#confirmitygate

[dismoondart]

Mike ! wake up!!

[eilissxx]

[fairyta1es]

The REAL conversation between Mike and El in the void

I believe

OG post on Reddit:

[narrativelogicofbyler]

i need certain parts of the stranger things fandom to stop acting like “millie is a married woman now and her husband was on set” is some kind of groundbreaking explanation for why the purple rain scene, or the el/mike kiss, “feels and looks wrong.” that’s not analysis. that’s just moral panic with a fandom filter slapped on top.

the purple rain scene is bad, but not because of her husband. it’s bad because the craft is weak. the blocking is awkward, the eyelines don’t match, the coverage is inconsistent, and the emotional beats are undercut by editing that has no sense of escalation. the colour grading flattens the atmosphere instead of heightening it. the camera doesn’t know what it wants to emphasise, so the performances end up stranded in a visual framework that isn’t supporting them. that’s why the scene doesn’t land.

and to then leap from that to “the el and mike kiss looks wrong because her husband was there” is genuinely ludicrous. sets are crowded, technical, deeply unromantic spaces. intimacy is choreographed down to the millimetre. spouses, partners, friends, parents, they’re on set constantly. it doesn’t magically warp the cinematography, the lighting, the blocking, or the emotional continuity. it doesn’t change the director’s choices. it doesn’t alter the shot list. it doesn’t suddenly make an actor incapable of performing.

if the el/mike kiss feels off, it’s because the scene is shot and constructed in a way that doesn’t support emotional authenticity. maybe the blocking is stiff. maybe the camera placement is fighting the performances. maybe the edit undercuts the moment. maybe the writing hasn’t earned the emotional beat it’s trying to sell. those are craft issues, actual, tangible filmmaking problems.

“she’s married now” is not a filmmaking problem. it’s not even a filmmaking factor.

if you want to critique the scene, critique the scene. but blaming a spouse’s presence for weak cinematography, poor staging, and mismatched emotional tone is not analysis. it’s just a refusal to engage with the actual craft, which, ironically, is the one area where the scene genuinely does fall apart.

[ab0g1arka]

so let me get this straight.

SNL, a show that has existed since the invention of dust and the concept of “your uncle thinks this is still funny,” decided that in the year 2026, with the entire internet screaming PLEASE DO BETTER in unison, the move was to make a joke that even vaguely brushes up against Noah Schnapp’s coming out.

not name him. not quote him. just that fun little cowardly thing where you gesture broadly and go “haha fandom stuff” while very clearly pointing at a real queer person’s real life.

sir. ma’am. ghost of Lorne Michaels. pick a lane.

because here’s the thing that’s making me feral in lowercase.

Will Byers being gay was not a fandom meme. it was not a punchline. it was years of:

• a child character being coded as different and bullied for it

• an actor being interrogated in interviews before he was even out

• the internet speculating about someone’s sexuality as if it was a sport

so why are we circling back with a laugh track.

and don’t even start with “they were mocking the internet.”

because here’s a fun rule of comedy:

if the people who were already being mocked are the ones wincing, you missed.

this isn’t edgy satire. this is that specific brand of comedy that goes:

we acknowledge queer people exist 😊

and now we will immediately make it weird 😌

what really gets me is the laziness of it. because SNL is perfectly capable of being sharp. they can be clever. they can punch up. they can dismantle power structures with a sketch and a wig.

but instead they reached for the easiest, dustiest shelf labeled:

“haha isn’t it awkward when someone is gay and the internet knew first.”

no. it’s not awkward. it was invasive.

and before anyone says “well Finn didn’t write it” or “it wasn’t about Noah specifically,” congratulations, you have discovered how plausible deniability works. the impact does not evaporate just because the joke put on sunglasses and said “not me.”

and yeah, people are allowed to joke about Stranger Things. obviously. roast the wigs. roast the upside down. roast the fact that these kids have fought God like six times and still have homework.

but when the joke starts orbiting a real person’s coming out, especially one who was a literal teenager navigating that in public, that’s not satire. that’s recycling discomfort and calling it content.

i’m not saying cancel the show. i’m not saying burn down 30 Rock. i’m saying maybe, just maybe, stop using queer people’s lives as seasoning.

