sharp and brittle laugh pushed past her lips.

“You don’t even know what I’m truly here for, according to you.”

“That’s what I’m waiting for you to tell me.” There it was again, an invitation just waiting for her. He was giving her so many opportunities to speak up, yet she was too afraid. She held herself back, she didn’t want to come back again.

“I just-“ Her breath hitched a little, looking down at her hands - bringing them from the armrests and clasping them together. “I really don’t see the point in talking about things that have already happened.”

“But, they happened to you.” The words landed quietly on her chest. No drama, but there was a weight added to them. Settling there.

“I’m fine.” She insisted, blinking hard.

He didn’t contradict her, but he didn’t agree either. The silence had now felt different. It wasn’t suffocating anymore, it was just present. The clock ticked on, and her breathing evened out as time moved by. The tension in her shoulders loosened, and words began forming, not extremely coherent - but just pieces, fragments that she remembered but didn’t want to.

She told herself she wouldn’t say anything, but she heard herself speaking anyway. Just little pieces, the safe edge of a story, surface level. Y/N’s voice stayed detached as she spoke, as if she spoke about it like a bystander rather than the person who experienced it, she couldn’t feel it. And it couldn’t hurt her.

Henry never interrupted, he just listened, picking his pen back up again. Jotting small notes every few minutes. Time stopped behaving properly after that. Her sentences came in uneven bursts, some halting and some rushed. She kept waiting for him to push back or ask the wrong question, give her an excuse to get up and leave. He didn’t.

He only asked little things in between her breaths.

How old were you? How did that make you feel? Are you still close to that person?

Somewhere between her sentences, the ticking clock faded into the background. The space between them didn’t feel like a battleground anymore and more like the slow construction of a bridge, a trust being built. She never got emotional, but her voice lost its edge. Her body naturally shifted forward without her noticing, leaning in a little with her arms folded over her crossed legs.

She forgot to check the time, but then a soft chime brought her back to surface. A gentle sound designed not to startle.

Henry glanced at the clock. “That’s our hour.”

An hour. Y/N suddenly felt a little embarrassed. She usually doesn’t open up so fast like that, she suddenly wished she never even said anything. She also became aware of how her hands were so relaxed in her lap, and how comfortable she made herself to be in the seat.

“That went quickly.” She spoke without thinking first.

“It often does.” A flicker of something in his eyes, maybe not smugness or triumph - but quiet acknowledgement.

She stood, irritated a little by the fact that her legs felt steadier from how they did when she had walked in. Henry didn’t mention booking another session or dates next to visit. It almost felt like he was baiting her to say something first. He stood too, settling his notebook back down onto the table, steady steps taking him over to his desk.

Y/N walked back over to the door that she had been thinking about so much for the first twenty minutes of their session, fingers hovering over the handle. She had spent the beginning of this conversation itching to walk back out, but now she felt something extremely inconvenient. Not relief, or a resolution. More like an unsettling awareness that there was more to say than she thought. At that maybe - she wasn’t done saying what she needed to.

“I’ll email you about our next session.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the door handle as she turned it, swinging it open in defeat - a hint of irritation.

Henry’s back straightened stood by his desk, hands holding eachother politely behind his back as he watched her start to leave.

“You don’t have to decide now,” He said gently, a hint of warmth threading through, “But I think we both know you’ll be thinking about this room long before our next hour begins.”

She paused in her stride, one foot out the door. Y/N didn’t look up to him, just stared at the floor with furrowed brows, questioning what that meant. She gave a simple nod with no eye contact, and shut the door behind her.

________________________________

Thanks for reading! This is my first time writing and posting a fic!! I know it’s a slow burn but trust it’s gonna get better soon 😼 Stick around for Therapist Creel Session Two 🖤

[creelarchives]

Hi! My name is Jane, I’ll be posting a fic soon on Henry Creel as a therapist 👀 stay tuned!!