☆Iris #2☆

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who gets a scholarship to his backup college, which is disappointing to say the least—but hey, it's better than Hawkins, right?

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who realizes for the first time just how expensive it is to live on your own, let alone living on your own in the city. Why the fuck is gas so expensive??

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who, despite his scholarship, has to pick up odd jobs here and there to help pay for his living, and ends up working as a male masseuse (masseur, he later learned) at a local salon for a month or two. Fuck his life.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who was just about to put in his resignation to the manager after this shift when you walked in through the door, and, to his excitement and horror, he finds out you're booked with him.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who panics in the break room for a full five and a half minutes before going back out to accept his fate with clammy palms and a pit in his stomach because shit, why do you have to be so pretty?

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who barely talks the whole hour and a half that he's massaging your bare back, thanking everything good and holy that you're facedown and therefore can't see his flaming face. You're also glad you're facedown, but for different reasons that somehow didn't even cross Mike's mind.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who learns when you're dressed and paying that you thought you were being booked with a female masseuse, and apologizes profusely for...himself. (He has some issues guys)

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who's rambling has to be interrupted in order for you to tell him that you're actually glad things worked out this way.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who doesn't believe his ears, and believes them even less when you coyly ask for his number, stating that maybe the two of you could 'grab a cup of coffee sometime'.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who has believed that his short-lived career as a masseuse is a result of God's wrath up until this point, when he realizes that the powers that be might be working in his favor.

⋆˚꩜｡⎯⎯College!Mike Wheeler, who still quits that job, because goddamn was it awful, but wears the biggest, goofiest smile as he goes to pick up the phone the next morning.

A/N: HELLO ALL i have made a brief return into writing!! Ughhh i've missed this so much stop :(( also can we talk about how AMAZING the possibilities for 90's mike are?? like give me that man NEOW👇 i want that one 👇👇 uhhh also this idea came to me in a dream (like a lot of things) so i hope its not too weird! anyYAP love you guys!! ty for reading mwahmwah!!

So you’re not perfect.

You’ve got your flaws—you talk too much and then go quiet, eat when you’re bored, and you’re prone to daydreaming. But everyone has those, right? It’s called ‘being human’. And usually, no one has a problem with it. Usually, everyone either smiles at you or is at least polite.

Except Phoebe, your wonderful boyfriend’s scary little sister.

Okay, maybe not scary, but still intimidating for someone three years younger than you.

You had tried an embarrassing amount of times to be nice to her, to connect and to not just be the girl her brother was dating. You understood how she might feel; maybe she thought you were pushing your way into a family you didn’t belong in, or maybe she thought you were just some stupid girl that Trevor would eventually get tired of. As much as you tried to prove her wrong, that you loved her brother and you were actually a decent person, it was a very humbling experience any time you tried to talk to her.

“Whatcha doing?” You asked cheerfully one time, walking up to Phoebe as she tinkered with something incredibly technical that you had no hope of comprehending.

“Fixing the circuit breakers on this so I can boost the ampacity.” She answered rather dryly, not looking up. You nodded like you understood what the hell that meant.

“…Right.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth, adjusting your sleeve. “Anything I could help with?” You knew you probably wouldn’t be able to do what she was doing, but you could at least pass her a screwdriver or something if she asked.

“Unless you can find a capacitor and some conduit, no.” Her response was flat, almost insulting, and it shut you up instantly. And she didn’t even look at you. 

You nodded once, a sinking feeling of embarrassment and indignation forming a knot in your chest. “Okay,” you tried to sound casual, but your voice was higher and tauter than normal. “I’ll, uh, leave you alone, then.” You forced out a light chuckle, which made everything just that much worse, and backed away.

She didn’t even shrug.

Another time, you and Trevor were trying to figure out the controls to a second-hand dishwasher his mom had picked up at a discount. The instruction manual, which might as well have been in Greek, lay abandoned a couple feet away from you as you pushed a couple of the buttons. You weren’t just doing it randomly—there was a pattern to it, you knew it, you just needed a little time and patience to figure it out…

“You’re doing it wrong.” The sudden sound of Phoebe’s voice right beside you almost made your soul leave your body, your heart jumping right into your throat.

“Jesus,” you whispered, eyes wide as you clutched your chest. You looked up at her from where you knelt on the floor, furrowing an eyebrow and raising the other in confusion.

“You have the manual, don’t you?” She commented, standing over you with that frighteningly neutral stare, just a glint of dislike in her eyes. 

“Um…yeah.” You admitted quietly, hands dropping from the buttons and starting to fidget with the hem of your shirt.

“Nobody can read it, Pheebs, it’s all useless.” Trevor saved you without even meaning to, leaning against the counter with not a clue about the tension between you and his sister.

She just sighed and stepped around you to pick up the booklet, flipping through it with very mild interest. After a moment, she crossed the space (you backed away from the dishwasher like it was threatening you) and reached for the control pad. With a simple press of a couple buttons, similar to the pattern you were trying, the dishwasher beeped and started to run successfully. 

Trevor grinned and offered his sister a high five, and you smiled hesitantly from where you sat on the floor, swallowing when she met your gaze with her icy stare.

And to think this all started from a simple interaction at your Grampa Ray’s bookstore. 

When you were fifteen and your Grampa needed some help with what he said was ‘too many customers and too little staff’, he hired you as a clerk. You had a hunch (based on the obvious lack of said customers) that he really just wanted an excuse to spend time with you, but you weren’t going to complain; you loved both him and his weirdo bookshop.

But business was painfully slow. Three weeks of standing behind the counter and only a couple times a day would anyone wander in. No one ever really bought anything, looked interesting, or even talked to you. It was boring as hell, but at least you were getting paid, even if it was a laughable sum. Until one day, you were flipping through some old occult book (your grandfather had a strict no-phones policy) when the bell above the door rang. 

You looked up, expecting an old man with a rattail, a young adult asking to use the bathroom, or some kid who was looking for their mom. You expected to see anything else but a very awkward but handsome looking boy, about your age, all gangly limbs and wearing a faded graphic tee and a curly black mullet. You smiled, closing your book and straightening up.

“Welcome to Ray’s Occult Books,” you said pleasantly, “let me know if you need any help.”

He looked at you, nodded and gave a little smile, and said a little quietly, “Thanks. I—I will.”

Not five minutes later, he had made a lap around the shop and approached the counter with a small book in his large hands. A sheepish smile spread over his pink lips as he looked at you. 

“Hi there, got anything interesting?” You greeted, leaning forward and planting your hands on the counter. 

He shrugged and tilted his head, “Maybe, I guess we’ll see.” He slid the book over the glass top to you, and you opened the cover to see the price. 

“Well, we don’t offer refunds, but if you hate it you can still call,” you joked, earning a chuckle and a small smile from him. “Five fifty, including tax.”

“Oh—” he quirked an eyebrow, seeming confused, “wasn’t it supposed to be eight dollars?” 

A smile spread over your face as you looked back up at him, unable to bite it back. “Oh, that’s right. We actually have a little discount policy here—standard issue, ‘attractive persons discount’, you’ll find it all over the place—anyway, you seem to qualify.” 

You thought it was pretty dorky, but he seemed to think it was smooth, judging by the visible bloom of red growing over his cheeks. And lo and behold, seven months later he still thought you were smooth.

He still thought you were smooth when you were making out a couple weeks ago in his room, after you convinced him with a ‘scientific fact’ that kissing can burn up to twenty-six calories a minute. It made everything worse with Phoebe, though, when she barged into Trevor’s room for a screwdriver to find a, well, less than pleasant display. You and he scrambled apart, both looking like deer caught in headlights.

“Oh—” She flinched, stared for a second, then promptly turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.

You looked between the door and your boyfriend helplessly, and he sighed, shaking his head. “I always tell her to knock,” he complained as if that was the bigger problem.

Ever since then, Phoebe seemed to like you even less than normal, dropping condescending and increasingly dry comments whenever and wherever she could. You didn’t hate her, though. You understood where she was coming from—if it was your older brother who had started dating some girl and suddenly everyone in the family liked her, you’d probably have some trouble warming up, too. 

But that didn’t mean you weren’t frustrated. You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d tried to get her to like you, even a little bit. At first, you tried to bond over being girls, only to discover she was probably one of the least girly girls on planet Earth. Okay, no problem, you thought. You’d just meet her where she was at, connect with her over her interests. But then she didn’t seem to want to give you any chances. 

She would leave the room if you came in, abruptly stand up and busy herself with something if you tried to talk to her, and sometimes, if she was feeling particularly nasty, drop a snide remark with vocabulary you weren’t meant to understand in the first place. It felt childish to admit, but this thirteen year old was really hurting your feelings. 

It all came to a head one night, when your Grampa Ray announced that he, your mother and father, and you would be going to dinner with the Spenglers. You were excited, not just because you’d have an excuse to see your boyfriend but also because you liked the rest of the Spenglers (despite Phoebe’s hostility).

At the dinner table, you coincidentally were sat right across from Phoebe and right next to your boyfriend. You were probably happier about the latter, but told yourself that no matter what happened, you wouldn’t let yourself devolve—whether that meant losing your temper, being a pushover, or, god forbid, crying. You were in front of your entire family and hers, after all.

Thankfully, most of dinner passed without many bumps. You were even enjoying yourself, which was rare in Phoebe’s presence. Conversation was flowing easily between everyone; you were chatting away happily with Trevor about a new album that was just released; your parents were talking to Callie and Gary about, well, whatever parents talk about; it was looking like a successful evening. That was until just before the desserts arrived. 

“Say,” your Grampa Ray nodded towards you, “what was your chemistry teacher saying to you just the other week?”

You turned your head, hands pausing mid-gesture to process the question. “Oh,” you finally got what he was saying, “don’t make me tell the whole story,” 

“Well, it’s a good one!” He persisted, and then you felt everyone’s eyes on you.

“Okay, well, um…” You glanced around at the table, suddenly feeling a little shy. “So, last week, I was in lab with my partner, right? So, basically, like…”

You started to tell the story of how you had to fight your Chemistry teacher about your grade, which is a whole story within itself. You were getting more comfortable as you went, but unfortunately, that meant you were getting less and less aware of the amount of filler words you were using.

