Thief of One — CH 1, 2
Summary: "How disappointing," he tuts. "For a creature as breathtaking as you, choosing to reduce herself to something so incredibly small. A repugnant little thief..." he shakes his head. "Truly a shame."
Pairing: Henry Creel / Vecna x Reader, F/M
Content/tags: MDNI please! Mutual Pining, Enemies to Lovers, Self-Insert, Sexual Tension, Romantic Tension, Angst, Forbidden Love, Dark Romance, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Possessive, Choking, I dare say a lot of choking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence... and more to come! (Some tags are for future chapters haha)
Words: 4.4k
A/N: Hey y'all!! Welcome to the very first fic l actually had the guts to write instead of letting it rot inside my head o7 Can I get a pat on the shoulder for it? Just a quick heads up: this might not be everyone's cup of tea as it features some very intense power dynamics! Just putting this out here. It's an ongoing story so please be patient <3
I'm also on AO3 as @dreamwillow
Also, I have no idea how Tumblr works, so forgive me if this goes terribly wrong. Gosh.
CHAPTER 1
"Are you sure this is the right place?" I say, narrowing my eyes at the house in front of me.
My earpiece crackles, and Dustin's voice comes through. "We've gone over this so many times," a huff. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know... it doesn't seem very..." I trail off, staring up at the huge Victorian mansion. It looms three stories above the street with too many windows to count. A grand porch wraps around the front, held up by massive white pillars that I would never be able to afford even if I sold my kidney. Or kidneys. It's impressive, yes. But it's also sort of creepy. Like those haunted houses they feature on YouTube where a family of three had died and was apparently buried under the foundation. That kind of creepy.
"Very what?" Steve chips in, then I hear a loud thud before he says ow and Dustin grumbles something about personal space.
"Are we doing this or not?" Dustin says impatiently.
"Just fucking chill, dude, I was just making sure we're not robbing somebody's grandma." I say, already making my way around the house, because breaking through the front door is all leagues of stupid. "I would feel so bad."
"We're not robbing somebody's grandma." He sounds horrified. "I'm pretty sure it's just some rich bastard who won't mind losing a few bucks. The owner's barely home, from what I've heard--" There's a sound of plastic crinkling, "Find the cellar door, it's there somewhere."
I press my back against the wall, look around cautiously, and when I'm sure it's clear and nobody's about to jump me, I continue creeping along the outskirts.
This place is even bigger up close, more intimidating. I risk a quick look through one of the windows and frown when there's only pitch blackness. Christ. Why did I vote for Dustin's choice of place, again?
Every summer break, we gather around in Mike's basement to plan small heists around Hawkins. It's become a fun little tradition at this point. Everyone looks for a place before the meeting, pitches it to the group, and votes for the place with the best return on investment. Though I'm pretty sure Steve just votes for wherever he thinks is cool; it's just a shame that most of his choices only leave us with more junk and pennies we don't need.
Even then, we still let him vote to 'preserve' his right as part of the team, or whatever Lucas said.
"Hey, do you think they have big dogs inside?" Steve cuts in again, muffled as he chews on something. "How about tripwires? Ugh, I knew it, we should have just gone with the pizzeria down the block."
"Shut up," says Dustin. "Nobody gets rich off stealing frozen dough. How's it looking out there, Y/N? You alive?"
"Most alive I've ever been."
I'm already in the back corner of the mansion. As I drag my eyes across the yard, across the overgrown weed that hasn't been tended to for what looks like years, something catches my attention and I grin to myself, bolts of adrenaline rushing through my veins. Fucking Jackpot, baby. There's a small grimy window just above the ground.
"I've found an entrance," I whisper into the mic as I grab my mask. It's one I've worn every mission. A simple white mask that my friends and I bought from Starcourt Mall a year ago after our very first heist, as suggested by the ever-so-smart Maxine Mayfield after an employee almost caught me snatching a box from the storage room. I wanted to keep it white and simple; a blank canvas that betrayed no emotions, but Lucas had other plans and had seized it from me before painting the nose red, slapping two ruby-red hearts on the cheeks and drawing ridiculous lash lines; delicate, spidery lines branching out from the eyes that make it look like a weeping clown. I love it.
I feel a bolt of renewed confidence as I put it on. Being anonymous has a lot of perks. "Are you positive there's a signal inside? I kinda need your directions, Dustin." I say, giving the latch a twist. "Fuck, it's locked. Is there any other way?"