[the-black-pharade]

WARNING - FLASHING LIGHTS

Byler Churchgate - Temple of Love (Sisters of Mercy)

in which vecna possesses will in the upside down, and mike saves him bc churchgate will always be famous to me

[poshhangel]

NOOO LET HENRY MEET READER AGAIN MY SHAYLA

well..... i might have been too cruel with the first part so this one is to make up for it with you

thanks for the request!!

He Dreams In Color - Henry Creel

PT 2

The paper barely makes a sound as it slides across the floor.

Henry notices it anyway.

He was laying in his bed, too small and too cold to let him rest, but that's the only way he had to stay quiet with his mind in that place.

He always notices everything now—the smallest changes in air pressure, the imperceptible shifts in sound. Survival has sharpened him into being careful, too aware.

His gaze drops slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid the thing might disappear if he moves too fast. Was it Brenner? Last time he left, he was furious. Maybe he wanted to punish him, or to talk with him.

Not that a normal conversation with Brenner would be much more pleasant than a normal punishment. That man was really scary and he was an expert in making people uncomfortable.

But why should he communicate with him through a piece of paper? He never bothered of being too loud or to disturb him in his sleep.

His breath stutters.

No one leaves notes here. No one slips anything under his door without permission, without gloves, without consequences. For a split second, he’s convinced it’s a test. A trick. Another way to see how he reacts.

His heart starts to pound.

He doesn’t pick it up right away.

Maybe Brenner was trying to make him go crazy again.

But then, he let his curiosity win.

When he finally gets up and walk closer to the note, his fingers tremble so badly he has to steady the paper against his knee. The handwriting stops him cold.

He knows it. All too well.

He has traced those letters in his mind a thousand times, replayed the way she used to write his name in the margins of notebooks, the way some letters leaned slightly to the right, like they were always reaching for something, impatient to finish the line.

Three words.

No signature. No explanation.

I found you.

The room tilts.

If he hadn't recognized the handwriting, he would be frightened. But there was no fear inside his heart. It was just something more than relief.

Henry’s vision blurs at the edges, white bleeding into white, his chest tightening until it hurts to breathe. He presses the paper flat against his palm like he needs to feel it, like touch might keep it real.

This isn’t possible.

Then he shakes his head.

She doesn’t know where he is. No one is supposed to know. The lab swallowed him whole—erased him so thoroughly that even his name feels foreign when they say it aloud.

And yet—

Her handwriting is warm. Human. Real.

His knees give out before he realizes he’s sinking to the floor, back against the wall, the note clenched to his chest like something sacred. His mind races, grasping for logic, for rules, for explanations that make sense.

But there are none.

Nobody knew about her. He wanted to keep her safe from everything he was going through.

The only thing he feels—cutting through the fear, the confusion, the disbelief—is color.

Faint at first. Like a bruise blooming beneath the skin of the world.

Hope.

And with it, terror.

Because if she’s here—if she really found him—then she’s in danger. The kind of danger he was meant to face alone.

“Don’t,” he whispers, though no one is close enought to him to hear. His voice breaks anyway.

A tear slips free before he can stop it. Then another.

For the first time since the lab took him, the white doesn’t feel endless.

It feels fragile.

Like it might crack.

Another note appears: this one is different.

The paper trembles slightly in his hands as he reads it, heart pounding so loudly he’s afraid the walls might hear.

I want to get you out. I just don’t know how—yet. But there has to be a way.

The time is slipping through them like water. Every day, the guards grow more watchful. Every corridor feels narrower. Henry knows the lab is not a place you simply walk out of—but the idea of her trying, of her thinking about escape, cracks something open inside his chest.

Is there a way to get her inside? Somewhere the cameras don’t reach? Somewhere white hasn’t eaten everything yet? They trade plans in fragments, scribbled thoughts passed hand to hand through cracks in the system. The danger presses close, constant, like a held breath.

They can’t get caught.

If they do, there will be no second chance.

He closes his eyes, trying to find a way to get her inside, and a way to stay calm, knowing that there was only a thick wall separating him from the girl who had occupied his mind for the past few months (and who had completely destroyed him , but who, at the same time, couldn't get rid of).

He opens his eyes, then he takes a step back.

He wasn't alone anymore in the room.

She shouldn’t be there.

Henry understands that before he even fully chatches consciousness about the fact that it's actually her. The lab door is still settling shut, the echo too loud, too wrong—and then she’s in front of him, breathless, eyes wide, real.