“So, uh, then I was like, ‘I never submitted that assignment’—because I, like, didn’t—and then my teacher was all like, ‘well then why does it have your name on it?’ So I took a look at the, um,” you snapped your fingers, momentarily forgetting the word, “paper, and it’s not even my name on there! It’s some other name that sounds, like, kinda similar to mine I guess…so I asked him, I was like, ‘do you even know my name?’ And he went like, ‘sure I do, it’s right here!’”

You didn’t even notice the twitch in Phoebe’s eyebrow every time you said the word ‘like’ or ‘uh’ or ‘um’, as if she was mentally counting each instance like it was criminal evidence.

“So then, like—” 

“Like, are you ever, like, going to, um, finish your, uh, sentences?” Phoebe cut you off suddenly with a cruel impression of yourself. You clamped your mouth shut, shrinking immediately in your seat. “Like?” She added for good measure.

“Phoebe!” Callie chided from three seats over, turning her head to look at her daughter. 

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Phoebe gestured toward you, “Every other word, it’s ‘like, and then I, uh, like, didn’t even, um, like get to’—she’s barely coherent!”

You swallowed, feeling a rush of embarrassment make itself evident on your cheeks. The table had gone silent, looking between you and her like they were waiting for your snappy comeback. You stared at the wooden grain of the floor, heart beating relentlessly in your ears. You could say something. Put her in her place, make fun of her, deflect what was mean but true. But instead…

“Excuse me,” you whispered hoarsely, standing up from your chair. “I need to use the restroom.” You walked as quickly as you could without making a scene, vision tunneling ahead.

As soon as you were gone, Trevor zeroed in on his sister, head turning slowly from where you had just been to where she sat. Few times was Trevor Spengler furious, but if there was ever an occasion, it was now. 

“Are you serious?!” He whisper-yelled at Phoebe, leaning forward with a poisonous scowl. “That’s my girlfriend!”

“Oh, bite me,” she rolled her eyes and folded her arms, “all you talk about is your girlfriend. Don’t you see how plain she is?”

“Don’t you see how hard she’s trying?” Trevor retorted, gesturing wildly. “The entire time we’ve been dating, she’s been nice to you, trying to be your friend, too! And this is how you repay her?!”

“Your brother is right, Phoebe.” Callie joined in, “That was uncalled for. You’re going to go after her, and you’re going to apologize.” And then, with a deadly tone that only mothers can assume, the one that ensures near-death-experiences if disobeyed, “Understood?”

Phoebe sighed, standing up and stomping after you toward the girls’ bathroom. Pushing the door open, she expected you to be pacing around frustratedly, or glaring at the mirror, maybe flexing your hands into fists.

But that wasn’t the case. In fact, she couldn’t even see you anywhere in there. Hesitantly, she called your name.

Three seconds passed. Then five. Finally, with a quiet sniffle heard from the very back stall, a small voice said a single word with enough hurt that it might’ve set a world record.

“Yes…?”

Oh. She’d really stung you.

Phoebe exhaled, walking forward until she reached your stall. Raising a hand slowly, she knocked twice. “Can I…come in?”

You cleared your throat, trying and failing to sound less…watery. “Yeah.”

Slowly, you got up and unlocked the door for her, and probably for the first time, Phoebe felt a deep pit of unbridled guilt settling in her stomach from the sight of you. Blotchy red skin, visible tracks of fallen tears, glassy eyes, and a stubbornly quivering bottom lip.

“Hi,” you greeted meekly, fighting to keep your voice from quavering. 

“Hi…” She breathed, eyebrows furrowing. She let her hand drop. A moment of charged silence weighed heavy on you.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sorry—”

You both cut short, having spoken the exact same words at the exact same time. Your eyelids widened, and so did hers, faces frozen for another moment before you let out an ironic chuckle. 

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe started over, “what I told you at the table was, well, false. And unnecessarily unkind.”

Your fingers twitched where you held the door open. Even apologizing, she had this weird way of being inadvertently funny with her turn of phrase. 

“I’m sorry too,” you sighed, glancing at the tile floor, “for pushing into your family.” 

She frowned, opening her mouth to disagree. “You don’t need to be sorry, you’re just dating my brother. That’s not a felony.”

You gave a chuckle, shoulder still shaky from earlier sobs. “I get it though, you don’t have to like me if you don’t want to. I just,” you exhaled, feeling a bit childish, “kinda wanted to be your friend, I guess.”

“What?” 

“I know it’s dumb,” you prefaced, inspecting the grout between the sandy slabs. “But I think you’re, like, really cool. Or—” you groaned, realizing you said ‘like’ again. 

“I just think you’re cool,” you corrected yourself, “no ‘like’.”

Phoebe smiled, leaning against the metal doorframe. “It’s okay to say ‘like’. My filler is ‘sort of’.” She admitted, and you looked up to make sure she wasn’t joking.

“Really? I honestly thought you were too smart to use filler words.”

She shrugged, giving a small chuckle and pushing her glasses up. “Everybody uses them. It’s defying human nature not to. And…I think you’re cool, too.” She added, “I was suspicious of you, I suppose.”

“Oh,” you breathed, “did I pass the inspection?”

She eyed you for a moment, acting dubious. “Yes…for now.” You shared a small laugh, and things fell into a less-awkward silence.

“Well…thanks for coming after me. That must’ve taken guts.” You let your hand drop from the door, tucking it into your pocket. A small smirk grew on Phoebe’s face, and she shifted just slightly.

“It probably takes more guts to be an organ donor.” She said in the most neutral tone possible, then, with liquid smoothness, winked very slowly at you.

Something about the delivery, the way it was carried out like lab instructions with a specific formula calculated to make someone laugh, made you burst out in, well, laughter. Phoebe smiled, tucking her hands into her overall pockets.

“Alright, well, did you hear about tectonic plates? They’re always bumping into each other, their most-used phrase is ‘sorry, my fault!’” You countered, watching as she bit back a smile.

“Okay…that was funny.” She conceded. And then, in a show of kindness that you didn’t associate with her up until this point, she stuck her hand out to you. “Friends?”

Your palm met hers. “For sure.”

On the way out of the bathroom, Phoebe had something else to say. “Okay, don’t hate me for this, but…do you remember the second-hand dishwasher my mom got for the firehouse?”

“Yes…?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Well…it’s not your fault you couldn’t figure it out. It came with a manual for a different model.” She admitted, fiddling with the hem of her shirt sleeve.

“Really? I knew it!” You snapped your fingers with a bit of recovered pride before remembering something. “So, wait, how did you figure it out?”

“From…watching you.” She muttered, just loud enough to hear. You grinned but said nothing, instead offering her your arm to cross hers with. 

“Come on, I think my pie is getting cold.”

About a week later, Trevor woke up from a nap and heard your voice downstairs. The first thing he felt was a little hurt, because usually if you were at the firehouse, you’d come straight up to see him. But then he heard his sister’s voice, talking to yours, sharing what he assumed were supposed to be clever jokes.

Okay, he had to see this for himself. 

Lo and behold, sitting on the living room floor with a giant puzzle on the coffee table, some old western playing on the TV, was his sister and his girlfriend. You didn’t even notice him until he spoke up.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you two actually getting along?” Trevor joked, leaning on the wall. You looked up, about to say something snarky, before—

“Believe it or not, your girlfriend is actually really cool. And good at puzzles.” Phoebe’s voice came out quiet, but unflinching. 

“Well…yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to say.” He retorted, folding his arms and doing a mocking impression of her. You rolled your eyes.

“Careful now, I think she’s going to steal me away from you.” You picked up a piece of popcorn from the bowl on the couch arm and flicked it at him.

“Hey!” He exclaimed indignantly, pushing off the wall and muttering somewhat darkly, “Better not be.”

You and Phoebe laughed, nudging each other’s elbows.

A/N #2: thanks for reading!! Hope you guys enjoyed and it was what you wanted, anon♥️ I finished Frozen Empire the other day and I won't spoil, but I don't feel like Trevor got enough screen time :/ (or maybe that's just me being a fangirl for him...) Anyway feel free to request something, my inbox is open! Love you all, hope you have a great day/night!

-DMIS

thanks to @angeliicide for these dividers! <3

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Ziggy's super affectionate. I think it comes with him also being sorta dramatic with you. He's playful when you're around, so I think he'd always be petting you somehow; carding his fingers through your hair, fiddling with your sleeve, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk side by side. He also loves to 'kiss your heart', which is equal parts genuinely sweet and an excuse to bury his face in your boobs. Sorry!

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

You and he met at school, but because it's so big, you didn't talk very often until you played a song at the talent show (or whatever the thing was). Your voice combined with your playing—whatever your style is—completely entranced him. He honestly wanted to be your friend first, I don't think he even realized he liked you until later. He's a great friend, before and during dating. Sure, he can be a little self-centered at times, but he's usually very attentive to you and a surprisingly great listener.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Hearkening back to the 'kissing your heart' thing, his favorite position to cuddle in is with your arms wrapped around each other; his around your lower waist and yours around his neck and head. He likes to hide his face in your shoulder, neck, chest, really anywhere he can place little kisses every so often. Your legs usually end up tangled together, seeking any extra closeness you can muster.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Ziggy in theory knows how to clean and cook some basic things. His parents have instilled in him that the home labor should not fall on the woman unless she explicitly wants to do all the housework, so if/when you move out together, he feels a sense of responsibility to do as much housework as he can. In the beginning, he's unfortunately hopeless at it. But he does NOT give up, he's determined to be a good boyfriend! You end up showing him the ropes if you're more skilled at these kinds of things, or you learn together if neither of you have a clue. Either way, he works at it until he knows he can do the laundry, make dinner, and clean up after himself all before you come home from work or college.

