πάντα ῥεῖ

“Don’t make me cum in your hair.” 

What would he have done if you asked him to come on your face? Would he like it? Most men did- a few you dated had. Your body warmed at the idea of being on your knees, tongue out while he came all over your face. There was no way he wouldn’t like it. He loved marking you on the inside, his essence running down your legs or you swallowing it down your throat. You got up from the couch without a second thought and found him in the sun room across the house. He was in the back corner, in that old and worn green armchair. He was still in the navy trousers and grey button up from earlier. He seemed relaxed with his sketch book in hand, his eyes following as he dragged pencil along the paper. 

“Henry?” He hummed in response, not looking at you. “I have an idea.”

That got his attention. He cut his eyes up to you and immediately frowned at the not so subtle smile on your face. He sat the stretch book on the side table and uncrossed his legs. You tried to look innocent and failed.

“Is this an idea I’m going to like?” He finally asked. 

“Maybe.” You shrugged your shoulders, “I was just thinking about something.”

“What kind of something?” 

Instead of telling him, you went over to where he was and knelt down in front of him. He sighed; as if you didn’t already see his body’s reaction to you kneeling in front of him. His eyes darkened and he shifted his hips like it would hide the fact he was already getting hard. You bit your lip and squeezed your thighs together, looking up at him innocently. 

“You know,” you shifted in a way that perked your breasts up farther than your burgundy short-sleeve dress already pushed them. “Have you ever, I don’t know, wanted to come on me?”

His brows shot up and you had his full attention. You glanced down- there was definitely a tent in those pants now. 

“What did you just ask me?”

You reached out and ran your fingers along his pant’s leg. 

“I asked if you ever wanted to come on me.” 

He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and pressed a finger between his brows, his thumb against his temple.  

“On you. Like where?” 

“Whenever really.” You casually touched the hem on his pants. He put his arm down and watched you with furrowed brows. “Like on my face or boobs. My hair if you’re into that.”

Recognition flashed on his face. “This is about that time in the kitchen.” 

“Yes and no.”

He sighed again. “Explain it to me.”

Heat flared between your legs. Him asking for you to explain it was practically him asking you to tell him what to do. And if he was asking you to tell him what to do then he was interested. 

“You could stroke your cock,” you saw his hand ball into a fist, “and I would sit here with my mouth open and tongue out until you came on my face. Or, I could stroke you until you came on my breasts.” 

“That’s it?”

You laughed.“Yeah. There are other ways. Those were just the simplest examples.”

He tilted his head. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Now it was your turn to be confused. 

His gaze studied yours. “Why would I want to masturbate until I orgasmed onto your face?”

“Because it’s hot?” You laughed at how clinical he could be. “You’ve seriously never thought about it?”

“No. It seems, degrading.” Then his eyes flashed with understanding. “Would I have to be rough with you?” 

“Yes.”

Another pause. “Then my answer is no.”

Your face fell. “Really Henry?”

“You won’t get anything out of it.”

You slumped your shoulders and started up at the ceiling for a moment before pouting at him.

“Not everything is about me.”

“I don’t enjoy being mean to you.”

“It’s not mean when I am enjoying it.” 

He studied you, frowning and then leaned his elbows onto his knees. His face was closer to yours and his gaze sharp behind his glasses. 

“Why are you so adamant about this?” His lower voice made your stomach flip. 

“I’m not. I just- most men like it.”

He squinted at you. “How would you know?” 

“What?” Your heart raced.

”Sweetheart, how would you know?” He used that tone that told you he already knew the answer to his question. 

Your lips parted and eyes widened. His arm shot out and he grabbed your hair with his hand. You gasped when he pulled it. 

“Have you let other men cum on your face?” His gaze turned deadly. “Did you let that man you replaced me with mark you like that?”

You whimpered as he pulled you forward by your hair. You didn’t answer him. 

He scowled. “You filthy little slut. You did, didn’t you? You just let any lesser being smear his seed all over your face and mark you as their own, didn’t you?”

”I,” you started but you yelled when Henry stood, letting go of your hair to pull you up with him by your arm. 

“Tell me.” His hand returned to your hair, moving your head so you looked him in the eyes. 

“So what if I did?”

You hadn’t, not with John, but Henry didn’t need to know that. Not if he was going to give you what you wanted. As predicted, he let out a rumble low in his throat that made your pussy throb. 

 “I will have to fix that then. Get on your knees. Now.”

He let you go. You considered disobeying, standing there to see what he would do next. The only thing stopping you was knowing he would probably derail and punish you in a way you didn’t want. You got down on your knees, sitting up so you were level with the bulge in his pants. You reached up to undo the belt and he smacked your hands. 

“You don’t get to touch me.” 

Oh you didn’t like that. You dropped your hands, brows raised. You were a little shocked but didn’t fight it. He undid his belt and pants. His hand disappeared down into them. You bit your lip watching him stroke himself in his pants. 

“Do you want it that badly, Sweetheart?” You glanced up at him. “Pathetic.”

You frowned. He pushed his pants down enough to free himself. He stroked himself a few more times and you kept your hands in your lap. 

“Take out your breasts.” He tilted his head when you didn’t move. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

You didn’t break eye contact while you pushed your sleeves down and slipped your arms out. You tugged the dress down, freeing both of your breasts to the chill air. It made your nipples pucker without being touched. Henry stroked himself again, slowly. 

“You look angry, dear.” You didn’t reply. “This is what you wanted. You wanted me to stroke myself until I came and marked you like the whore you are. Cup your breasts for me.” 

You cupped your breasts with your hands, pushing them up higher. He stroked himself faster.

“Open your mouth.” 

You did and stuck out your tongue. You waited. Then he stopped. Your brows furrowed when he started laughing. Then he shoved his cock into your open mouth. You gagged at the sudden intrusion. Grabbing your head he held you still while he thrusted into your mouth. Your eyes watered as you fought to both catch your breath and gain your bearings. Panicked welled in you when you couldn’t. 