“How did you—” he starts, voice breaking.

She barely lets him finish.

“I used a hairpin,” she says quickly, almost apologetic. “One of those little, pointy things i used to gather my hair with when i used to do ballet. I saw it once in a movie and I thought—”

Henry stares at her.

“A hairpin?” he repeats, incredulous, fear rushing in all at once. “That’s— that’s the worst idea you could’ve had. They’re going to notice. We have to hide you, right now.”

But she isn’t listening anymore.

She rushes forward, closing the distance between them before he can think, before he can stop her. Her arms slide around him, tight and desperate, like she’s afraid he might vanish if she lets go.

Henry freezes for half a second—then his body remembers her before his mind does.

He wraps his arms around her instinctively, holding her closer than he ever has. She’s warm. Real. Breathing. Her forehead presses against his shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, his chest doesn’t feel hollow.

“I wasn’t leaving you,” she whispers.

That’s when she pulls back just enough to look at him.

"I wasn't planning on letting you do that" he answers, his voice was low, he was scared this was all a dream, and that if he spoke too loud, he would wake up.

Their faces are too close. He can feel her breath, see every small detail—the slight tremble in her lips, the determination in her eyes, the fear she’s trying to hide for his sake.

Henry lifts one hand, hesitates, then cups her cheek like she might break.

She leans into his touch.

The kiss happens quietly.

Not rushed. Not clumsy. Just inevitable.

Her lips meet his with a softness that makes his breath hitch, like something fragile settling into place. It’s slow, careful—full of everything they never said. Henry’s eyes flutter shut as the world narrows down to this single point of contact, this proof that she’s here, that she chose him.

He responds gently, like he’s afraid of hurting her, like he’s memorizing the feeling. Her hand curls into his shirt, grounding him, anchoring him to the moment.

Color floods in all at once.

Warm gold. Deep blue. Soft red blooming behind his closed eyes. The white walls lose their edge, blur at the corners. For a heartbeat, the lab disappears entirely.

When they part, their foreheads rest together, breaths uneven.

“We really need to hide you,” he murmurs, voice shaking despite the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Because that was… incredibly stupid.”

She smiles back—small, with a hint of tease.

“But it worked, we're together now” she says.

He is certain they will be caught.

There is no version of this where Brenner doesn’t already know. No blind spots in a place like this. Henry can almost feel it—the pause before the strike, the patience of someone who enjoys waiting for the exact right moment to ruin everything.

Any second now.

And yet—

She reaches for him.

Her fingers brush his wrist, tentative but real, and Henry’s breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound. He stares at the point of contact like it’s a wound, like it’s a miracle.

He can’t believe she’s here. He can’t believe she risked her life just to find him.

The thought is too big, too bright. It hurts.

How? How did she know where to look? How did she learn the rules, the uniforms, the numbers, the way everyone here learns to disappear? For a scary, awful moment, he wonders if this is all in his head—if the white finally hollowed him out enough to start imagining her.

He almost asks her to say his name.

But fear clamps down hard and fast.

If they don’t move quickly, if they don’t think, they’re both going to pay for this.

He pulls his hand away.

She looks at him, confused, hurt flashing across her face, and it twists something deep in his chest. He shakes his head, small, urgent.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. His eyes dart to the door, to the corners of the room, to places he knows are watched even when they look empty. “You have to go.”

She steps closer instead.

Henry feels panic bloom, sharp and blinding.

Maybe she thinks she’s saving him. Maybe she thinks love is enough to break a place like this. She doesn’t understand—how could she?—that if they’re caught together, there will be no mercy. Not for him. Not for her. Not for them.

“Please,” he says, voice cracking now, fear no longer hidden. He doesn’t care if she sees it. “You don’t know what they’ll do.”

Nobody has ever been this good to him. And that terrifies him more than anything.

The room is empty. Too empty. No alarms. No footsteps. Just the low hum of electricity and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

There is only one way out. And it's so risky it hurts. One misstep and everything would be ruined. Even more ruined than it already is.

His powers coil uneasily beneath his skin, restless, reactive—like they recognize her presence even if his mind refuses to trust it. He could fight the guards. He could break doors, walls, everything in their way.

But he’s scared.