For getting married, he's not rushing it. He knows he'd like to settle down and build a life with you (if you also want to), but he's not thinking about it all the time. If he's getting rich and famous for his music anyway, what's the hurry? Having kids is entirely dependent on your opinion, he'd make a really great dad (maybe your kids would be a little egocentric), but if that's not in your game plan? Out the window! Whatever makes you happy makes him happy.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Ziggy might jump off a skyscraper before he has to break up with you. But if that wasn't an option, he'd probably make you hate him so that it would be less hard for you. It'd kill him, don't get me wrong, but he'd rather have you be glad to be rid of him over being heartbroken. Whatever he can do to avoid that, though, he will. Trust me, this boy is not equipped to handle a potential breakup with you.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Like before, he's not rushed to get married. He's having the time of his life dating you anyways, so 'tying the knot' isn't a big deal for him. He could very well be your boyfriend for the rest of your lives and be happy. However, if you want to get married, you bet your bottom dollar he's going all out for whatever kind of celebration (or lack thereof) that you want. Big family wedding? What color card stock do you prefer? Small get-together? Better get those hors d'oeuvres ordered! Eloping? He's already looking up a list of quaint churches on hills!

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Ziggy's got a lot of emotions, and he's not one to hide them from you. However, he always makes sure to present you with the softest, gentlest version of him possible. He tries his hardest to never yell or raise his voice at you, especially if you're sensitive to that kind of thing. He still argues a lot with his parents, though, and sometimes that anger can bleed into your relationship. When it does, he's so apologetic, he's literally on his knees in front of you begging for forgiveness because he told you a couple hours ago that he needed to be alone…and you're not even angry with him.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Considering Ziggy's favorite cuddling position is basically a big hug, he definitely likes hugs. Only really with you, though, since he doesn't usually hug his parents or other family. He doesn't care if you hug him in public, he'll wrap his arms around you and probably nuzzle his face into your hair. PDA is actually a big thing for him, he's very affectionate toward you and he's not gonna let being in public change that. If anything, he's very proud to show off that you two are an item.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Probably within the first month of dating. I will die on the hill that Ziggy says 'I love you' very quickly (not like there's enough fans to debate this). He can't help it, he falls in love with you faster than anyone else he's liked, which is saying something. Even if you don't say 'I love you' back right away, he doesn't take offense. He understands that it's quick, but he trusts you and doesn't see the point in hiding his feelings about the girl he's dating from the girl he's dating. He'll give you as much time as you need, but he'll absolutely be over the damn moon the first time you tell him you love him.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Being on the emotional side, Ziggy also gets kind of jealous easily. He trusts you, of course he does, but he does not trust anyone talking to close to you for too long. If they're touchy with you, too close, or even looking the wrong way at you, he tends to get antsy and eventually comes sauntering up to you with the most smug expression ever as he wraps and arm around your waist and leans in to kiss your temple. He makes it very clear that you're taken ("I see you've met my girlfriend," or "it's the best thing ever to know I'm her one and only boyfriend,"), to the point where you actually find it funny.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

When you're making out, Ziggy's kisses tend to be a bit clumsy, like he's distracted by the feeling of your lips. That's quite literally what's happening; it's hard for him to focus on syncing up when your lips are on his, moving in mesmerizing motions that send dizzying shocks all through his brain. He's still a good kisser, though—his sweetness and the amount of love he puts into it more than makes up for the clumsiness.

When he's kissing your skin, however, he's a lot more confident. He can focus on going over and finding all the right spots, like the patch of skin just under your ear or right over your pulse point (that one makes him feel like a sexy vampire). On that note, he also really loves to leave hickeys, as long as you're okay with it. One time, he pulled away to see you all covered in his marks , and from that day on he swears it's the most glorious sight in existence.

As for himself, Ziggy likes to be kissed anywhere, really. He's such an attention whore (sorry but he is), anything you give him goes straight to his head. His favorite spot, though, has to be his chest. Similarly to him kissing your heart, he loves when you kiss his. He can't explain it, but something about the way you look up at him when you're peppering little kisses all across his collarbones and chest makes him shiver.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He's a bit of a child himself, but Ziggy connects very well with children. He's confidently awkward in a weird way that takes some getting used to if you're a grown-up, but goes over well with kids. Also the fact that he can sing and play guitar is a good entertainment factor. (Again, Ziggy would make an awesome dad.)

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

You're usually up before he is, but you don't mind. Being able to just stare at him is so nice, especially since his sleeping face is to DIE for. After you've counted all his freckles, admired his lips, and fully absorbed the way his raven hair catches the morning light, you like to wake him up with a couple of kisses on his cheeks. He always mumbles something like "mm…'ve mrre m'nts…" or "mornin' t'you too, stalker." Even half-asleep, he jokes with you.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

CUDDLING. Big cuddler right here! Also a blanket hog :/ After he plays you some of his new songs or watch a movie or something, it's always right to cuddling before bed. It's become part of your nighttime routine at this point; brush your teeth, wash your face, change into pajamas, then climb into bed and wrap yourself around each other. Every so often, depending on how much you want to, you also do cough cough…other things, but most of the time it's a whole lotta kisses and being sickly in love with each other.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Ziggy's an open book with you. When you first met, of course, he had his secrets, but especially after saying 'I love you', he's been very honest with you about feelings. He honestly trusts you so much, he'd tell you every detail about everything in the universe if he had the time.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He's not the most tempered person in the world, but he always tries to be very patient with you. If he's getting annoyed, he'll either let you know that something you're doing is getting on his nerves, or he'll set it aside to talk about it later. He hasn't always been this way; in the early days of your relationship he used to bottle up his negative feelings until it led to an argument, but his least favorite thing in the world is arguing with you. With how much he fights with his parents, he would hate nothing more than to have the same dynamic in your relationship. As a result, he's put a lot of effort into getting more emotionally mature and making sure that you two always talk it out instead of escalating.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

You're literally the most interesting topic in the world to Ziggy, even more than his own life. So obviously, he'd remember every detail you decide to drop about yourself, your family, interests, anything. His mind is a vast library when it comes to you…if only he'd apply that to Trigonometry.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

The first time you said 'I love you' was amazing. The first time you, ahem, 'consummated' your relationship was also mind-blowing. But his favorite memory? When you agreed to be his friend. It happened at lunch, when he was talking to you, and he said rather sheepishly: "I know this is probably a, like, really dumb and childish question, or whatever, but…um, do you want to be friends?"

He was expecting you to make a teasing remark at his expense or make him feel awkward, but you beamed, telling him: "Are you kidding? No one asks that anymore, thank you. Of course I'd like to be friends."

That was the moment that he knew he'd really have someone in his corner.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Ziggy is by no means a security guard, but he is protective of you. Trust me, if you set out a list of options—die for you, kill for you, or go to jail for you—he's picking all of the above, even if in reality he would probably get knocked out well before any of that happens.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Ziggy spends HOURS researching fun or cool things to do in Bloomington, Indiana, which is a feat in and of itself. As much as he can, he takes you out on dates; to the diner, the carnival (if it's happening), anything he can find. He's also big on birthdays and anniversaries, always writing you songs on top of making or buying really thoughtful things for you. He's not the best at arts and crafts, but he is a MANIAC on Pinterest. Yes, he has a Pinterest account. No, he will not let you see it. Why? Because he's already got a board for your next anniversary and he doesn't want you spoiling the surprise, duh!

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He used to vape, but he's quit since you showed him that one 'metal monsters' ad. Not because you scared him out of it, but because he realized that it actually wasn't really cool (ironically). Other than that, he tends to be a bit stubborn and self-centered.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Well, have you met Ziggy? He's very much a pretty princess. He regularly lets you do his skincare, he's not even embarrassed about it. He says it feels 'tera luxury', and that when he's rich and famous he's going to hire people to do his skincare so that he'll stay young forever (mostly joking, but not really). You even convinced him one time to let you do some "light" makeup on him so that he'd look better on stream, only for him to hop on camera and his audience to start clowning him. Admittedly, it did lead to a bit of an argument, but he got over it eventually—eventually.

(Side note—I'm very much thinking about that one photo of Finn for SNL with the red lipstick 😭)

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Ziggy is a believer that one and one make two (that's a reference, iykyk), but he also believes that you two are the greatest team to ever live. He knows he can survive without you constantly by his side, and appreciates if you want your independency from him, but he always feels better when you're around, even if you're just existing in his space.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

His favorite songs to sing play for you are I Will by the Beatles and My Girl by the Temptations. He loves to hear you hum or sing along, something about you sitting across from him on his bed while he plays those songs is just so romantic and domestic and, well, intimate. You both love it.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I'm convinced that Ziggy's a bit of a picky eater. Mushrooms, celery, lentils, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, olives, oysters, anchovies, licorice, anise, fennel…the list goes on. Not to say that he won't ever step outside his comfort zone, or that he only eats chicken tenders and fries, but it does take some convincing to get him to try things he hasn't liked in the past. He is open to trying new things, though! Especially for you ;)

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Ziggy is a PRINCESS when it comes to sleep. He has his fair share of late nights, but you best believe if he goes to bed at 3AM, he's waking up at least at noon to get his nine hours. He claims it's beauty rest, and given how pretty he is, you're inclined to believe him.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I loved doing these, Ziggy is such a frickin loser geek nerd but that's why we love him ♥️ I hope you guys enjoyed! I'll still be updating slow because life is kicking my lil ahh, but I'm feeling that writing pull HARD again so hopefully I'll be back to regular-ish posting sometime soon if things go well. 🤞 Thanks to my wonderful moot @0nlybitt3r4may for beta reading this, ily girl 🫶 and thank you again for reading and supporting!

-DMIS

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀credits: @0nlybitt3r4may for beta-reading, @zclhs for dividers, and @the-coldest-goodbye for format, thank you!! 🫶 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

“Shit,” Ziggy’s fingers fumbled over themselves clumsily, scrambling for the next chord. “Goddammit,” he muttered, earning a grin from you and a corresponding blush from himself.

“Sorry—I just—” he flipped through the song book beside him, pages rustling as you sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, hands folded in your lap and smiling at him patiently. He glanced up at you, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t catch.

“No, it’s okay, take your time,” you teased, making him groan and throw you a wary look.

“Just—shut up and let me start over.” He sighed, steeling himself.

This was a common occurrence; every so often, you’d come into his room to hear a new song of his, and he’d be so excited to show you. But also, very nervous. To the point where he’d mess up multiple times until he got a grip on himself and finally played it properly. But it wasn’t his fault—since you two had met, you never failed to make him nervous. And to be fair, it was considerably funny. Seeing the proud, overconfident, self-proclaimed star that was Ziggy Katz stumble over both his words and his own two feet was a sight to see.

