#{ 001

[bebx]

[mcrdvcks]

when he carried the entire season

[jailuncle]

Mr Sandman (bring me a dream)

Pairing: I’m actually not sure, Henry creel/ Steve Harrington x fem!reader but also neither?

Summary: Henry took you to be his perfect little wife or ‘Mrs whatsit’ but Holly realises pretty quick that you’re not Mrs whatsit you’re Steve Harrington’s girlfriend who ‘died’ tragically

warnings: kidnapping? nothing shocking just like stranger things, things

a/n: this has been on my mind since volume one dropped

part 2:

part 3

—————————————————————

Holly first noticed there was another person in the house when Mr. Whatsit first “saved” her, as he put it so kindly.

It was before she even stepped inside.

She’d been standing at the edge of the garden path, her sneakers soaked from the dew-covered grass, staring up at the looming house with its too-clean windows and too-perfect roses. The sky above was a soft, syrupy gold, like the world had been dipped in honey and left to harden.

And then she saw her.

A woman in the upstairs window. Pale, still, framed by gauzy curtains. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, watching.

Holly blinked. The woman was gone.

“Come along,” Henry said, his hand warm and firm on her shoulder. “You’ll be safe here.”

The house was strange. Beautiful, comfortable. But strange. The clocks ticked, but the time never changed

“Who is that woman?” Holly asked after she’d been in the house for an entire day and still hadn’t been introduced to the woman upstairs.

She’d seen her again—just a flicker of movement behind the lace curtains. A pale face, unmoving. Watching.

Mr. Whatsit didn’t look up from the teacup he was polishing. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Whatsit,” he said lightly. “But she’s come down with the flu, which is why you haven’t met her yet. Wouldn’t want you to get ill as well.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

Holly frowned. “She was standing at the window.”

“Was she?” he said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “She’s always been a bit restless when she’s under the weather. Nothing to worry about.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you draw something for her?” he interrupted, already reaching for a box of crayons. “She’d love that” Holly got distracted when Henry started talking about bringing ‘dipshit’ derek and her other classmates to the house as well.

It was two days later when Henry was almost sure Holly would not go into the woods she finally met the woman in the window. “She’s feeling better,” he said. “Finally. I think it’s time.”

He led her to the sitting room, where the curtains were drawn and the light was soft and golden, as always. The woman stood by the fireplace, hands folded neatly in front of her, wearing a pale blue dress that looked like it had been ironed a hundred times.

“Darling,” Henry said, his voice warm and proud, “this is Holly. She’ll be living with us from now on.”

The woman turned.

There was something awfully familiar about her. Holly’s breath caught.

She knew that face.

From home.

“Hello, dear,” the woman said, smiling kindly. “Tea?”

Her voice was gentle, but there was something behind it. A tremor. A question.

Holly nodded slowly, eyes locked on hers. “Yes, please.” It took her one more day.

One more day of wandering the house’s endless, too-clean halls. One more day of Mr. Whatsit humming tunelessly as he arranged flowers that never wilted. One more day of watching you from the corner of her eye, trying to place the ache in her chest every time you smiled.

And then it hit her.

She was brushing her hair in the mirror when the memory surfaced—uninvited, sharp.

A funeral. White lilies. A closed casket. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Steve Harrington standing at the back of the church, eyes red, jaw clenched, not speaking to anyone.

Y/N Y/L/N.

The pretty cheerleader. The one who used to date Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington and volunteered at the hospital. The nurse who gave her an extra lolly when she broke her leg. The one who died when the earth cracked open and swallowed half of Hawkins.

But she wasn’t dead.

She was here.

She was Mrs. Whatsit.

And she was trapped.

Holly waited until Henry left again—off to tend the garden that never grew, or perhaps to hum to the walls like he always did. The moment the front door clicked shut, she crept into the parlor, where you sat on the floral loveseat, hands folded neatly in your lap, staring at the fireplace that hadn’t been lit in days.

“Y/N?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your head turned slowly, eyes wide and polite. “Sorry?”

She swallowed. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

A pause.

You blinked once. Then again. “Holly dear, are you feeling well?”

Holly stepped closer, her fists clenched at her sides. “Are you?”

You tilted your head, smile still fixed in place. “Of course. Darling—” you hesitated, just for a breath, just long enough for something to flicker behind your eyes. “A letter came for you.” (Almost sure)

Holly blinked. “A letter?”