Henry, stop!

His grip loosened but he didn’t pull out, not all the way. You inhaled sharply through your nose and squeezed your hand into a fist to help relax your throat. 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, the shift to concern evident in his tone. 

You looked up at him. Yes. Keep going. 

He started again, slower that time. You hummed around him, hoping to convey you were fine. It didn’t take long before you were doing the moving, pressing your tongue up to let it drag along his length while you pulled back. You tested his limits, pulling off his cock to stroke him a few times with your hand. He didn’t fight you. Henry eventually pressed his palm gently onto your head to still you and pulled himself out of your mouth. 

“Close it,” he muttered and you did. “Good girl.” You whimpered while he stroked himself. “I’m going to come on your face, just like you asked.”

You bit back the urge to say please. He must have heard it in your head, with the smirk he gave you. He used your hair to tilt your face up. 

“No one else gets to mark you like this, ever again. Do you understand?” 

You nodded. 

He let go and stroked himself faster, twisting his hand at the head with each pass. You realized you’d never seen him touch himself before. Not like this. You filed that away. You wanted to open your mouth and let him aim for your tongue but you sat still. His only warning was the curse that left his lips. You flinched when ropes of his cum hit your cheeks, nose, and mouth. It was a miracle it didn’t get into your eyes. You blinked a few times and when you looked up, he already tucked himself back into his pants. He knelt down in front of you and pulled out his handkerchief. You expected him to wipe it off of you. You did not expect him to lean in and lick it off your cheek. 

You let out a startled “oh,” and felt him grin while he licked your cheek again. You shoved him gently. “Stop it, that’s disgusting.” 

“And cumming onto your face isn’t?” 

Still, he leaned back and used the handkerchief to gently wipe your nose and forehead. When he was done, the handkerchief disappeared with a flick of his wrist. 

“Did you like it?” You asked and studied his face. 

He only seemed to think about it for a moment.“Not really.” 

“You really didn’t like it?” Your shoulders immediately slumped, defeated. 

He looked amused at your reaction, smiling a little while he helped you put your arms back into your sleeves and fix your top. 

“I see the appeal, but I told you I don’t enjoy being mean to you, not like that. But you liked it, didn’t you?” You nodded. His hand went up your dress to lay on your thigh, his thumb stroking your skin. “Can you show me? Stand up for me.” 

Once you were on your feet he guided you around, his hands on your hips and stopped you in front of the chair. He nudged you to sit. 

“Spread your legs.” He moved in between them once you did. He pushed up your skirt and stared at your damp panties. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You whimpered when his thumb ran over it, pressing down where you needed it the most. He pulled his hand back and slipped his fingers under the lace trim on your waist. You didn’t have to be told what to do. Lifting up your hips, he pulled your panties off and let them drop to the floor once he pulled them past your knees. 

“This is what I like,” he kissed the inside of your thigh. 

“You get nothing out of it,” you replied smartly, “isn’t that what you tell me?”

He moved your leg up onto his shoulder and chuckled. 

“I get plenty out of it.” 

He pulled you closer to the edge of the chair and you pulled off his glasses to sit them on the side table. You sighed when he put his mouth on you and you slumped back into the chair. He went slow, lazy kisses doing just enough to relax you. 

“Are you trying to put me to sleep, baby?” You teased, your fingers reaching down to run through his hair. 

He pulled back and cut his gaze up to yours. “I can’t enjoy you?” Two of his fingers pushed into you suddenly and you moaned at the intrusion. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” your head fell back as he pushed on that spot inside you. “Fuck, yes.”

“You’re so impatient,” he grinned and lowered his mouth back onto you. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he moaned against you. His free hand reached out, blindly looking for your own. You took it, locking your fingers together while he worked you up. Between his fingers moving inside you and his tongue swirling around your clit, you let out the most ungodly noises. Your grip tightened- both in his hair and his hand. 

“Baby,” you gasped and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m so, oh fuck.” 

You were so close. You looked down at him, a jolt shooting through you at the sight of him. 

“Let go for me, sweetheart.” His voice whispered into your mind. 

That sent you over the edge. You came, yelling while your back arched off the seat. Henry worked you through it, slowing his movements until you stopped throbbing around him. He pulled away while you caught your breath and looked very pleased with himself. You smoothed out his hair from where you’d ruffled it and he lowered your leg off his shoulder. He stood, taking his glasses back from the side table while you remained slumped back in the chair, skirt still up to your waist. 

“You look tired.” You could see him fighting a grin. “Did that wear you out?” 

“Don’t be smug.” You pushed your skirt down to cover yourself. It hit you when you sat up that you were, in fact, tired. “Yes. I am tired.” He perked up at that and fought back a smile of your own. “You are insufferable.” 

“You love me,” he replied, still grinning. 

“I do.” You sighed.

“Hmm, I love you too. Does my girl need a nap?” 

“No.” You wanted to say yes, but it was too late in the day for that. Not that it mattered. “Will you bring me a glass of water, please?”

“Of course.”

By the time he returned, you had curled up in the chair fast asleep, your head resting on your arm. He sighed and put the glass down carefully on the table. Picking up his sketchbook and pencil, he quietly conjured up a chair from memory and sat down. He’d move you to the couch in the living room eventually. 

There was something about the way the sunlight filtered through the windows and fell over your sleeping form. And the way your arm draped over the armrest of the chair and how you’d tucked your legs in looked poetic. He needed to capture it forever. Henry would never show you the finished product; you wouldn’t even know he did it. But he would have that moment, tucked away where no one else could touch it. Truthfully, that was all that mattered to him.

𝜗ৎ on halloween night, he doesn't let you answer the door for trick or treaters. "I'll handle it," he says firmly. you're not sure if he's protecting you from the outside world or protecting the outside world from catching too much of a glimpse into your life together. either way, you stay in the sitting room while he distributes candy with that charming smile he uses for strangers.