More muffled chewing. "El and I already combed through the entire yard last week," Dustin says, chews some more, gulps. The sound makes me want to choke myself. "It wasn't locked before, maybe you're just not strong enough."
Me? Y/N fucking L/N? Not strong enough?
"Maybe you should get off your ass and raid this house yourself instead of having a fucking mukbang with Steve."
It's one grueling minute of twisting and pulling and tugging at the stubborn latch, and when it still won't budge, I drop to my knees and give myself a breather. It's surprisingly hot out here, even in the middle of the night, and I'm fucking itchy from all the weeds touching my skin. There's grass every where--all of them nearly towering over me--and I worry for a second about a snake assassinating me while I'm crouched down like this.
"How about the door to the kitchen?" Steve suggests.
"That's been an option all along?"
"We're here to guide you, not to think for you," Dustin says.
"Same damn thing."
I slip around the corner, instantly spotting the patio door. It slides open and I swiftly sneak inside the kitchen, making sure to close the door behind me. For someone who lives in a house like this, they sure as hell can't afford the damn electricity bill. The entire house is practically bathed in utter darkness.
I stand still for a moment until my eyes adjust, and then I'm out of there, already moving through what seems to be the foyer. An antique chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the grand staircase, and I nearly piss myself when something moves; my reflection on the mirror, it turns out. Nope. Not fucking looking at that. I tear my gaze away from the mirror.
There are paintings everywhere, lining the wall as I make my way upstairs, and I try not to stare at the faces there, at their scowls and angry eyes. Ancestors, no doubt. They're probably buried here. I swat away at the thought. Ghosts aren't real, for fuck's sake. I need to get it together before I give myself a heart attack.
It's not that I'm scared. I'm anything but scared--especially after El had confided in me, told me her tragic childhood, her parents, the lab. Ever since then, I was sure there's nothing more cruel and heartless and selfish than humanity itself. Humanity is fundamentally cruel and evil. Ghosts are the least of my problems.
My movements are fluid and confident and I'm buzzing with excitement even after having done the same shit 100 times. It never gets old. I always look forward to the thrill, like an addict waiting for the next hit, the next mission. So no, not scared. I'm excited. The setup is fucking perfect, because I'd never risk my friends going out on their own, and I'm the most qualified for this job, anyway. My ability to move silently like a cat in the dark, to charm if ever I'm caught. I use it all to my advantage.
I start with the nearest door, but it's stuck, and I wrestle with the knob for a good 10 seconds before moving onto the next. Each one I try is locked, to my dismay, which is weird because who locks their rooms? Unless they know they're about to get robbed, or that they're not even home.
I tap my earpiece a couple times to ramp the volume up, immediately regretting it when Dustin's crunching and chewing assaults my ears. The bastard is still eating. "Hey, focus, hello? Which room is it?" I whisper, look around. There's only two more rooms I haven't tried, but I'm not going to bother if none of them are the right ones. Plus, the other one is the attic, and that's a hell no. I'm not nearly suicidal enough to freely offer myself to... nope, ghosts aren't real.
Dustin's voice jolts me back into focus. "It's the last room just below the attic hatch, can you see it? Did you bring a flashlight?"
"I already told you, I don't need a flashlight. Where's the trust, Henderson?"
I hear him groan. "My god, this is a disaster. You need to stop letting your ego win. One of these days, I swear. I slipped a small flashlight in your pick set, please use that and don't get murdered."
I roll my eyes as I stalk towards the door. "Like I said, I don't need it. Be back later, bitch."
"Wait, n—“
I disable the earpiece before Dustin gets the chance to complain, stuffing it in my cleavage. As much as I love the gang, I'd rather get shit done in silence, preferably without someone munching in my ears.
The knob twists easily, and I'm surprised it's fucking open. Of all places to keep unlocked, they choose the most important one? What a bunch of idiots.
A cold draft tears through me as I push the door open, and I shiver from it. It's a large master bedroom. I realize it's the only room with the window wide open. The moonlight spills through it, so it isn't as dark as the rest of the house. The bed is clean and proper, not a single crinkle on it, and all the pillows are puffed up and the blankets folded neatly next to each other. I don't think anyone's been home for a while.