“Just there, around the corner,” he sang, switching between open and barre chords not quite smoothly. You closed your mouth and straightened up, despite this being the sixth time you heard the opening bar.

“I can see your eyes, your gaze,” His voice lifted in a way that seemed a little strained, but he had a unique way of making that dynamic work. Your lips lifted in a genuine smile, feeling your heart flutter just a bit.

“Like the gods made it for her,” he licked his lips, “Sends me into a haze…”

Your chest swelled, his poetic words filling up your heart (and maybe your ego, too,) like a balloon, each passing stanza making it harder and harder not to swoon. By the end of it, you practically lunged at him, arms flying around his neck as you peppered kisses all over his cheek.

“You’re so sweet,” you murmured into his skin, enjoying the delicious way it warmed under your lips, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” he said, not-so-secretly glowing, struggling to get his guitar out from under you—to protect it, yes, but mostly to make sure it wasn’t pressing into you.

“No, seriously, what did I do to deserve my rock star boyfriend?” You asked, pulling away slightly to look down at his face nestled between your hands. Your legs wrapped around his lap naturally, his hands coming up to rest at your waist.

“Only be the best girl in the entire world.” he said cheekily, making you roll your eyes. Your cheeks were tired from smiling, but you still did anyway.

“Alright, alright, fair enough,” you conceded, pecking his nose one last time. As you pulled away, though, his hands tightened around you, pulling you back in as he kissed you fully, slowly, sweetly. You sighed against his lips, melting into his arms as he tilted his head to get a better position.

“I love you,” he huffed out against you, and you smiled when you finally did break apart.

“I love you more,” you challenged, and he shook his head fondly.

“You’re tera stubborn, y’know?” He told you, his thumbs tracing circles into your waist.

You mocked him childishly, tilting your head side to side as you moved your mouth like a puppet would. He rolled his eyes, flicking the end of your nose. Your lips split into a stupid grin.

“Okay, so what are the chords for that song?” You asked suddenly, glancing at his guitar.

“What?” He asked, blinking as if being interrupted from a rather nice daydream.

“The chords,” you repeated, playing with a curl that rested on the side of his face. “I saw a couple major sevens in there, and you had a pretty nice strumming pattern, too.”

“Oh,” his eyebrows (the ever expressive ones you fell in love with) lifted in surprise, taken aback at just how much you had picked up on. “Uh, where did you learn all that?”

“What do you mean?” You cocked your head, furrowing one of your own brows. Your hand stilled its movements, and he immediately missed the contact.

“I just—like, I didn’t know you knew what I was playing,” he explained, albeit with a hint of panic.

“Zigs,” you said slowly, “I play guitar.”

“You—you play guitar?” He echoed incredulously.

“Yeah? Why, is that such a surprise?” You asked teasingly. He flushed.

“What? No, it’s just…you never told me! Why didn’t you ever tell me?” His eyes were wide, still processing the information.

“I thought you knew!” You half-exclaimed, half-laughed.

He scoffed. “If I knew my girlfriend played guitar, I would’ve demanded to hear her play.” He told you, poking your side. You made a sound of protest. “By the way, I’m doing that now.”

“Doing what?” You feigned confusion, though you already knew what he was getting at.

“Demanding to hear you play,” he said, giving you a wry look. “C’mon, play me something.” He tapped on your thigh, signaling you to go grab his guitar. You yielded, climbing off his lap.

“You sure?” You taunted, reaching for his most prized possession.

He nodded enthusiastically, adjusting his position so he sat criss-cross on his covers. You shrugged, carrying it over by the neck and taking a seat on the edge of his bed, propping it up on your leg. Ziggy’s gaze focused in on you, already hanging onto every micro-movement you made. You positioned your hand over the correct strings and frets, about to play before you glanced up at him and instantly burst into giggles.

"Stop looking at me like that,” you laughed, and he frowned slightly.

“Like what?” He whined, indignant.

“Like I’m about to rock your world,” you joked, earning a scoff from him.

“Wow, okay, ‘rock my world’?” He teased, “What, did you get all your vocabulary from your dad?”

“Did you get all your vocabulary from the Urban Dictionary?” You shot back. “Okay, shut up and let me play.” You joked, mimicking his earlier words.

He let out a short breath through his nose but settled down anyway. After a couple seconds of getting your head on straight, you finally began to pluck out a few notes. To you, it was just a piece you had learned a couple weeks ago, a song that reminded you of your boyfriend and you were planning on playing for him at some point anyway. To Ziggy, however, you were making magic happen. He’d heard this song before—Bless the Telephone by Labi Siffre—and it made his heart melt a little.

“It’s nice to hear your voice again I’ve waited all day long, even wrote a song for you, It’s strange the way you make me feel With just a word or two, I’d like to do the same for you…”

Your voice was like honey, mellifluous and lilting in all the right places, with the kind of skill that seemed effortless but really took years to harness. Ziggy’s breathing slowed, his entire being zeroed in on how you moved, the notes you sang and the strings you played. It was utterly enchanting to him, and he felt like a knight stumbling in on a nymph dancing across a moonlit lake.

“It’s nice to hear you say ‘hello’, ‘And how are things with you?’ ‘I love you,’ But very soon it’s time to go; An office job to do, while I’m here writing songs for you…”

You paused for a beat, taking a quick inhale. Not only was it hard to sing properly while sitting and playing, but there was also the teensy fact that Ziggy’s presence at times like these tended to make you a bit breathless. Not that you’d ever admit that, of course.

“Strange, how a phone call can change your day, Take you away… Away, from the feeling of being alone, Bless the telephone.”

In a funny way, this song spoke to you a lot. In the early days of your relationship, most of everything was over text and late night phones calls. Ziggy would call you up for the most random things—words that rhymed with ‘beauty’, what your favorite instrument was, how to start a load of laundry and (an hour later) why his shirts turned from white to baby blue.

And in turn, you’d call him for everything, too. If you had to clean your room? Call Ziggy. Can’t think of anything to do while you’re sick? Call Ziggy. Doing homework? Washing dishes? Sprawled out on your floor with your legs in the air, music blasting from your boombox speakers? Call Ziggy, call Ziggy…maybe text Ziggy so he can’t criticize your music taste.

You didn’t know why, but conversation always flowed easily with the two of you. Even during arguments, or the periods of time where you two had independently sworn not to talk to the other, you still couldn’t help it. And whenever you heard his voice it never failed to make your day just that much better.

“It’s nice the way you say my name, Not very fast or slow, Just soft and low, the same As when you tell me how you feel, I feel the same way too; I’m very much in love with you…”

For the first time since the start of the song, you made eye contact with him. The sheer amount of emotion in his eyes made everything still, the world blurring around its edges like a dream. The way his hair framed his face in this moment, a loose curl falling over his forehead, the way the afternoon sun lit up his freckles and the pale pinkness of his lips, the way his eyes sparkled like a movie star’s as he stared into yours. It was a miracle you didn’t fumble the pattern, but your voice came out a little thick as you sang the final line:

“I’m very much in love with you.”

For several moments, you simply sat in the quiet of the moment, the words settling in the space between your bodies. It wasn’t tense, not awkward, either. It was the kind of silence where neither one of you knew what to say, but at the same time, everything was being said. Finally, after what was probably a minute and a half of quiet staring (which would’ve been very strange for someone to walk in on), Ziggy spoke up, albeit softly.

“I love you.” They were simple words, and ones you had heard many times before from him, but this time they felt like a puzzle piece finally being set into place in your chest, like this was something important you’d look back on at some point. You smiled, feeling completely, utterly, hopelessly head over heels. And you knew he did, too.

“I love you, too.”

A/N: ugggghhhh they're so cute i hate them :(( thank you to my beautiful beta reader @0nlybitt3r4may for proofreading this!! go follow her guys 🫵 anyways uhh i'm back from the dead to deliver some very potent but very short fluff! lmk if we want a part two cuz i lowk have some ideas hahah...BUTT! i'm currently working on the first issue of XRM, so i wont be posting as often, sorry 😓 (also i may or may not be MIA this summer lol)...if u wanna be apart of XRM, then feel free to check out #xrm or #x reader magazine for more info! anywhos enough plugging and farewell my lovelies mwah mwah <33

-DMIS

Scrolling on your phone with your boyfriend of three years right across from you was no rare occasion. Whenever he wasn't working, attending meetings, or touring with music or press, he was usually home with you.

And who could blame him? You were his favorite person in the world, and he was an introvert. And while yes, he loved to go out with you all the time (always on him, he never let you pay), sometimes it was in both of your interests to have a quiet day. And sometimes, quiet days mean decompressing on opposite sides of the couch with your feet and legs tangled together in the middle.

"Hey, hon?" You looked up from your phone with a mildly interested expression, having forced it down from a wicked grin just moments prior.

"Hmm?" Finn looked up from his phone (he was editing photos of you) and raised his eyebrows. You had no idea whether he did this intentionally, but it always reminded you of an innocent little puppy, hanging onto your every word. You smiled without meaning to.

"I just saw something interesting." You stalled for a couple seconds while you switched apps, opening up your camera in preparation. Oh, how you loved the ability to take photos discreetly with iPhones.

"Oh, do tell," he joked, propping his chin up with his hand and putting on a gossipy air.

"Did you know that only five percent of people can stick out their tongue and look up at the same time?" You fought for your life to keep your tone neutral and your face straight, zooming the camera in on his face.

Finn, still oblivious as ever, tilted his head in mild interest, eyebrows quirking. "Really? Interesting."

Aaaand three...two...one...

Not a second after he inevitably fell for it, you snapped a picture, your phone making an obnoxiously loud shutter noise.

"Hey!" His face immediately fell, looking shocked, indignant, scandalized, and slightly betrayed. You cackled, kicking your feet with impish joy.

"Delete that right now!" He demanded, reaching over in an attempt to snatch your phone away. You extended it away from him, standing up in a flash and running all the way to the kitchen island as he chased you.