𝜗ৎ after the trick or treaters stop coming, he locks the door and turns off the porch light. "now the night is ours," he says. the way he looks at you in your costume makes heat pool in your belly. there's something predatory in his gaze, something that reminds you that you're alone in this big house with him and no one will be knocking anymore.

𝜗ৎ he likes playing games on halloween. hiding and seek through the darkened mansion, but when he finds you, the "prize" is him pinning you against the nearest wall or bending you over the nearest surface. "caught you," he'll murmur against your neck. "now you're mine." as if you weren't already his every other day of the year.

𝜗ৎ sometimes he tells you ghost stories by the fire. his voice takes on that hypnotic quality, weaving tales of restless spirits and dark things in the woods. his hand rests possessively on your thigh the whole time. when you shiver, you're not sure if it's from the stories or from his touch. "scared?" he asks, but he's smiling. he likes you frightened, likes being the one you turn to for comfort.

𝜗ৎ he has a thing for vampire aesthetics on halloween. if your costume involves it, he'll tilt your head to the side and drag his teeth down your throat without breaking skin. "I could mark you," he whispers. "leave my bite on your neck for everyone to see. would you like that? everyone knowing you belong to someone?" sometimes he does bite, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that you wear his mark for days.

𝜗ৎ henry makes special halloween treats. candied apples, pumpkin tarts, spiced cider. he presents them beautifully, everything arranged with precision. but there's something possessive about the way he feeds you pieces by hand. "open," he instructs, placing a bite of tart on your tongue. watching you chew and swallow. "good girl. another."

𝜗ৎ the woods are more active on halloween night. you can hear things moving out there, see shadows that shouldn't exist. henry keeps you far from the windows facing the forest. "not tonight," he says when you drift too close to looking out. "tonight the things in those woods are bolder. but don't worry, darling. nothing gets past me. nothing touches what's mine."

𝜗ৎ there's something about halloween that makes him more intense. more possessive. like the dark energy of the night feeds something in him. he takes you multiple times that night, in different rooms, still partially in costume. "my dark bride," he growls. "my creature. mine to claim on this unholy night."

𝜗ৎ the next morning, november first, everything goes back to normal routines. but he keeps one thing from your costume. a ribbon, a piece of lace, something small. you find it later in his study, tucked away in a drawer with other small treasures. tokens of you, collected and kept like precious artifacts.

taglist: @darleneh @superawesomecool @wastedlikeallmypotential @heartmira @randomuser0609 @mgparker @redangelrosie @analovesmarvel @elccoolbeans26 @whosnora @creamyycupcakee @littlebunygirl @spectrestrings

The air inside the secluded cabin was thick with the rich, earthy scent of burning sage, cedar wood, and dried lavender. In the corner, a vintage turntable spun lazily, the soft, melancholic vocals of Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon warping slightly under the scratch of an old needle.

Misty Starling sat hunched over her heavy oak drafting table by the window, entirely lost in her own world. She was dressed in her usual bohemian armor, a flowing black maxi skirt, a dark shawl with brightly colored flowers budding from the fringe, long swinging tassels moving with every stretch of her arm, and a pair of perfectly round, amber-tinted sunglasses that pushed back her wild red curls, nested securely atop her head. Her slender fingers moved with practiced, delicate precision, shading the intricate line-work of a mythical fantasy illustration for her remote publisher. It was quiet, peaceful work that kept her completely hidden from the rest of the grid. Her mind was airy and calm these days, drifting over the deep, fractured amnesia walls that blocked out the horrors of her past. She had willingly forgotten the sterile lights, the sirens, and the blood, choosing instead to exist in this whimsical, slow-motion dream.

"Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night, And wouldn't you love to love her? Takes to the sky like a bird in flight, And who will be her lover~?" Misty softly sang along

Near the front window stood a uniquely retro visual fixture, an oversized, antique red gumball machine that she'd gutted and beautifully retrofitted into a terrarium. Inside the glass globe, resting on a bed of fresh moss and twigs, was a Mexican Red-knee Tarantula.

Or she would have been.

A four-year-old child was sitting cross-legged on the thick, patterned rug beside his mother, his auburn hair in soft curls, his small, pale hands cupped together like a cradle. His icy blue eyes never left the tarantula that sat perfectly still across his knuckles, her fuzzy black and orange legs twitching slightly as the little boy watched her with a profound intelligence that far exceeded his years.

" Don't keep her out too long, Isaac," Misty murmured softly, her eyes never leaving her sketchpad as her pencil scratched against the heavy paper. " Harriet gets cold when she's away from her tank for too long."

" Okay, Mama," Isaac replied, his little voice quiet and entirely serene as he carefully brought his hands toward the open top of the gumball machine to let the spider crawl back home.

Before the record could transition to the next track, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against the thick timber of the cabin's front door.

The rhythmic thumping against the oak frame made Misty's pencil stall, the lead leaving a tiny dark dot right in the center of an illustrated dragon's wing.

" Harriet's home, Mama," Isaac whispered, dusting his hands against his knee before looking up at the door with an intense, quiet curiosity. Those striking, ice-blue eyes of his seemed to look straight through the wood.

"Good boy, now go wash your hands," Misty murmured, nudging his shoulder, her voice lifting into a light cadence that made her sound like she was permanently daydreaming.

The little boy obeyed, and as she stood up from her seat, her long tassels swept against her ankles, the embroidered flowers on her shawl shifting like a moving garden. She reached up, adjusting the round, amber-tinted sunglasses nestled in her wild, fiery red curls to ensure they wouldn't slide down her nose. With a soft, humming breath, she unlocked the heavy iron latch and swung the cabin door inward.

Stepping over the threshold was the young man she always looked forward to seeing, yet whose name her fractured mind could never quite hold onto for more than a few minutes.

He was strikingly handsome, looking like an immaculate portrait pulled straight out of a 1950's university catalog. He wore a sharp, tailored tweed suit with a faint windowpane pattern, a crisp white collar, and perfectly round, dark-rimmed spectacles that caught the flickering glow of her hearth fire. In his right hand, he carried a simple leather briefcase. There wasn't a single leaf or speck of autumn mud on his pristine leather oxfords, despite having walked through the dense, rain-soaked paths of the woods to reach her door.