Next to the bed is a large vintage vanity set with a trifold mirror, one so dusty I can barely see myself through it. I waste no time opening the drawers, feeling hopeful when a small jewelry box greets me. It opens with a soft click, and I gasp.
You're shitting me. A diamond ring? No fucking way, this is a gold mine. I quickly grab it and slide it into my ring finger. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I reach for the next drawer; there's so much more, I don't think my pouch is big enough.
I comb through the drawers, emptying them of their contents and stuffing everything inside the pouch, from odd shiny jewels to gold bands encrusted with gems that are worth more than my life's savings. I also find a bronze pocket watch with an elaborate floral pattern on the back, but I stuff that in the pockets of my jacket instead. It's going to be mine.
Five minutes later, when I'm sure everything expensive is in the pouch, I quietly push the drawers back in place, turn to give the room a once-over, and when nothing else grabs my interest, I pull my earpiece by the wire. It pops out of my cleavage and I quickly put it back on as I stride to the door. My pockets are full, and fuck, the gang is going to love this. I'm already fantasizing about which jewellery is going to be liquidated, which ones are supposed to be kept as an investment, which ones Max and El would love. They can have anything, just not the diamond ring, which surprisingly fits perfectly around my finger. Good fucking God, we'll be swimming in money and we don't have to share eggos. Even a small trip outside of Hawkins wouldn't dent shit.
My grin widens at the thought.
Just as I'm about to grab the knob, something sharp and cold presses against my throat, and my heart drops to my ass.
"Hello, little thief."
Chapter 2
I’ve only ever been caught twice.
The first one was entirely Dustin’s fault; an annoying oversight on his part that resulted in me barging into the wrong house and spending at least an hour flashing my good smile and crafting a convincing story about being new to the city, how hard it was to be a girl all alone on the other side of the planet away from her parents. All that bullshit.
The second time was Steve’s fault, because instead of keeping watch outside the casino, he got fucking distracted by his reflection on some random window and started fixing his hair instead; I remember having to jump into a dumpster and smelling like unwashed ass for a week.
In short, it’s rarely my fault, because I like thinking things through. I’m only confident when I’m sure I’ve already accounted for every possibility. A contingency plan, I like to say.
Except I actually haven’t.
Because if I have, there wouldn’t be a guy pressing a blade to my throat. There wouldn’t be a guy to catch me at all.
This time, without a doubt, I’m the one who fucked up.
The hand I have over the knob itches, and I contemplate turning it fully and getting the fuck out. My daily morning runs have long since paid off— I’m lean as hell. And I think I have the advantage if I choose to run. I think.
As if having read my mind, his deep, repulsive voice says, “Open that door and I will ensure it is the last thing you ever do.”
Well then.
“I suggest you drop your hand and turn around. Surely your mother taught you it’s bad manners to ignore your guests.” He says, bored. I fight the urge to throw my head back and smash his face with my skull. “Hm. Or is it the other way around? You are my guest and I am your host, since you so bravely entered my house.”
I draw in a deep breath. The rational part of me that thinks he isn’t kidding finally takes over, and I slowly let go of the handle.
“Turn around.”
“You know, it’s kind of hard when you have a knife to m—“
A heavy hand grabs the back of my collar, yanks me around, and slams my back into the door with a painful thud. I wince at the pain and close my eyes, attempting to steady my breaths.
When they open, it’s to a pair of eyes— a piercing, unblinking, icy blue. His skin is pale, so pale they almost look translucent under the moonlight. Against better judgment, my attention drifts to the tense line of his jaw, then to his bare chest, the glistening drops of water trailing all the way down to his abs and disappearing into the white towel wrapped way too low around his waist.
He’s so close that his scent fills my lungs— soap and mint with a bitter edge of tobacco.
I’ve completely forgotten about the situation until my gaze tracks lower, to the lean muscles of his forearm tensing and flexing as he tightens his grip around the knife. The knife. Realization slams into me like a ten wheeler truck and I forget to breathe.
“Who sent you here, little thief?”
I stare at him through the mesh holes of my mask. “Um. Nobody?”
He hums, and my breath catches when the sharp point of his knife brushes against my pulse— a tender little movement that has me panicking. It hooks under my mask, peeling it off, and it falls to the ground with a clatter. I don’t even realize it’s off until the cold breeze grazes my bare face.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Okay, no, calm down. It’s okay.