"You fell for it," you teased him as you two circled around the counter, you staying on the opposite side for optimal maneuvering tactics. "And now I have blackmail."

Finn put his hands on the table, staring at you. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I absolutely would." you told him very seriously.

You were bluffing. But of course, he didn't know that.

You walked into the room with a practiced air of slight shock. You didn't say anything, just walked over to the couch and plopped down next to Finn, exhaling a long sigh.

"Hey, what's wrong?" His hand immediately found yours, other one reaching for the remote to pause the TV. You shook your head, squeezing his fingers with yours.

"I just heard about something awful." You said gravely, your free hand coming up to rub at your temple.

"Oh, jeez, what is it?" He turned to face you fully, attention rapt and worried.

"Some actress just got stabbed." You told him, eyebrows knitting together. His eyes widened.

"What? Who?" He asked, slight panic in his eyes. You immediately felt guilty, just now remembering that he was an actor and therefore had actor and actress friends, which might mean he was worried about Millie, Sadie, or maybe Mckenna. Still, the show must go on, right?

"No one we know personally," you assured him first, scolding your soft heart for making you delay the punchline. You did see his shoulders lose some of their tension, though.

"I think her name was, uh," you pretended to struggle, "Reese...something."

"Witherspoon?" He finished, mouth open slightly in horror.

"No, with a knife."

A wide grin cracked your solemn expression just then, silent laughter shaking you through your chest and shoulders.

Words couldn't describe the deadpan he looked at you with. Priceless.

"Oh, that's funny." You cocked your head to the side, stopping in your tracks. Finn, who was holding your hand as you walked side by side through the movie theater, did as well.

You had just finished watching some old feel-good movie that came back to theaters. It was one of Finn's childhood favorites, something you had never really heard of but ended up enjoying. You did love to do these kinds of things with him, but sometimes you just couldn't help yourself when it came to a good prank.

You looked up, scrunching your nose as if inspecting something interesting.

"Somebody wrote 'gullible' on the ceiling." You mused, expecting for Finn to roll his eyes or tell you affectionately to shut up. To your surprise, though, he followed your actions with full belief.

“Wait, really? Oh.”

The reaction was immediate, barely even a two second switch-up. But it still made you burst into laughter. The tips of Finn’s ears tinged red, and he nudged you with his shoulders.

“Shame on you,” he admonished, “playing with a man’s hopes and dreams like that.”

Needless to say, he always made your day.

You two were on your way out of the house, each grabbing and doing last minute items and adjustments. You were already late to dinner with his cast mates, so every second counted.

Just as Finn opened the door, beckoning you through, you stepped forward, pretending to notice something.

"Oh, you've got something on your shirt," you told him, getting close and looking intently at the spot just under his collarbone.

"Aw man, really?" He asked, a bit of impatience and irritation spilling into his voice. You nodded, frowning.

"Here, let me get it for you." You reached forward, and when the time was right and he looked down at his shirt, you flicked his nose upward, snickering. It wasn't enough to hurt, but it was enough for him to scoff (which quickly melted into a laugh).

"Dude, seriously?" He rolled his eyes, ushering you through the door.

"Yeah," you nodded, raising your eyebrows and shrugging, "seriously, bro."

You both giggled on your way out.

You were cleaning the kitchen with Finn after dinner. He was a great cook, but you were better. You tended to get a bit competitive, which he loved you for but sometimes got a bit exasperated with.

'Babe, you do know not everything is a competition, right?' He asked you jokingly one time.

'Obviously your family never played enough board games.' You shot back.

It didn't really matter, though, because you had managed to cook up a wonderful dinner together. You were thoroughly enjoying the banter afterwards, as he washed the dishes and you dried.

"But that's how I know that—what's up?" He asked, cutting himself off as he watched you sniff your towel with a slightly confused expression.

"I think this towel smells funny," you replied, extending it towards him so he could smell.

As always, he sensed nothing wrong and leaned forward, giving the bunch of cloth in your hand a curious sniff. He reminded you (again) of some kind of golden retriever, completely trusting as it would eat right out of your hand.

Right when he was going to pull away, you pressed it over his face jokingly.

"Dude!" You chided, both laughing as you removed it (his hands were still in the water). "You have no survival instincts, that could've been chloroform!"

"Well, excuse me for trusting my girlfriend of, what, three and a half years?" He defended.

"First of all, it's been three and a half years of this

You were cleaning the kitchen with Finn after dinner. He was a great cook, but you were better. You tended to get a bit competitive, which he loved you for but sometimes got a bit exasperated with.

'Babe, you do know not everything is a competition, right?' He asked you jokingly one time.

'Obviously your family never played enough board games.' You shot back.

It didn't really matter, though, because you had managed to cook up a wonderful dinner together. You were thoroughly enjoying the banter afterwards, as he washed the dishes and you dried.

"But that's how I know that—what's up?" He asked, cutting himself off as he watched you sniff your towel with a slightly confused expression.

"I think this towel smells funny," you replied, extending it towards him so he could smell.

As always, he sensed nothing wrong and leaned forward, giving the bunch of cloth in your hand a curious sniff. He reminded you (again) of some kind of golden retriever, completely trusting as it would eat right out of your hand.

Right when he was going to pull away, you pressed it over his face jokingly.

"Dude!" You chided, both laughing as you removed it (his hands were still in the water). "You have no survival instincts, that could've been chloroform!"

"Well, excuse me for trusting my girlfriend of, what, three and a half years?" He defended.

"First of all, it's been three and a half years of this—you shouldn't trust me at all by now," you retorted. "And second, "trust no one"! Didn't you ever watch Gravity Falls?"

"Uh, no." He replied, raising an eyebrow bemusedly. "I was kinda preoccupied with pursuing my career."

You gasped, mouth dropping open. "Oh my god, we have to watch it now."

you shouldn't trust me at all by now," you retorted. "And second, "trust no one"! Didn't you ever watch Gravity Falls?"

"Uh, no." He replied, raising an eyebrow bemusedly. "I was kinda preoccupied with pursuing my career."

You gasped, mouth dropping open. "Oh my god, we have to watch it now."

"Wow."

"What is it?" Finn mused from beside you, squeezing your fingers instinctively as he looked at your side profile.

You were walking hand in hand through a botanical garden, the summer evening air wrapping the two of you in a warm blanket of honeysuckle sweetness. It was just a normal outing, something you'd planned after seeing a post on Instagram about a romantic nearby preserve.

And it did live up to expectations; ropes of wisteria hung like blown glass, the last rays of sunlight catching on English daisies and periwinkle hydrangeas. But now it was nearing the moment you'd been waiting for, the moment you'd really spent months planning.

"Someone wrote on the ceiling again."

Finn scoffed dryly. "Ha, ha. You got me the first time, but I'm gullible, not dumb."

You shrugged, staring up at the letters that really were on the ceiling because you got special permission to write them.

"Yeah, I know, but there really is something up there." You pressed, hand still in his. You could see him roll his eyes out of your peripheral, but you knew you were convincing him.

"Whatever, can we keep walking?" He asked, his tone not unkind but a little embarrassed.

"Okay," you acted unbothered, "I guess you're never gonna see this awesome message."

He dithered, hesitated, shifted his weight from foot to foot in frustration. Then, finally, he gave up, tilting his head toward the ceiling. And there really was a big banner up there, and painted across it in gold letters was:

"'Will you marry me?' Wow, wonder who wrote—Oh my god!"

While he was distracted, you had bent down on one knee, getting out the ring box from your pocket and presenting it up to him. And obviously, he said yes. Because Finn Michael Wolfhard, your fiancé and future husband, was gullible, not dumb.

A/N: hope you guys liked it! I had lots of fun with this one, I was cheesing the whole time I wrote this lmao 😭 thanks to @olenvasynyt for these gorgeous dividers, they are so so pretty! lmk what you guys want to see next, I've got some oneshots and reqs already in my drafts (thank you!) but my inbox is open to any new ideas 😊 Love you guys, hope you have a very nice day/night!

-DMIS

The photo set-up was a creamy beige, different than the pristine whites you were used to; smooth linen draped in soft corners to the ground, a trio of standing lights casting natural looking light across everything. You had just emerged from hair and makeup, striding over to the display just like you had done countless times before.

Shirley's—your photographer—face lit up at the sight of you, giving you a little nod and a smile. "You look great! What'd I tell you about Riley?" She teased, alluding to your hesitance about who touched your prized locks.

You rolled your eyes but grinned, waving her off. "Oh shush, it was not that big of a deal."

She snickered and leaned in to adjust the lens of the camera, focusing on you. "Okay, so we're just gonna do some test shots while we're waiting for Finn..." She told you somewhat absently while she fiddled around.

The camera caught the surprise of your face and the opening of your mouth as you said, "Finn? As in Wolfhard?" Up until just now, no one had told you who you were going to be modeling with, so you just assumed it was going to be a fellow model, maybe even one of your friends, not the guy from fucking Stranger Things.

"The very same," she replied, looking at you through the viewfinder, "why? That's not a problem, is it? 'Cause it's kinda too late to change."

You blinked, shaking your head. "No, no, not a problem, I was just surprised..." you trailed off, studying the wall before adding, "he models?"

She shrugged. "Has been for quite a while now. You've never seen his work?" You tilted your head inquisitively.

"Mmm-mmm. At least I know what he looks like, though," Your lips pulled downward slightly in the facial equivalent of a shrug, placing a hand on your hip and rolling your shoulders back.

One of the stylists, Camrine, you remembered, stepped forward to make a last minute adjustment to your sleeve, brushing off the tiniest specks of dust from it. "Thanks, Cam," you smiled at her, earning a grin in response.

"No problem." She said quietly before hurrying out of the frame.

Less than a minute later, you heard a door open down the hall and some footsteps. You held your breath—you didn't know why—and watched the corner until you saw someone round it.

And when he did, he was beautiful. Finn was dressed in one of the (respectfully) sluttiest things a man could wear: a silk dress shirt with the collar popped and a couple buttons undone to expose his chest, the sleeves rolled up in that precise way that looked casual but probably took ten minutes, tucked into waist-fitting slacks that flowed all the way down to his shoes, which were polished until the point of being able to blind someone if they stared too long.