" Good afternoon,dear," The therapist spoke, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic, and deeply comforting rasp.

The sound of his voice sent a sudden, phantom ache flaring inside her chest. It was a familiar, haunting vibration that always made her feel safe, yet entirely confused. She had absolutely no idea why he always pulled such reactions from her. But she wouldn't deny that she enjoyed it when he visited. She often wished he'd stay longer, but that wouldn't be quite professional between them. Still, she often got the feeling he wanted to stay longer than their small sessions allowed.

" Hello,Doc," Misty smiled warmly, stepping back to grant him entry. " You're right on time. Come in and sit at the table, and I'll fetch us some tea. "

" Thank you, Misty," He murmured softly, his pale blue eyes tracking her every movement with a soft longing as he stepped inside. The moment the heavy timber door clicked shut behind him, the amnesia walls in Misty's mine immediately smoothed over the details of his arrival like water over stone. He was just the kind, handsome man who visited on Tuesdays.

The Man set his briefcase down on the wooden table, his gaze instantly dropping to the rug by the window.

Isaac was sitting , perfectly cross-legged, one of his story books in his lap, yet he was staring up at the therapist with a calm, unblinking clarity that matched the doctor's own piercing stare. He felt a violent surge of pride and protective instinct ripple through his current. He slowly walked over and knelt down on the rug right beside the toddler, his tweed trousers brushing the frayed fabric of the rug.

"She is a beautiful specimen," The doctor murmured, his raspy voice holding a rare, genuine warmth as his eyes tracked the toddler's gaze to the gumball machine terrarium. " Spiders are deeply misunderstood creatures. They are solitary. Quiet. Masters of their own structured webs. Do you like her?"

Isaac offered the therapist a tiny, serene smile, nodding his head. " She likes the moss." The boy whispered, completely at ease with the man sitting with him in his living room.

From the kitchen nook, Misty smiled at the sight, carrying over two steaming ceramic mugs of herbal tea. " He has an affinity for her," She noted, her tassels brushing the Therapist's shoulder as she sat down across from him by the hearth. " Most children would probably scream. But Isaac… he's always been so quiet. so connected to things."

She fondly brushed a curl of his red hair away from his face. smiling at the comfortable scene of the three of them sitting down on the floor for today's session.

The doctor shifted in his position, his long, pale fingers intentionally brushed against hers as he accepted the warm mug, and the brief point of contact sent an immediate, low-frequency tremor through her baseline current.

Misty blinked, a sudden blinding wave of lucidity hitting her. Her breath caught, her hand trembled slightly as an overwhelming, crushing wave of love and absolute safety flooded her chest. For a split second, the dense amnesia walls cracked wide open. She stared at the handsome therapist with wide, knowing eyes, her heart hammering violently against her ribs as a ghost from 1979 tried desperately to scream his real name in her mind.

He did not pull his hand away. He left his long, pale fingers resting against hers on the warm ceramic of the mug. Beneath the wooden floorboards, his invisible frequency hummed a love, stabilizing vibration, systematically absorbing the frantic spikes in her heart rate to keep her mind from splintering.

" Breathe, Misty," He murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, hypnotic cadence that rolled right through her chest. " Look at me. You are entirely safe. Focus only on my voice."

She took a sharp,shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around his hand for a separate moment before the suffocating fog rolled back in, gently smoothing over the sharp cracks in her memory. The terrifying clarity faded into a warm, comfortable twilight. She let out a long, shaky exhale, using her free hand to push her sunglasses further up into her wild auburn curls as she offered him a small, sheepish smile.

" I'm sorry, Doc," She whispered, her voice returning to its light, airy rhythm. " Sometimes…I get these sudden rushes. Like a physical wave of panic. It feels like I'm looking for a name or a face that's right on the tip of my tongue, but when I reach for it, it just turns to smoke."

" You don't need to apologize," Henry answered softly, his thumb lightly brushing the back of her knuckles before he reluctantly let his hand slide back into his lap. " Your mind has been through a great deal of strain. Amnesia is a protective barrier. It keeps certain doors locked until your system is strong enough to handle what lies behind them."

He leaned back slightly, resting his hands on his knees as the firelight danced across his round spectacles. "Tell me about the drawings on your table. Your hands have always told the truth. What have you been creating this week?"

Misty's face instantly lit up, her tassels swaying as she gestured toward the heavy drafting dark. "Labyrinths, mostly. And old trees with twisted roots that bury themselves deep into the rock. Joyce said the detail is almost too real, like I've actually stood in these places. But I just see them when I close my eyes. They feel more familiar to me than the town does. "

His jaw clenched subtly, a phantom ache striking him across the divide. She was drawing his childhood memories, his old structures, and the dark architecture of the lab without even realizing it. " And do these places frighten you when you see them?" he asked quietly.

" No," Misty murmured, tilting her head as she looked at him with a soft, searching expression. " They make me feel…lonely. But not frightened. Especially when I draw the shadow figures in the center of the mazes. I always get the feeling that someone is waiting for me to finish the map so they can find their way back out."

Isaac quietly crawled a few inches closer, his little red curls bouncing as he set his book down right against the edge of the doctor's leather briefcase. He didn't look at the book; instead, his piercing ice-blue eyes stared directly up into the Therapist's face with an eerie, profound intelligence.

" Do you know the way out?" Isaac asked, his little voice quiet and perfectly serene.