The man tilts his head, looking like he’s studying me, maybe wondering if he knows me from somewhere— which, he probably doesn’t, because I’ve never seen him before.
“How disappointing,” he tuts. “For a creature as breathtaking as you, choosing to reduce herself to something so incredibly small. A repugnant little thief…” he shakes his head. “Truly a shame.”
Repugnant?
Are you kidding me? I’m repugnant? Why the fuck is this guy so dramatic? Given, I can’t really complain because I’m the one who broke into his house, but still.
“Do you not agree with me?” His free hand finds my chin, lifts it up so that I have no other choice but to look at his face.
God, I fucking hate his voice. That impassive, condescending tone that he uses, like he’s way above me and I’m nothing but a nuisance— an annoying disruption to his night routine.
“But that is precisely what you are, is it not?” He says when I don’t answer. “You consult with your little companions, go through my patio door and strip my room bare without so much as a regard to the consequences of your actions. Because you are nothing more than a selfish girl so deeply consumed by your own pathetic needs.”
What? “How did y…” I start to say, then clamp my lips shut, dumbfounded. How the fuck did he know? Dustin never told me anything about cameras, and I would have seen them if there were any?
He smiles. The bastard actually fucking smiles. “Did you truly expect me to be blind to your laughable plan?”
“Are you done threatening my life?” I say, my tone smooth and calm. “Because I have other places to be, you know? I’m a pretty busy person.”
“Really?” His hand leaves my chin, and it slides down to wrap around my throat instead, squeezing to rid me of air. “You have more houses to rob? More victims to steal from? Greed is a terrible sin, little thief.”
“I’m not robbing anyone anymore! Get your filthy hands off me.”
“A thief and a liar,” he says, mocking. “How uninspiring. Tell me, how many people have you robbed?”
He tightens his grip around my throat before I could answer, pressing my body flush against the hard door and I gasp, my hands quickly flying to claw at his wrist, but he’s too fucking strong and it feels like I’m already running out of air. I can hear my own pulse roaring in my ears, the frantic beating of my heart. I can’t fucking breathe. His eyes remain indifferent as he watches me curiously.
Dread and fear make their way into my veins for the first time tonight— the threat of death becoming terrifyingly real with every passing second.
But then he releases his grip, and my knees instantly buckle as I collapse to the floor in a pathetic heap, and I’m heaving, coughing, dragging lungfuls of air back into my body.
I snap my head up, glaring at him through a dizzy haze. My eyes burn with unwelcome tears—fuck, am I crying?—while my neck flares, stinging the skin he just touched.
He only shakes his head ruefully. My eyes widen when they land on his hand.
My brown fucking pouch.
“You even took everything,” he sighs, weighing the pouch in his palm, looking genuinely offended. “You are delusional if you think I’d let you keep this.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I choke out.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Such a vulgar mouth. I think you will benefit from letting me correct that behavior.”
“What?”
He tosses the pouch over his shoulder, steps back just enough before straightening to his full, imposing height.
He is a statue above me, a terrifying, massive god— every line of his lean, sculpted body is perfect. I don’t know how I haven’t noticed, but with him standing as far he is, I’m granted a full view of his body, including the inked parts of his arm. A tattoo of a beautiful pocket watch just below the bend of his elbow in all its glory— the same pocket watch I stole from him. Its chains wrap gracefully down his arm, tapering off at his wrist where a detailed cross is drawn perfectly against the pulse point.
“Little thief,” he says.
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
“Language.”
I glare at him.
He’s staring down at me with an expression I can’t read. I can only hope he can’t read mine either— can’t see through the facade I’m putting on display. I’m fucking scared, there’s no denying that. I don’t know what this man is capable of, what he intends to do with the knife. All my regrets are quickly forming around my head. I shouldn’t have disabled the earpiece. God, I’m a fucking idiot.
The silence is stretching on for too long and it’s starting to make me feel self-conscious. He’s just looking at me, searching for something, I’m not entirely sure and I don’t care.
“Do you think you deserve my forgiveness?” He asks.
I scowl. “I never asked for your forgiveness, and if you think I’m going to stroke your ego, then you’re just going to be disappointed.”
“Let me clarify,” he says, leveling me with a dark stare. “You seem to be confusing two entirely different concepts, love. You stroking my ego means nothing to me. But do you not agree that you should take accountability for your disgusting actions?”
