jane 🦇

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.

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 

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. 

---