The doctor stilled a moment, behind his eyes, something protective seemed to flood his current. He slowly reached out, his longer fingers carefully patting the little boy's shoulder. " I am figuring it out, little one," he whispered, his rasp shifting into a genuine tenderness. " Every single day"

Misty smiled fondly at the two of them, unaware of the bridge that held them all together. " He likes you. He doesn't usually talk to anyone who comes up the trail. Even Jonathan has to bribe him with animal crackers. "

" Children possess a highly sensitive intuition," He noted smoothly, returning his gaze to her face, desperately wishing he could freeze the clock. " They can recognize when a presence is entirely devoted to their safety. "

He shifted his position slightly, leaning in closer as he tried to gather every shred of information he could about her current reality. " What about you, Misty? How has your life in Hawkins been treating you outside of your work? Are the locals leaving you be?"

Misty offered a light, whimsical chuckle, her fingers tracing the rim of her ceramic tea mug. " Oh, you know how they are, Doc. The people in town think I'm just the crazy hermit lady living in the woods. A group of the younger kids, The Wheeler boy, and Joyce's younger have dubbed me the " Witch of Mirkwood." But honestly, it suits me just fine. It keeps the nosy ones away , which gives me and Isaac all the quiet we need. "

She paused, her airy demeanor shifting into something a bit more pensive. She looked down into her tea, her glasses falling onto her face now, they slid down the bridge of her nose just enough for him to see the faint, searching look in her hazel eyes.

"…It hasn't been completely quiet lately," She murmured softly. " The woods have been feeling…different. Heavy. Sometimes, when the rain hits the roof at night, I could swear I hear the deep, echoing chime of an old grandfather clock out in the timber. It sounds so real, so structural, but when I go to the porch, there's nothing there but the wind. "

His entire frame stiffened, his pale blue eyes widening almost imperceptibly behind his spectacles. Across the dimensional divide, his heart stopped. She wasn't just remembering the past; she was actively tethered to his current frequency.

" A grandfather clock," He repeated, his gravelly voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight rasp. " And does this trouble you?"

" No," Misty said, shaking her head as a soft, knowing smile returned to her lips. She leaned close to him, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. " That's the strangest part. It actually makes me feel incredibly safe. And it's been influencing my illustrations too. Lately, I haven't just been drawing labyrinths and trees. Look."

She reached over to her drafting table, pulling down a fresh, heavy charcoal sketch and laying it flat on the rug between them.

His breath was completely caught.

Etched into the paper with brutal, beautiful precision was a massive, sprawling network of dark, decaying subterranean tunnels. They burrowed deep beneath the roots of the tree's branching out like a violent, living nervous system. It was a flawless, identical map of the exact tunnels he was currently commanding the hive mind to dig beneath the Hawkins topsoil.

" I started drawing them a few days ago," Misty explained softly, completely blind to the reality that their profound connection meant she was literally seeing straight into parts of his mind. " I just get these sudden, vivid images of these hollow paths beneath our feet. Like something is carving out a brand-new home right under the dirt. "

He stared down at the charcoal lines, a mixture of awe, love , and absolute possessiveness flooding his system. She was mapping his architecture. She was connected to him still, like a flawless mirror; her soul was still perfectly synchronized with his.

" Have you shown anyone these?" came his quick question. to which she'd shaken her head

" Good," The therapist murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a low,fiercely protective rasp. He leaned over the charcoal paper, his long, pale fingers hovering just a hair about the dark, drawn lines of the subterranean maze. " Don't. Keep them here, Misty. The people in town…the doctors… they would not understand the depth of your decision. They would only complicate your peace."

Misty nodded softly, her long black tassels brushing against her arm as she slid the sketch back onto her drafting table. " I only ever show my finished work to my publisher. But these…these are just for me. And you, I suppose"

The doctor's pale blue eyes locked back onto hers behind his round spectacles, a profound, aching warmth flooding his system across the dimensional divide. She was keeping his mind a secret, just like they used to do in the laboratory.

Before he could speak another word to his family, the quiet sanctuary of the cabin was suddenly shattered.

From deep within the woods, the distant, rumbling rattle of an old, missing-muffler engine began to echo down the unmapped logging trail. Someone was driving a heavy vehicle up to her home, the tires crunching loudly over the wet autumn leaves and twigs.

Isaac's little head snapped toward the front window, his auburn curls bouncing as he tracked the sound through the wood panels with an intense, unblinking clarity.

" Our time is up for today, dear." The doctor spoke quietly, standing up from the patterned rug with a fluid, effortless grace. He picked up his simple leather briefcase and smoothed out his suit.

" Oh, is it already?" Misty asked, her voice instantly returning to that light, airy cadence as the amnesia walls smoothly rolled back over the details of their deep conversation. The intense lucidity faded like smoke, leaving her smiling up at him with a pleasant, dreamy detachment. " Thank you, Doc. I always feel so much lighter after our Tuesdays."

" Be careful in the woods, Misty," He warned softly, stepping toward the heavy oak door. He paused on the threshold, looking back one last time at his beautiful, fractured sanctuary and his quiet son." There's much shifting in this town. Keep your doors latched."

With a gentle nod, the handsome therapist stepped out into the misty autumn air. The exact second the heavy timber door clicked shut behind him, his physical avatar completely dissolved into nothingness, his consciousness pulling straight back across the inter-dimensional bridge to his throne in the Upside-down.

Misty blinked in the center of the room, her black shawl swaying as she completely forgot the color of his suit, only remembering that she felt entirely safe.

Outside, the rumbling engine grew louder, finally coming to a halt right in her clearing with a violent, metallic screech of old brakes. It was followed by the loud, heavy thud of a taped-up driver's side door wrestling open.

" He's here, Mama," Isaac said, his little voice calm as he sat by the gumball machine terrarium, watching through the window a tall, lanky figure emerge through the afternoon fog.

Misty smiled, immediately recognizing the chaotic, familiar energy before the visitor even reached the porch. She pulled her heavy door open just as Eddie Munson bounded up the wooden steps, a massive grin plastered across his face.

He looked exactly like the town's worst nightmare, a wild, untamed mane of dark brown curls bouncing around his shoulders, a patched denim vest thrown over a faded black graphic tee, and rings glinting on almost every finger. He was hauling a heavy, frosted-metal propane tank under his right arm like it weighed absolutely nothing.