You reached into the pocket of your apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The edges were soft, worn, like it had been read a hundred times. You handed it to her with delicate fingers.

She took it slowly, eyes narrowing. “Who’s it from?”

You didn’t answer. Not directly.

“You must go to the woods,” you said, voice light, almost sing-song. Your smile never wavered. “It’s very important.”

Holly’s heart skipped. “What? But Henry said—” (almost sure)

“The fox is waiting,” you interrupted, tone still sweet, but your eyes—your eyes were pleading.

——————

The woods were colder than the house.

The trees here didn’t sway. They loomed. The air was thick with silence, like the whole forest was holding its breath.

Holly stumbled through the underbrush, clutching the letter you gave her, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what she was looking for—only that you’d said the fox is waiting, and somehow, she knew what that meant.

Max.

She found her near the red tree, crouched low in the undergrowth, eyes sharp and wary. Her hair was longer now, tangled and wild, but her face was the same—older, maybe, but still Max.

Holly gasped. “Max?”

Max stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “Holly?”

And just like that, the world shifted.

When Holly came back before Henry, you were relieved. Max took Holly to her cave

Max explained what she could. About Henry. About the way he built his world out of memories and grief. About the people he pulled in. About the ones who never got out.

Holly listened, wide-eyed, the pieces clicking into place.

“Mrs. Whatsit,” she said slowly. “That’s Y/N, isn’t it?”

Max nodded. “Yeah. That’s her, all right.”

“I don’t understand,” Holly whispered. “She died. We went to her funeral.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “She didn’t die. Not really. He took her. Right before the quake. I don’t know how. I don’t even think she knows.”

Holly looked down at her hands. “She’s so… quiet. Like she’s trying to be perfect.”

“She’s surviving,” Max said. “That’s what he wants. A perfect little world. A perfect little wife.”

Holly hesitated. “Maybe Henry… liked her?”

Max’s eyes darkened. “He wanted her. That’s not the same thing.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and cold.

“He calls her Mrs. Whatsit,” Holly said. “But she’s still in there. I saw her. She remembered me.”

“She’s fighting,” Max said. “But he’s strong. He doesn’t just trap your body. He rewrites you. Makes you forget who you are.” Holly looked back toward the trees, toward the house that wasn’t a house. “We have to help her”

————

You were relieved when Holly came back before Henry did.

You didn’t exactly know why.

Or maybe you didn’t remember.

You had dinner, the three of you. Roast chicken that never cooled. Mashed potatoes that tasted like memory. Holly barely spoke. You smiled too much. Henry carved the meat with surgical precision, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Afterward, you washed the dishes while he dried them. Holly sat at the table, staring at the red crayon in her hand like it might bite her.

And then, as always, you and Henry went upstairs.

You slept in the same bed. You always did.

The sheets were cold and stiff, tucked too tight. The room smelled like lavender and dust.

Henry took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand with care, as if they were made of glass and secrets.

He turned to you, voice soft. “How was your day?”

You smiled. “Lovely.”

He reached for your hand beneath the covers, lacing his fingers through yours. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you said.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “About how lucky I am.”

He smiled, pleased. “You are.”

You nodded. “I know.”

And you meant it. Or… you thought you did. You loved him, didn’t you? You must have. He saved you. He gave you peace. He gave you this house, this life, this stillness.

He gave you himself.

And yet—

Sometimes, when he touched you, you felt like glass. Like something fragile he was keeping on a shelf. Something he dusted and admired, but never really saw.

You turned toward him, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Predictable.

Safe.

“I’m glad Holly’s here,” you said.

“She’ll settle in,” he murmured. “Just like you did.”

You closed your eyes.

And in the dark, something inside you whispered:

You didn’t settle. You disappeared.

[rpf2]

my favorite tweet of all time

[classygumi]

VERY MINOR SPOILER FOR ST5 (nothing plot-related)

you were used to running.

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

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

but running could only get you so far.

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

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

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

as if he’d ever let them touch you.

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

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

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

“barbaric creatures, yes?”

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

henry had you.

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

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

you didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

that made you cry, trying to push him away.

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

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

he had you right where he wanted you.

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

you nodded, accepting defeat.

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

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

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

with him, in a sanctuary he controlled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hummelimhimmel]

I love these jerks

[afterblossom]