Honestly, Finn himself might've been able to blind you if you stared too long. Which you just realized that you were doing. Staring. Okay, stop staring. Seriously, stop staring.

You blinked a couple times and swallowed, steeling yourself. Lord have mercy. You forced yourself to smile casually instead of beaming like a schoolgirl, extending a hand toward him politely. Trying not to stutter, you introduced yourself, unable to help yourself from appreciating the dark honey brown of his eyes.

"Finn, uh, Wolfhard, nice to meet you t—too," he replied, shaking your hand.

Shit, was he nervous? You've been told you were a somewhat intimidating person—probably because of your height—so you made sure your eyes crinkled as you smiled, signaling kindness, you hoped.

He looked up at you for a moment longer, almost seeming lost for a moment, before he cleared his throat, turning to the photographer.

"So, are we all set to start?" He asked, tilting his head slightly. You could've sworn a subtle pink was dusting his freckled cheekbones, but that was probably from hair and makeup. Funny, though, it wasn't there when he walked in...

Before you could dwell too long on it, though, Shirley was directing you two around; orders that ranged all the way from 'turn ninety degrees to the right' and 'quirk your eyebrow just a bit—no, that's too much—there we go'. Between that and the constant fixes from the stylists, plucking at a fold here and fluffing up someone's hair there, you were allotted exactly zero seconds to think about any spare glances Finn might be throwing your way.

Until about thirty minutes in, when it was time for an outfit change. You drank some water and did some relaxing breathing exercises (the stylists exchanged knowing looks, and you flushed indignantly), and finally, fifteen minutes later, you went back to the shoot. The beige linen had been replaced with emerald green, and again, you had to clench your teeth in order to keep your jaw in place when you saw Finn.

This time, he was wearing a long, cream colored blazer with a subtle constellation pattern across it, paired with black velvet pants and—your breath hitched—an ascot tied neatly around his neck, the long end draped over the dusty purple shirt he wore under it.

Get yourself together, damnit.

You gave him an approving nod, and he you, before you met in the middle, awaiting direction. First, Shirley had you do some standard poses, then some creative ones that you had to twist and turn for, and then, just as you were confident you were not going to break down into flustered giggles, she said:

"A little to the left, Finn?" Which in and of itself was not the most groundbreaking sentence. However, the chaos it caused was.

As Finn moved to shuffle a little closer to you, his foot caught on the slippery green fabric beneath you both, making him stumble and crash into you. On instinct, his arms wrapped around your waist as he struggled for balance, his face landing oh-so-inconveniently into your chest.

"Shit—sorry!" he panicked, his voice jumping an octave and he quickly unburied himself from your cleavage.

"Hi there," you joked, shoulders shaking silently despite your attempts to quell your laughter. A bright red bloomed across his face, contrasting greatly with the green stuff he was currently fighting with.

For a single, hopeful moment, it seemed that he was winning, but in an instant, he slipped again, bringing you down with him. The camera caught a glorious blur of high-fashion before you landed on top of him, hands on either side of his head as you stared at each other in horror. Your agents would never let you live this down.

There were several seconds of unbroken silence, where everyone stood (or, in your case, lay) still, processing what had just happened. Then, because your mouth always had a knack for making things infinitely worse, you said quietly, "And I didn't even buy you dinner?"

Shirley let out a snort, bursting into hysterical laughter, the rest of the crew joining in. Both yours and Finn's faces were blazing now, but at least you were also wearing matching grins.

When you were able to regain your composure, you climbed off him and offered him a hand up, which he took gratefully.

"Thanks," he muttered bashfully, "and sorry."

"It's really nothing," you assured him, shrugging it off.

After all, this would make a great story—especially for the tabloids.

A/N: hope you enjoyed!! i'm using my own dividers hehe #narcissist 👀 anyways my inbox is open so feel free to request something or just talk! lowk i gotta stop writing short-ass fics, i'm trying to write something over 6k words for once 😓 okay enough yapping! love you guys, see you in the next fic!

-DMIS

When Finn came home from his job or an interview, he’d usually find you on the couch, watching a movie, or maybe in in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Some days you were in the shower, and on others you weren’t home yet. Today, however, when Finn turned the key in the door and swung it open, he didn’t find you in any such state. Instead, he walked in on you, a large stack of dollar bills on one side of you, a pile of green-ish frills on the other, and a bonefolder in your hands. And Jesus Christ, you were folding like the devil himself was after you, your eyes darting every so often to the TV (where New Girl was playing low) as your deft fingers worked expertly to work you towards whatever goal you were trying to achieve.

“Hi, hon,” he called bemusedly, gently closing the door behind him and kicking off his shoes.

“Mm,” you responded absently, brow furrowed in focus as you reached for another bill.

“Whatcha doin’?” He asked, strolling up to you before sitting by your side, careful not to harm the ever-growing pile of frills.

“My cousin’s graduating next week.” You said simply, as if that explained why you were folding a giant tower of legal tender like a maniac on crack.

“Right…” He trailed slowly, looking from you to the mass of ones sitting like a sentinel at your side. He was reminded briefly of an office man working through a cruelly large heap of paperwork. “And where does that connect to this?” He prodded curiously—not sarcastic, just…thoroughly confused.

“What do you mean?” You raised an eyebrow, still zeroed in on your work, before you realized: “Oh! I’m making money leis. I forget that not everyone does this sometimes,” You added, shaking your head at yourself.

“Money leis?” Finn echoed, picking up a frill and examining it carefully.

Finally, you put down the bonefolder and looked up at him. “In Polynesian cultures, we give our graduates money or candy leis. It’s a way to celebrate their achievements.” You explained patiently, reaching for the remote to pause the show.

“Ohhh,” Finn nodded, eyebrows raised in appreciation. “And you do this how often?”

“Depends,” you tilted your head back and forth, smoothing out the creases in your current dollar. “I have a lot of cousins, so once a year, give or take.”

“Wow,” he whistled low, watching your hands move like they’d done this a thousand times—which, he reminded himself, they probably had.

"Yeah,” your lips quirked, “it’s a process, for sure.”

Finn went silent for a moment, hands folded in his lap as he imagined you as a middle schooler, a teenager, and a college student; making, giving, and receiving these things at graduations while other families might’ve thrown curious glances.

“…Can I help?” He spoke up, making your head turn towards him again. A smile crept over your face at his willingness, and then you lifted the stack of ones onto your folding table to free up the space next to you, patting it.

“‘Course, babe. C’mere and I’ll show you.”

And while it was a learning curve for him—and he definitely didn’t expect to be up until one o’clock—your boyfriend was always happy to help.

A/N: me posting this because I'm up late every night making leis for the three graduates in my family 👀👀 uhhh anyways hope you guys enjoyed! and maybe learned a lil something? idk 😭 lmk if we want more polynesian!reader cuz shes so fun to write aghh ‼️ OH also this is what they're making btw

Richie Tozier, who used to constantly ask you 'how the weather was up there'.

★—Tall!Reader, who used to shoot back by asking him how the weather was closer to hell.

Richie Tozier, who secretly likes it when you ruffle his hair like he's a kid, even though he acts like he's about to kill you for it.

★—Tall!Reader, who used to do it only to annoy him, but now it's become something of an inside joke...and a display of affection.

Richie Tozier, who jokes about how you could sit on his face while standing up, grinning at the disgusted looks and boos from the rest of the losers.

★—Tall!Reader, who merely raises an eyebrow and responds with, "you sound like you've thought about this before." (Which shuts him up instantly.)

Richie Tozier, who literally only comes up to your chin when he's not slouching. On a regular day, he's making eye contact with your boobs. (Not that he's complaining...)

★—Tall!Reader, who constantly catches strays in his jokes, just like Eddie does. At this point, you just start teasing him about how much he must be thinking about you if he's always trying to find ways to make fun of you.

Richie Tozier, who asks once why you're always wearing shorts, dresses and skirts instead of jeans, even though you prefer the latter.

★—Tall!Reader, who answers simply, "They don't make jeans long enough for me to wear."

Richie Tozier, who goes home that day with a strange sense of injustice and has to do something about it. He asks your mom for your measurements, knowing you'll probably brush him off if he asks you. He also ends up raiding the fabric store and pesters anyone in Derry who'll know about how to sew pants, ignoring the strange looks and under-the-breath comments they give him because fuck, you deserve to have a pair of jeans that actually fit you for once in your life.

★—Tall!Reader, who receives the custom-made pair of jeans on your birthday, which literally brings you to tears. You practically launch yourself at him--thank god he's sitting, or he'd probably collapse under his jelly-knees. Since then, you've worn those jeans almost every single day, patching them when they wear and caring for them like they're your most prized possession. Any time Richie sees you in them, his cheeks tinge pink...which is why you're always teasing him about being sunburned even though everyone else knows he's not.

Richie Tozier, who gets antsy when you're not around, and ends up biking two miles over to your house in the night and climbing up to your window, only to discover you're not there.

★—Tall!Reader, who did the exact same thing, and you both spent about two hours looking for each other, only to cross paths on the way back to your respective houses. "Fancy seeing you here," you joked.

Richie Tozier, who calls you at ungodly hours of the night to tell you some stupid ass 'tall joke' he thought of in a stupor.

★—Tall!Reader, who sits there for a full 60 seconds, contemplating what would be the appropriate murder weapon for this occasion before answering, "Richie, what the fuck is wrong with you why you're doing this to me?" And promptly hanging up before giggling stupidly at the punchline. Because who needs to know that you actually like all his jokes?

Richie Tozier, who climbs in through your window one night, insisting that he didn't see you enough today and needs his required amount of quality time or the consequences would be dire.

★—Tall!Reader, who blinks twice with a look of confusion and then shrugs, tossing him a comic book and settling back into bed.

Richie Tozier, who sits on the floor for a grand total of four minutes before complaining about the discomfort, and how could you do this to him, your best friend who's never done anything but love and support you.

★—Tall!Reader, who rolls your eyes automatically before registering the word 'love'. Slowly, you turn your head toward him. "Say that last part again." He gulps. "What part? The part where I said I've only ever supported you?" You stare at him. "Richie. Don't do this." He looks at the floor, face scalding. "Okay. I might've also said...the L-word." He says it like it's an unspeakable sin. But you hear it like it's conformation that everything in the world is going to be okay.