" Greeting, O Majestic Lady of the Woods!" Eddie proclaimed loudly, his theatrical voice echoing through the quiet wood as he stepped onto the porch. He dramatically bowed his head, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of genuine respect and playful mischief. " Your humble servant has arrived with the sacred fires of Winter. Where shall I drop this beast?"

Misty chuckled, her airy, whimsical laugh entirely matching his theatrical vibe. " Hello, Eddie. You can just leave it by the utility locker on the side porch. Thank you. "

" Your wish is my absolute command," Eddie chirped, expertly swinging the propane tank into its designated slot before wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. He stepped into the entryway, his eyes immediately lighting up as they landed on the child at the window.

Without a shred of hesitation, Eddie immediately dropped down into a dramatic crouch on the creaking floorboards, bringing himself straight down to eye level with the toddler. He dramatically tilted his head, the wild mane of brown curls bouncing around his shoulders as he pointed a heavily ringed finger toward the glass globe of the gumball machine.

" Greeting, young master Isaac," Eddie whispered conspiratorially, his dark eyes sparkling with a genuine delight. " Tell me, how is the legendary Lady Harriet holding up today? Has she initiated any arachnid curses on the local populace, or is she currently plotting the downfall of mankind from her gumball fortress? "

Isaac didn't flinch or shy away from Eddie's sudden, high-energy presence. Instead, he just looked at the teenager with intensely calm eyes. He offered Eddie a tiny, serene little smile, gesturing toward the glass globe with a small, pale hand.

" She's sleeping, Eddie," Isaac murmured softly, his little voice entirely peaceful. " She liked the moss best today. "

" An excellent choice," Eddie nodded solemnly, completely accepting the toddler's profound, quiet temperament after greeting him. He stood back up, looking over at Misty with a grin. " Man, I swear this kid is cooler than the entire student body of Hawkins High combined. Seriously. If I had half his composure, I wouldn't be failing Spanish for the second time."

Misty dropped her flower-fringed shawl over one of the rickety wooden kitchen chairs, setting her sunglasses down on the counter as she looked over at Eddie and Isaac with a fond smile. Other than her therapist, Eddie was the only other person Isaac seemed to like talking to.

" I'd say he got it from me, but that would be a complete lie," Misty shrugged her shoulder lightly, shifting her weight. " I'm pretty sure he gets the brains from his father. "

" You know, if you need help with school, you could always come to me, Eddie," She offered warmly. " I'm happy to help my knight in shining armor. Besides, it gives you an excuse to go through my Black Sabbath records again. "

Eddie's face lit up with a dramatic, hand-on-his-heart gasp, his dark eyes widening in pure joy. He stumbled back a dramatic step as if he had just been struck by a divine revelation.

" Help with la escuela from the Grand Enchantress herself? And a free pass to raid the holy grail of Black Sabbath pressings?" He shook his head, his wild mane bouncing as he pointed a ringed finger at her. "Misty, you are testing my mortal restraint! If the boys in Corroded Coffin find out I'm spending my Tuesday nights hitting the books instead of shredding the frets, my street cred is completely down the toilet!"

He chuckled, his chaotic energy softening into a warm, genuine grin as he reached behind his back. From beneath his denim vest, he pulled out a pristine, heavy square sleeve wrapped in protective plastic.

" But speaking of the dark arts of vinyl…" Eddie held it up like a prized treasure, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. " I managed to haggle with a guy in Indianapolis for this. Blue Oyster Cult. Fire of Unknown Origin. Pristine condition, Misty. I thought it matched your whole…cosmic, ethereal vibe. Figured we could trade for a bit? I've been dying to spin that old Zeppelin bootleg you keep hidden away."

Misty's fingers flexed as she made an enthusiastic, playful grabbing motion for the record. " Have I ever told you that you're my favorite? Because if it's not clear yet, Eddie, you're my favorite."

She snatched the album from him with a bright laugh, quick to slide across the floor and place it onto the vintage turntable.

" You know where most of the records are stored. She called out, shifting on her heels as she grew very excited to listen to a new album. " You're free to take whichever one you want. Just remember to bring it back after you record it onto your tapes. "

" Oh, you know I'm a man of strict honor when it comes to the plastic, Misty, " Eddie called back over the synth-heavy rock pulsing through the room, pulling out a rare Led Zeppelin bootleg and cradling it like a newborn baby. " This bad boy will be taped, loved, and returned to its rightful shrine in pristine condition. Scout's honor. "

Misty darted around the small kitchen nook, gathering different ingredients from the fridge and the wooden bread box. " Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat? I'll make you lunch if you haven't had it already."

At the mention of food, Eddie's stomach answered for him with a loud, aggressive growl that made him wince and chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

" Man, you really are psychic, aren't you?" He grinned, his eyes sparkling. " I am absolutely starving. Uncle Wayne had the early shift at the plant, so breakfast was pretty much a stale Pop-Tart and whatever coffee was left in the pot from yesterday. I will gladly accept whatever culinary witchcraft you're cooking up today. Seriously, no complaints here."

Misty smiled, expertly frying up thick strips of bacon on the stove and reheating a rich, fragrant pot of soup she had prepared the night before. While she worked, Isaac came to stand beside Eddie, his little head gently bobbing along to the rhythm of the current track.

Eddie leaned his lanky frame against the kitchen counter, sliding the rare record carefully under his arm as he looked to Isaac. He flashed the toddler a playful grin, pointing a ringed finger toward the dormant television set in the corner.

" Hey , Isaac," Eddie asked with a soft, teasing nudge of his boot toward the child. " Your mom makes you listen to this heavy, spooky rock music all day, or do you secretly prefer cartoon theme songs when she's not looking? Come on, you can tell me. What's your favorite song ?"

Isaac tilted his head, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the older boy. He didn't answer right away, entirely unfazed by the concept of regular children's programs.

" Doors," Isaac said, his little voice offering a single word with a quiet calm. He meant The Doors.

