There Must Be Poison in Those Fingertips of Yours - Act I
pairing: henry creel x fem!reader
word count: 4,023
act two: here !!
warnings/tags: henry himself is the warning, mature themes, religious themes, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, 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's 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 boy 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 a “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 is 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