Scared of losing control. Scared of becoming the thing everyone already believes he is.

The images of the disaster he had caused months ago at the Creel's house starts to appear in his mind like flashes. They hurt. They hurt a lot. And she doesn't understand that they could hurt her too, once she witnesses what he's capable of.

She notices how scared and vulnerable he is. She doesn’t know what he can do. Not really. She’s seen flashes too, hints—but not the full weight of it. Not the destruction. Not the aftermath.

What if he terrifies her?

What if she looks at him the way everyone else eventually does—with fear, with regret, with distance?

What if saving her and letting her out, far away from that white, horrible place that he hates so much, means losing her anyway?

Henry backs away another step, torn between instinct and longing, between the urge to protect her by letting her go and the unbearable need to hold onto her.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t let you see that part of me.”

The white walls listen.

And somewhere beyond them, Brenner waits.

She shakes her head before he can say anything else.

“No,” she whispers. “Please—just listen.”

Her voice is unsteady, but determined, like she’s holding herself together with the same care she used to hold him. She glances once at the door, then back at him, as if deciding he’s worth the risk.

“I’ve been having dreams,” she says. “Since the night you disappeared. Since I left.” She swallows. “Or since you did. I don’t know which it was anymore.”

Henry stills.

“They weren’t normal dreams,” she continues quickly, afraid he’ll stop her. “They were too clear. Too detailed. I could see everything—the rooms, the lights, the way they look at you here. I could feel how tired you were. How scared.”

Her hands tremble as she presses them together.

“It was like… I was inside your head. Seeing the world through your eyes.” Her gaze lifts to his, searching. “I know it sounds crazy.”

Henry’s breath catches painfully.

“I kept waking up knowing things I shouldn’t,” she says. “The rules. The numbers. The way you’re not supposed to look at the guards for too long. I tried to tell myself it was grief. Guilt. But it never stopped.”

She steps closer, careful, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t.

“So I thought—maybe it was you. Maybe you were calling for me.” Her voice breaks slightly. “And I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t leave you alone with that doubt.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself.

“I never left because I hated you,” she says softly. “That night at your house—I was breaking too. And I was scared if I stayed, something terrible would happen. But not because of you.”

Her eyes shine now, unshed tears clinging to the edges.

“I should’ve explained. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

Henry feels something shift inside him—slow, painful, real.

“I missed you,” she admits, almost like a confession. “More than anything. Every day felt wrong without you in it. And when the dreams kept coming, I realized… I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

She looks at him, open and vulnerable in a way that makes his chest ache.

“So yes,” she finishes quietly. “Maybe this is insane. Maybe it’s dangerous. But I had to know. I had to see you.”

Silence settles between them—heavy, but not empty.

For the first time since the lab took him, Henry doesn’t feel like he imagined her.

He feels seen.

Henry doesn’t answer right away.

He looks at her like she might dissolve if he breathes wrong.

“You really saw it?” he asks finally, voice rough. “All of it?”

She nods. “I felt it.”

Something inside him twists—sharp, familiar, terrifying.

“That’s not normal,” he says quietly. “People don’t just… dream like that.”

He lowers his gaze to his hands, fingers curling slightly as if they’re dangerous things.

“I didn’t mean to,” he admits. “I didn’t even know I was doing it at first.” A hollow laugh slips out of him. “They tell me it’s just stress. That it’s nothing. But I knew it wasn’t.”

He looks back up at her, eyes darker now. Afraid.

“When I close my eyes,” he says, “I think of you. And then it feels like… I’m reaching. Like I’m falling through something.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “And suddenly I’m not alone anymore.”

Her breath stutters.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” he continues. “Because the dreams felt too real. Because sometimes I’d wake up knowing you were crying. Or that you missed me.” He swallows. “And I was right, apparently.”

He takes a step back.

“I pulled you into it,” he says. “Into my head. Into this. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't even know until now. That's why now I'm even more scared of losing you.”

She shakes her head immediately. “Henry—”

“No,” he insists, panicked now. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how far it goes. I don’t know what else I could do if I lose control.”

His hands tremble. He takes another step back from her, like distance might protect her.

“I can hurt people,” he whispers. “I already have.”

The words feel like poison in his mouth.

“And if you saw what I see—if you felt what I feel—what if one day you see too much?” His voice cracks. “What if I scare you? What if you hate me for it?”