" Mama likes Doors," the toddler added, looking up at the teenager.

Eddie's jaw practically dropped into a look of exaggerated, comedic awe. He stared at the four-year-old as if the kid had just quoted ancient high-fantasy scripture instead of a 1960s rock band.

" The Doors ?!" Eddie gasped, slapping a ringed hand dramatically against his chest. He looked over at Mist, who was assembling a towering, massive BLT on fresh bread. " Misty, I'm telling you right now, this child is a prodigy ! A musical revolutionary! Most toddlers are out here crying for Sesame Street, and your boy is sitting in the woods analyzing the deep, poetic prose of Jim Morrison!"

He dropped down onto his knees again, leaning in towards Isaac with a look of intense, massive respect. " And immaculate choice, my tiny friend. The Doors are completely legendary. Very dark. Very Trippy. If you're spinning The End while you're playing with Harriet, you're officially cooler than anyone I've ever met in my entire life.

" I don't make him listen to anything I wouldn't force you to listen to," Misty chuckled, stepping away from the counter and handing Eddie his lunch plate and the steaming bowl of soup. " Actually, he likes most of the music that you've borrowed from me. "

" Man, this smells incredible," Eddie breathed out, taking a massive, aggressively happy bite of the sandwich and groaning in pure satisfaction. He leaned against the counter, his eyes naturally drifting back over to her heavy oak drafting table. Between mouthfuls, his dark eyes sparkled with a sudden, curious thought.

" Hey, so…I was looking at that other sketch you had peeking out from under the dragon drawings," Eddie said, his tone dropping into a casual, inquisitive murmur as the rock music pulsed in the background. " The one with all those crazy, branching underground tunnels. It looked totally wicked, like some massive labyrinth under the dirt. What's the story behind that one? Is that for a new book, or just some heavy imagery keeping you up at night?"

Misty's heart completely dropped the exact moment he mentioned the underground tunnels; her doctor's voice still echoed clearly in her mind, a phantom warning to keep them hidden.

" Oh, it's nothing," she said quickly, forcing a light chuckle as she played it off with a wave of her hand. " Sometimes I just have weird dreams. "

Even though Eddie wasn't like the rest of the townspeople, he was family, an outcast who would never judge her or treat her differently because of an abstract drawing; the residual fear kept her moving. She floated over to her drafting table, casually taking the sketches of the tunnels, rolling them up tightly, and sliding them deep into a safe, hidden compartment out of sight.

" What I really want to show you is this," Misty smiled, clearing away a few stray sheets of charcoal paper away to produce a fresh pencil sketch.

" I remember you were telling me about the new campaign you're running. " She said, her voice dropping back into its joyful, whimsical rhythm. " And you mentioned the monster… the Dragon Queen. Tiamat, I believe? So, I drew it from what you described to me. "

She handed him the heavy sheet of paper.

Eddie's eyes went completely wide, his jaw dropping into a look of absolute, slack-jawed awe. Etched into the paper with breathtaking precision was the massive, multi-headed Dragon Queen, each head displaying distinct, terrifying elemental details.

" Are you…Are you kidding me right now?" Eddie breathed out, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, purely ecstatic nerd-frenzy. He completely forgot about the tunnel drawing. He carefully set his plate down on the counter with trembling hands and took the sketch from her like it was made of solid gold. " Misty ! This is… this is absolutely insane !"

Eddie practically shouted, his face splitting into a giant, manic grin as his dark curls bounced. He held the paper closer to his face, his ringed fingers tracing the edges of the drawing with absolute reverence. " Look at the scales on the blue head ! and the lightning tracking around the white one ! This is exactly how I pictured her in my head when I was writing the encounter! The guys are going to lose their minds, Misty!"

He looked up at her, his eyes shining with pure, wide-eyed adoration. He dramatically dropped to one knee on the creaking floorboards, pressing a hand to his chest as he looked up at her. " I swear to you, Lady Starling, you are not just a favorite. You are an absolute goddess. A musical genius, a culinary savior, and not the official, legendary patron saint of my D&D campaign!

He laughed , standing back up and looking down at the drawing again with a giddy smile. " Seriously, how much do I owe you for this ? Because whatever the price is , I will happily sell my soul- or at least my favorite guitar pedals, to pay you back."

Misty laughed warmly, a bright sound that entirely filled the rustic kitchen nook as she tapped a finger to her chin, adoring her tasseled shawl again before she waved her hand dismissively.

" You owe me absolutely nothing, Eddie," She chided gently, offering him a soft, adoring smile. " But if you really want to pay me back, please consider actually bringing your school work with you next Tuesday. I mean it. Let me help you get through that Spanish class so you can finally get out of Hawkins "

Eddie winced playfully, clutching his chest as if he'd been shot, but the dramatic persona quickly softened into a look of deep, genuine gratitude. He carefully rolled up the heavy sheet of paper, treating it with the utmost respect.

" Misty, you are a saint. A literal angel in denim and fringe," Eddie murmured, his eyes shining. " I swear I'll find some way to pay you back for this. And I promise, next time I roll up the logging trail, I'll bring my books. Along with a few more legendary tales from the campaign trail to keep you entertained."

" I'll hold you to that," Misty smiled, but as she noticed him subtly shifting his weight toward the door with the record and drawing tucked under his arm, she pointed a strict finger back toward the counter. "But before you go anywhere, you need to finish eating. I didn't fry up all that bacon just for it to sit there and go cold."

"Yes, ma'am! Loud and clear !" Eddie grinned, immediately hopping onto one of the stools at the island. working with his usual high-octane efficiency, he aggressively demolished the rest of the towering BLT and polished off the warm soup, groaning in pure satisfaction as he finally set the empty bowl down.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, his rings clicking as he pulled back his wrist to check the heavy watch strapped to it. His eyes went wide.

"Man, look at the time. I've gotta jet," Eddie said, sliding off the stool with a sudden burst of frantic energy. He carefully tucked the rare bootleg record under his arm alongside his precious new arm. " The boys are expecting me at the trailer park in twenty minutes for a gear check, and if I'm late, freak-out mode initiates."