Richie Tozier, who is convinced that you're going to tell him to leave, and is just about to suggest it before you fling off your covers and launch yourself off the bed to sit right in front of him, hands on your knees and leaning forward in an attempt to stare into his soul and see if he's lying. With you so close, it's like his brain is shutting down; he doesn't know what else to do but shut his eyes tight and close the space between you.

★—Tall!Reader, who makes a small sound of surprise before leaning into it, cupping his cheek in a way that makes his stomach somersault. You kiss until you're dizzy, breaking apart only when you're teetering on passing out, and you can't tell if you're giggly because of the mild asphyxiation or because you just kissed your best friend.

Richie Tozier, whose glasses are all fogged up from the shared breath, and can't stop gawking at you like you sprouted an extra head. After he recovers, the first thing he says is: "Is this a good time to ask you to be my girlfriend?"

★—Tall!Reader, who breaks into a wide grin and reaches out to brush his bangs out of his face. "Of course it is, doofus. And...of course I will."

Richie Tozier, who proudly holds your hand as you walk around, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face even as the rest of the losers make fun of how whipped he is for you.

★—Tall!Reader, who is equally as whipped for him and does not deny it whatsoever.

Richie Tozier, who is constantly mistaken for younger than he is.

★—Tall!Reader, who is constantly mistaken for much older than you are. Together, you are a very confusing couple that has to remind everyone that you are indeed the same age. Who would want anything less?

Richie Tozier, who tells you not to hunch over when you kiss him, instead standing on tip-toes to meet you where you're at. Because after a lifetime of making yourself smaller just to fit in, you deserve someone that will make themself taller to fit with you.

he is three apples tall btw

Max was never one to stare; especially in Hawkins, where most people were somehow less interesting than the dirt on her shoes. There were other things she should probably be doing on a hot summer day anyway—shopping, skating, screaming at an arcade machine—but for some reason, she just couldn't resist staring at you.

The way your hair caught the sun, glowing as it swayed in the breeze, the way you smiled at yourself, licking away at your ice cream cone, the way your frame was draped across the bench like you were perfectly content with the world.

"Dude, your mouth is literally hanging open," Dustin snickered from beside her, snapping her out of her ogling session.

She promptly closed it and shot a withering glare at him, earning a shrug and the smuggest expression she'd seen in years.

"Just saying," he added, throwing his hands up in defense. She scoffed, but didn't deny it. Instead, strangely, she just turned back to you, squinting at how brightly your sunglasses reflected the light.

"And we lost her again," Lucas sighed from her other side, watching Max's own ice cream melt sadly in her hand, forgotten.

Usually, she would've told him to shove it, or at the very least make some snarky remark to shut him up, but today, here, there was something about you that demanded her full and undivided attention, and she was still trying to figure out what the hell it was.

Her brow furrowed, a little damp with the constant, low-lying sweat July always incurred. How could someone exist so beautifully? It was like watching a masterpiece in motion; you were effortlessly graceful in that way only fairytale princesses can be. Maybe she was hanging around those D&D playing nerds too much.

You shifted, adjusting your sunglasses so that they sat atop your head, and she swore she almost gasped when she saw the color of your eyes in the sun. Slowly, you looked around, people-watching, and then—to both her horror and her delight—your gaze landed on her.

Max's heart stuttered in her chest, and she instantly raised her eyebrows so that you wouldn't think she'd been mad dogging you. You smiled warmly at her, not in the polite way strangers usually smiled at other strangers across the street, but like you actually knew her, like she was worth every second of your time you decided to give her. Her stomach did a somersault, which was odd, because her stomach never usually did that. She told herself she was just embarrassed, but since when was Max Mayfield ever embarrassed?

Then, without proper warning (which was entirely unfair), you raised your hand and waved at her. Actually waved, as if she were an old friend. She panicked for three seconds, then remembered suddenly how social norms worked and awkwardly jerked her own arm back and forth, lips pulling up in a nervous smile.

"Oh my god, are you blushing?" Dustin remarked, a gleeful grin on his face as he looked over at her. She groaned, turning to him and scowling.

"Shut up, asshat." She hissed.

"Whatever, go talk to her." Lucas nudged her forward with his knuckles, earning an approving nod from El.

"I agree, Max. She is pretty, and you like her, right?" She said simply, munching on the last of her waffle cone.

"Yeah, okay," Max conceded, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Reluctantly, though with a thudding pulse that had nothing to do with the heat, she let her skateboard drop to the ground and pushed off, coasting across the road to the bench where you sat. You watched her with an impressed look, scooting over as she arrived.

"Hi there," you greeted cheerfully, making her heart flutter.

"Hi," she breathed. Wow, real smooth, Max. Groundbreaking stuff. "Um, I'm Max. M-Mayfield." Kill me now, for the love of all holy.

You supplied your own name, "Nice to meet you, Max."

"Yeah, y-you too." Jesus, what was with the stuttering? "Are you, uh, new here? I haven't seen you around." Okay, there we go, not bad, Max.

"Oh yeah, I just moved here last week," you nodded, adding, "but I have to admit, I have seen you around."

Max's eyes widened, her cheeks reddening with something that was very much not sunburn. "Wh—oh, me?" She gave a shy laugh that came out more like a strangled gasp. Curses.

"Yeah, I mean, it's kind of hard to miss you when you look so cool," you said easily, like you didn't know what you were doing to her (you didn't).

"I—well, thanks," she managed, fiddling with the hem of her shirt and very much not looking cool.

"D'you want to sit?" You asked, as if it had just occurred to you. She swallowed, staring at you like you had just proposed.

"Oh, sure," she nodded quickly, almost tripping over herself to take her seat beside you, trying to figure out what was an acceptable distance for strangers-who-were-maybe-almost-going-to-be-friends.

"Look at our girl," Lucas sighed, wiping an invisible tear from his eye.

Dustin patted his shoulder, "They really do grow up so fast."

Beside them, El tilted her head quizzically at her boyfriend. "Is Max not older than you?"

A/N: this was so fun lol! lmk if you guys want more, i'd also be happy to take reqs! love you all, see you in the next one!

-DMIS

The radio hummed out an old love ballad from fifteen years ago, the melody drifting through the air like a serenade. Magazines and comic books and cassette tape cases littered your bed and floor, sitting near enough that you could snatch one up and pretend to be invested if you heard someone come up the stairs.

But right now, you were zeroed in on this moment, on the feeling of Mike Wheeler’s lips on yours. He moved earnestly, eagerly, cupping one side of your face while the other hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure how long you’d been like this—time seemed to speed up and slow down and become completely irrelevant whenever you kissed your boyfriend.

As the song ended and another faded in, Mike froze against you, a slow smile spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.

“What?” You mused, eyelids fluttering open.

Mike didn’t answer right away; instead, he lifted both of your hands and pointed upward, forcing a yelp and then a giggle out of you.

“I’m all out of hope,” he sang so obnoxiously and so comically that you couldn’t help but laugh more.

“Mike,” you scolded him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to even sound firm.

“One more bad break—”

“Mike—”

“Could bring a fall—”

On the last word, he (very much on the nose) fell backwards onto your bed, back of his hand pressed against his forehead in a theatrical swoon. You tried to scoff, but more laughter spilled out and you both grinned.

You took a moment to appreciate the sight; Mike’s long black curls spread out like a halo around his head, the flushed pink of his lips complimenting the freckles dotting his alabaster skin; the deep, honey brown of his eyes that caught in the afternoon sunlight—

“What’s that smell?” Mike sniffed, turning his head.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“That smell,” he repeated, eyebrows scrunching together. 

Oh, no. Was it you? Had you forgotten deodorant? Or to wash your sheets?

“Is it…bad?” You probed, an embarrassed heat already pushing its way up your face.

“No,” he shook his head, “It’s…nice. Like a meadow,” he added.

Oh.

You exhaled, a wave of relief washing over you. “That’s lavender,” you explained, letting out a small huff of amusement. “I spray it on my pillows at night to help me sleep.”

Mike nodded thoughtfully, a small smile gracing his features. “It smells really nice,” he murmured, eyes finding yours again. He squeezed your fingers just slightly, affectionate like you had just given him another reason to love you. Your stomach fluttered, and you weren’t able to stop yourself from leaning forward and pecking the tip of his nose lovingly.

“Thanks, pretty boy.”

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Sorry that it's so short, there are oneshots coming soon i promise 😭 I'm ngl I've also got a lot of overdue assignments so I might take a little break from posting, but there will be more HS Sweethearts! If you liked it, feel free to like/reblog (and reqs are open too *cough cough*), but you don't have to ♥️ Also, this might be presumptuous, but would anyone want to be added to a possible taglist? Lmk! Okay, that's all, love you guys!

-DMIS

September 3rd, 1987

First days of school were never fun for Mike. Sure, he had the Party, which was a very nerdy word for 'his friends', but that was about it. Aside from that, school sucked, and it was even worse when you tried to pretend that the first day back was 'exciting' or a 'fresh start'. It was pointless.

Mike scowled as he got ready for school, grimaced as he approached his locker, and sighed when he finally plopped down in his seat at homeroom. He only stopped glaring at air when he saw you walk in.

Hair done plainly, clothes slightly worn but well loved, eyes tired as if you were already studying for midterms. But God, to Mike you might as well have been on the cover of Vogue. Time slowed down like one of those cheesy rom-com movies, zooming in on the way your hair swayed as you walked, the way your eyelashes batted when you blinked. The touch of lipgloss on your lips, the little stud earrings you wore that shone under the fluorescent lights.

Mike gawked at you as you looked around, eyes glued to your pretty face as you stepped forward slowly, like you weren't sure where to go. It wasn't until you stopped right in front of his desk that he blinked, coming out of his daze. You were talking to him.

"S-sorry?" He asked, cursing himself for stuttering.

"D'you know where the seat assignment chart is?" Your voice was still a little rough from sleep, but it sounded like the most attractive thing Mike had ever heard.