“Disgusting actions? Boo fucking hoo, I stole your precious gems, so what?” I retort, tasting the venom in my own words. “I hate rich people like you. You guys are so out of touch with reality that you’re fine with treating people like shit.”
“Like what?” He smirks, then waves a hand. “Nevermind, I don’t care nearly enough about your opinion.”
He steps closer, and his repulsive scent violates me again. I inhale the sharp, soapy scent; the mix of mint and tobacco that leave me fascinated. I mean repulsed. We are not doing this.
“You forget that you are completely at my mercy right now. You are all alone inside my room. With me.”
I flinch at the emphasis he places on the last word.
“You broke into my house,” he continues, “you have done something very disappointing. It’s only fair that you make it right.”
“I’m not making shit right.”
He ignores me, stepping deeper into my space. The knife in his hand gleams ominously. “Get on your knees.”
I freeze, blink up at him. No. “Excuse me?”
“Get on your knees, love. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
I obey, because as much as I despise this condescending psycho whose head is so far up his ass, I do value my life. My knees ache as they meet the cold, hard floor. I don’t look at him, though, because I refuse to grace him with that fucking opportunity.
“Look up.”
I force my chin up, glaring. “I hate you.”
“Don’t look at me like that. I might end up loving it too much. Do you know what to do, little thief?” He touches my chin with his fingers, and my skin burns at the contact. “Do you know what I want?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
“Use your words while I’m still being nice to you.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “What you want, I mean. I don’t know.”
His lips curve up into a soft smile. “Why don’t you ask me, then?”
I hesitate for a second. Count in my head to three. Then more numbers to calm down. Whatever comes out of my throat sounds utterly pathetic and I consider just letting him stab me. “What… What is it? What do you want?”
“Hmm. Since you have a remarkably filthy mouth,” his voice is low— the deep rumble killing my ability to think, “I think you need to learn how to use it properly. You are going to look at me, and you are going to beg for my forgiveness.”
I stare at him, not bothering to hide my disgust. “Oh hell the fuck no.”
He shrugs. “A pity,”—sighs—“I guess we are doing this the hard way.”
My heart is pounding. “What? What hard way?”
“You’ll see.”
I don’t think so.
I start rising to my feet, my entire attention darting towards the door, but he very slowly shakes his head. His eyes darken into a bottomless pit, and something about it stills me in place.
Fear trickles through my body like a breaking dam.
I stay on my knees.
“That’s a good girl,” he says. “You know how to listen, after all.”
My mind is mush. Blank as warmth creeps up my cheeks and stings me there. I feel it everywhere; my ears, my nose, almost my entire face. Like bolts of electricity it’s almost embarrassing. Fuck. What is wrong with me?
“Apologize to me. Look at me while you do it.”
I do. I look at him, at his pale blue eyes. My throat feels like it has a million sandpapers and I swallow hard, letting my lips part around the words I can’t seem to get out of my throat.
“I… I’m sorry.”
But that’s not enough for him. He leans down. So close. His face is so close to mine as he searches my eyes— and I search his back. There’s a glint that wasn’t there before, and something else. I don’t know what. Triumph? Pride? “What are you sorry for, love?”
My hands ball into tight fists, and pain blooms from where my nails are digging into my palms. I welcome it, because I’m no longer thinking when I say, “I’m sorry for breaking into your house—“ I clear my throat. The words taste like sin, but I drag them out anyway. “I’m sorry for stealing the jewellery. The gems. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know any better. Please forgive me, it won’t happen again.”
He watches me carefully.
For one long moment, he simply stands over me as I simmer in my own embarrassment, and I force myself to keep looking at him so I don’t regret it and say something else.
Then he chuckles. It’s a soft, pleased chuckle, and for some reason it makes me feel… good? I must be going crazy.
“Very good,” he says softly. “Such a good listener.” He reaches down and gently brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The way he does it is so tender, so impossibly gentle like I’m a delicate glass that I almost lean into his touch, starved for more.
But before I can, his hand drops away, and his eyes— his expression, everything flattens into the same cold, bored expression he had.
Something familiar lands on the floor with a heavy thud, right in between my knees, and my stomach twists at the sight of the brown pouch.
“Now, see yourself out before I lodge this knife inside you.”