She moves closer anyway.

“Henry,” she says softly.

He flinches at his own name, like he doesn’t deserve it anymore.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he says, desperation seeping through every word. “I don’t want to be the thing that hurts you. If staying away keeps you safe—”

She reaches for him then, slowly. Careful like he might break in a moment.

Her hand closes around his wrist, right over the number written there, thumb brushing against his pulse.

“You didn’t force me,” she says firmly. “You didn’t trap me in your mind.”

He looks at her, eyes glassy.

“You called,” she continues, gentler now. “And I answered. That’s not hurting me.”

She steps closer until there’s barely any space left.

“And you don’t scare me,” she adds. “Not like this. Not when you’re trying so hard not to be a monster.”

His breath shakes.

“I saw your pain,” she whispers. “But I also saw you. The boy who dreams in color. The boy who still thinks about someone else before himself.”

A tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it.

“I don’t hate you,” she says, pressing her forehead to his. “And I never could.”

Henry closes his eyes.

For the first time since the lab, all that white doesn't hurt.

They feel like home.

---

Henry feels it before he hears it.

That pressure behind his eyes, the air thickening—like the world is holding its breath.

Someone is coming.

She feels it too. He knows because her fingers tighten around his sleeve for just a second too long. It’s the first time fear reaches her fully, sharp and real, but she swallows it down. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t run.

Instead, she steps closer.

It’s strange—terrifying and right at the same time. As if this white, suffocating place is wrong, but being here with him isn’t. As if her body decided before her mind that this is where she belongs. With him. Always with him.

Henry turns slightly, searching her face.

“Hey,” he whispers, urgent. “We don’t have much time.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not leaving.”

Footsteps. Clear now. Heavy. Measured.

Her instinct betrays her false, masked courage—she moves behind him, pressing into his back, hiding where she knows she’s safest. Henry stiffens, then softens immediately. He doesn’t push her away. He lets himself be her shield.

“I’ll find you,” she whispers quickly, breath trembling against his shoulder. “If we get out—if we escape—I’ll find you. I promise.”

He turns, cupping her face like it’s something sacred, something fragile and irreplaceable.

“You promise? To stick with me,” he says, a note of uncertainty in his voice . “No matter what.”

She nods, eyes shining. “Always.”

The door creaks open.

White coats. Shadows stretching too long across the floor.

Henry doesn’t think.

He feels her behind him, feels the fear she refuses to show, feels the unbearable thought of losing her again—and something inside him snaps open, wide and violent and desperate.

The lights explode.

Glass shatters. Alarms scream and then choke into silence.

Black.

—

When consciousness drifts back in, it comes slowly.

Henry’s head throbs. The world feels wrong—too quiet, too broken.

He forces his eyes open.

The room is destroyed. Walls cracked like bones. Wires hang lifeless from the ceiling. Darkness everywhere, thick and absolute. There's blood on the floor. Some even dropping down his nose.

It happened again.

He panics, there's no sight of her. Terrible thoughts start drifting in his mind. How could he have done that.... What if something awful happened to her because of him?

Then he sees her.

She’s on the floor, slumped against what used to be a pristine white wall, now fractured and stained with ash. Her body is still. Too still.

“No,” he breathes, panic slicing through him.

He crawls to her, hands shaking as he reaches her face. Her eyes are open, glassy, unfocused—like she’s looking at him from very far away.

“Hey,” he whispers desperately. “Hey, look at me. Please.”

For a moment, she does.

Their eyes meet, and in that fleeting second, he sees it—recognition. Trust. That same softness she’s always given him, even now.

His heart breaks open.

“I’m here,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

Her vision blurs. The edges of the world fade to white again, but this time it’s quiet. Gentle. She lets her eyes close.

Henry catches her before her head slips.

“No—no, stay with me,” he pleads, pressing his forehead to hers. “You promised. You promised.”

The colors drain from the room.

From him.

And all Henry can think, as he holds her against the ruins of everything he’s destroyed, is that for one brief moment— she chose him.

And that might be the cruelest thing of all.

[mvvrcel]

i’m still angry that in s5 promo we see mike rolling d20 but 20 is in the place where 1 should be?? as in numbers around 20 are the numbers that are normally around 1 AND IT DIDTN MEAN ANYTHING