He paused by the entryway, dropping into a quick, respectful crouch to give little Isaac a high-five, which the four-year-old calmly accepted with a serene smile.

" Stay cool, my tiny Morrison fan," Eddie grinned, standing back up and looking over at Mist as he unlatched the heavy door. " Thanks again for the witchcraft, Misty. I'll be back in a couple of days for another…something. I don't know yet, but I'll be back!"

With a final, theatrical wave of his hand, Eddie bounded out into the misty autumn afternoon. The heavy timber door clicked shut behind him, followed moments later by the roaring, rattling of his old Chevrolet van coming to life and tearing back down the unmapped logging trail.

Inside, the soft, heavy track of the vinyl continued to pulse gently through the quiet room. Misty stood by the counter for a long moment, a peaceful smile on her lips as she settled into her black shawl. But as she turned her hazel eyes back toward her drafting table, where her hidden cache rested, the rolled-up terrifying maps of the underground tunnels, the deep, phantom chime of a grandfather clock echoed faintly through the pines, signaling that the cold autumn air was already beginning to shift.

The roaring , rattling of Eddie's old van finally died away into the distance, leaving the pines to settle back into their heavy, damp silence. Inside the cabinet, the vinyl continued to pulse gently through the quiet room until the needle clicked and began to lazily scratch against the inner groove.

By midnight, the fire had burned down to a pile of low, glowing orange embers. Isaac was fast asleep in his small bed in his room, his vibrant auburn curls spilled across his pillow, breathing with a peaceful, rhythmic serenity. Misty had finally retired to the master bedroom, completely exhausted from the day's events. She lay tangled beneath the heavy wool blankets, her face relaxed as her mind drifted seamlessly back into that comfortable, airy twilight state she used to shield herself from the world.

Outside, a violent autumn storm began to tear through the trees, the wind howled against the thick logs, and heavy sheets of ice-laden rain lashed at the windows.

But across the dimensional divide, the storm was different.

In the bleeding, wasteland of the Upside-down, the air crackled with a terrifying, cosmic static. Henry stood in the attic of the old Creel house, completely isolated, his ghostly eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp focus. With a deep, concentrated breath, he uncoiled his restored telekinetic current, throwing his conscious awareness straight across the dimensional fabric to anchor his mind back into the physical location of Hawkins.

Within a heartbeat, a phantom shadow materialized silently in the dark woods just outside Misty's cabin.

He didn't project his polite, tweed-suited therapist avatar this time. He existed as an invisible psychic presence, a heavy atmospheric pressure that immediately swept across her perimeter. His mind reached out like a living net, checking the surroundings with cold, hyper-vigilant efficiency. He scanned the dense tree line, tracking the movements of the nocturnal animals, ensuring no state troopers, no local busy bodies, and absolutely no black-budget search teams from Brenner's facility had breached her territory. The area was entirely safe.

Satisfied, his invisible current slid effortlessly through the cracks of the heavy timber door, flowing into the dark, quiet sanctuary of the bedroom.

She was the reason he was able to have such freedom in this area of the woods; their shared current still faintly flowed through his twisted veins, reaching out to him across the divide like a stagnant lifeline trying to guide him back home.

It was here that he could materialize even for a short time. looking down at her, his pale features softening into a profound ache that nearly tore his multidimensional baseline apart. God, he wanted so badly to bring her to him. He wanted to shatter the walls of reality, drag her across the threshold into his realm, and hold her fragile frame flush against his chest so they could be together again without the constraints of a ticking clock.

But as he looked down at his own phantom hands, the cold, suffocating weight of reality pressed into his chest. He was worried. He was deeply terrified of what she would think if she truly saw what he had become, the exact unchained, monstrous entity commanding the dark hive mind from the abyss. He couldn't risk her looking at him with horror. Not after everything he had sacrificed to keep her pure.

He carefully climbed into the spot on the bed next to her, rightfully where he should be. resting his head on the pillow and watching as she gently slept through the raging storm. His gaze drifted to her forehead, his mind immediately connecting to the dense amnesia walls built inside her brain. He leaned closer, his long, phantom fingers slowly ghosting just a fraction of an inch above the bare skin of her cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her frequency vibrating against his power.

Guilt hung heavy in his chest, and he desperately hoped that the barrier he'd placed would stay firmly in place until he could push further into his grand plans. He was the one causing the fog. He was the one systematically maintaining that beautiful, protective twilight inside her brain, deliberately making her forget the specific details of his identity every time his sessions ended.

As he watched her stir slightly under his touch, he painfully remembered the reason for the barrier, the memory flashing behind his pale blue eyes, pulling him back to the winter months of 1979.

Before his powers had grown strong enough to tear open precise, bi-weekly mental projections, his fractured consciousness had only been able to catch fleeting, agonizing glimpses of the real world. He vividly remembered peering through the ghostly, cracked mirror of the abandoned Creel house, his heart shattering as he watched Misty sitting on the dusty floorboards all alone. Heavily pregnant with Isaac, her fragile frame shaking as she violently wept, clutching her stomach and desperately begging for him to come back to her in the dark.

The raw, helpless trauma of her grief had been so intense that it drew him like a moth to a flame, pulling on that tethered lifeline. But it was killing her, and Isaac. That was the exact night He'd gathered every ounce of his volatile power, reaching across the dimensional divide to place a gentle, heavy hand over her mind. With a fierce, protective stroke of his abilities, he had systematically blocked his own name, his face, and the entire memory of the laboratory massacre from her consciousness, willingly turning himself into a nameless phantom to spare her from the grief that was killing her.

Now, in the quiet midnight of 1984, Henry leaned down and pressed a weightless kiss against the crown of her wild red curls.

" Soon, little bird," Henry whispered into the dark room, his gravelly voice nothing more than a passing shudder of wind against the glass. " When the map is finished…I will bring you home."