Heat rose up to his cheeks, and he was suddenly unable to talk. Instead, he lifted a shaking finger and pointed to just over your shoulder, by the teacher's desk.

You looked, then nodded and thanked him quietly, going over to examine it. And to Mike's astonishment, you were seated directly in front of him. Oh, this was going to be a long year.

October 10th, 1987

Fuck.

Mike had been groping around his backpack for a solid three minutes now, scrambling to get hold of a pencil, pen, anything to write down notes with. But he couldn't find a single thing, not even the shortest, dullest stub of a pencil. He groaned.

"Damn it," he muttered, "I can't believe I lost my pens."

The teacher threw him an unimpressed look, shutting him up, so he put down his bag and resigned himself to trying to memorize everything and write it down later. Which would be especially hard, because you had put a bow in your hair today, and he was already trying his hardest not to stare intensely at it.

That was when your head turned, making his heart leap halfway out of his chest. Oh no, had you finally felt his eyes on the back of your head? Were you going to tell him off for being a creep?

Just as Mike was preparing himself for eternal damnation, you stuck your hand out over your shoulder to him, offering a half smile and a pen.

He froze, eyes wide, before reality caught up to him and he took it with the steadiest hand he could muster (which wasn't very steady at all).

"Th...anks." Ugh, it sounded so weird, and he instantly regretted speaking.

But you nodded, turning back around, and he was left to turn over your pen in his hands like a sacred relic.

It was just a standard blue ballpoint pen, one you would purchase in sets at the convenience store, but you had put a couple little stickers around the body, sparkly and simple. One was peeling at the corner, and he smoothed it down with more care than he had ever put towards anything in his life.

He might just cherish this for the rest of his life. It might even become a family heirloom.

December 20th, 1987

Christmas was in five days, he hadn't prepared a single gift for anyone in his life, and he also didn't know what he wanted for presents, but that was the very least of Mike's worries.

No, his top priority was you.

He'd spent two whole hours last night brainstorming conversation topics, jokes that could make you laugh, riddles that might have you actually interested. He'd literally stood in front of his mirror—yes, in front of his mirror—and practiced how he would talk to you the following day.

He woke up at 6:30 AM sharp to get ready, ignoring Nancy's teasing and Holly's confusion on why he was waking up early on Winter Break. He spent an entire twenty minutes in the shower, scrubbing way too hard with way too much soap to ensure he smelled good. He tried styling his hair, put on deodorant and even stole some of his dad's cologne, then decided it smelled awful and spent ten minutes washing it off.

Then he promptly stood in front of his closet with his hands on his hips for fifteen minutes, occasionally stepping forward to bring out a shirt and then shaking his head and putting it back. At the bright hour of nine o'clock, armed with textbooks, a nice outfit (for Mike), and snacks, he finally biked over to your house for the third time ever. He still couldn't believe you were letting him into your house, a stupid grin stuck permanantly to his face the whole time he rode.

February 17th, 1988

The world had never quite been the same since you had agreed (very enthusiastically) to be Mike's girlfriend. The day after Valentine's, you two walked hand in hand through the halls, and even though you had to make the first move, he happily squeezed your fingers every now and then.

You listened contently as he rambled on about his latest D&D campaign, eyes tracing down the outline of his side profile.

"And then Dustin—he's our bard—he went to roll the dice, and—and..." He trailed off, meeting your gaze.

"And...?" You prompted, tilting your head. He let out a little chuckle, eyes flitting away.

"Sorry, you're just...staring at me." He said quietly, a smile gracing his lips.

"Oh," you raised your eyebrows, as if he had just stated a mildly interesting fact. You still didn't look away. "Guess I am."

Mike laughed, slightly breathless, fingers tightening around yours. You leaned over and placed an affectionate kiss on his cheek, pulling back to watch the redness bloom where your lips had been. Mike swore he was going to die—and if he did, he would die a very happy man.

"You're really enjoying this too much, aren't you?" He muttered, but he couldn't stop the grin overtaking his features.

You nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes." You said, beaming at him.

He bumped your shoulder lightly with his, finally holding eye contact again.

"Good, 'cause I am too."

thank you @angeliicide and @muerdida for the dividers! <3

You'd been a romantic your entire life. Growing up watching rom-com after rom-com, reading novel after novel, repeating love song after love song...you get the idea. So naturally, you also loved Valentine's Day. I mean, a literal holiday dedicated to the concept of love? What could be more perfect for you?

Little you spent every year helping your mom decorate for it, daydreaming about the time when you'd finally be old enough to have a real Valentine, hopefully someone to actually love and hold in your arms. At school, everyone gave everyone little paper hearts they'd made in art class. It was nice, but it didn't feel the same as having one particular person in your life to be all romantic with.

So when you finally arrived at eighth grade, old enough to see couples holding hands in the hall, you were certain you were going to finally live out your lifelong dream. You'd even spent months basically courting this one kid in your English class, trying your best to flirt and drop hints whenever you could. Surely, if you gave him enough attention, he would reciprocate, right?

Wrong. God, was that naïve.

That day in February 1985, you received nothing. Nothing in your locker, nothing at your desk, nothing at lunch and nothing all day. You got increasingly desperate, rummaging through everything and anything that might’ve contained whatever kind of Valentine Justin Gruber could’ve left you. Still, nothing.

The worst part? You definitely left something for him. Not just a little slip of paper, not a couple of flowers or a baggie of candy, but an entire box of love and devotion that you’d spent the better part of two weeks putting together. And it would not be inconspicuous. No, it was big, lacy, and vibrantly pink, and you’d left it sitting dead center on his desk. 

Needless to say, you barely survived the coming week. Relentless teasing and jokes followed you wherever you went, poorly hidden whispers behind hands in the halls as you passed, marker ink on your locker that spelled awful names. You were a spectacle, a running joke, an example of what happened when you foolishly poured your heart out to anyone in the endlessly cruel world of middle school.

You considered transferring schools, leaving behind the part of you that loved to daydream and adopting an entirely new, heartless personality. But as things always do, it smoothed over. Seasons changed, you graduated eighth grade, and by next year, your tail was out of your legs. You mostly forgot the sting of embarrassment that followed you around like a shadow, and you went right back to being your usual lovey-dovey self. 

And this time, the object of your affections was Jeffery Davis, from your Biology class. He wasn’t popular, wasn’t particularly a stud, but he was funny enough to make you laugh when you were assigned as lab partners for Freshman year. So the following Valentine’s Day, you prepared a smaller, more discreet box of romance for him. You thought if you just toned it down a little, it wouldn’t scare him off, and you could finally have a successful Valentine. Again, you were dead wrong.

This time hurt possibly worse than the last, because you’d slipped a note into Jeffery’s locker, telling him to meet you in the courtyard after school. It would be low-key, discreet, nothing to worry about. That was what you kept reminding yourself of as you waited at 3:06. And then you had to start reassuring yourself at 3:44, when there was still no sign of him. ‘He’s probably busy,’ you told yourself at 4:32, your legs getting tired from all the pacing. At 5:53, you sat miserably on the bench by the wall, chin in your hands as you kicked rocks. You didn’t even know why, but you stayed until 6:28, long after the sun had set and it started to get chilly. You biked home with a deep scowl on your face that night, furiously blinking away tears. You refused to cry this time. You were stronger than that.

But eventually, the dam fractured. It cracked when you opened the front door to meet your mother, arms folded and a stern expression on her face until she saw the look on yours. It swelled when she stepped forward, asking you what happened and where you’d been. And when you shook your head, the pain in your throat stopping you from speaking, it burst. Your eyes spilled over and your face screwed up into an unattractive sob as your mother held you like a small child. 

After that, the rumors weren’t so cruel. It seemed Jeffery was kinder than Justin in the sense that he didn’t say much to anyone about it, but you still had to peel a sticky note off your locker that was calling you a very unflattering name. Not only that, but Biology class quickly became even worse than gym, with awkward silence filling every quiet moment.

Still, though, life went on. And before you knew it, you were right back where you started, crushing on Dennis Riley, the hottest brunette in Junior year. He was a year older than you, athletic, and the perfect mix of, well, everything. You had learned by now that going all out was begging for ridicule, so all you did this year was write a letter. Just a simple letter, blue ballpoint ink on regular old notebook paper since you were too scared to even use real stationary at this point. The only thing was that it was four pages long, front and back, and you still couldn’t help but doodle little hearts in the margins. 

It took everything in you to slip it into his locker, and several deep breaths afterward to get your heart to beat at a normal pace. You told yourself it would finally be different this time, that Dennis would be the one to actually reciprocate. They say the third time’s the charm, but unfortunately, it seemed that fate had a personal vendetta against you. As soon as Dennis opened the letter, he skimmed through it with an amused expression, showed it to his friend, and had a good laugh before promptly crumpling it up and tossing it into a nearby trash can. You made the mistake of lurking around the corner to watch his reaction, and felt your soul collapse in sync with your poor love letter.

More tears, more embarrassment, and this time, you swore off Valentine’s Day completely. Three failed attempts was more than enough, and you just couldn’t put your heart through any more. So as Junior year rolled around, you buried yourself in college prep, SATs, extracurriculars, and every other thing you could do to keep your mind off love. 

It worked well—late night study sessions, constant activities, and regular club meetings left you too tired to even think about who might be looking your way and whether they were cute. It was almost to your detriment, because Junior year was the year that Mike Wheeler started to notice a particular girl that he so happened to share every class with. 

He sat directly behind you, so it was impossible for him not to stare at the back of your head, wondering what the hell was going on in there, wondering whether any of the thoughts running through it could possibly be dedicated to him. Because the reverse was definitely happening. 

Mike didn’t even know how or when it started. All he knew was that at one point, he had no knowledge of your existence, and then one day, he found himself writing your name in the margins of his notebook.

He had spoken to you all of three times during this school year. Once on the first day of school, when you asked him where the seat assignment chart was. The second time was in October, when you turned around in your seat to hand him a pen after he complained about losing his pencil. He spent the entire day debating himself, going back and forth between returning it and getting to talking to speak to you again, or keeping it as proof that you had actually acknowledged the fact that he was in this realm. He settled for the former, and that was the third time he got to hear your voice addressing him.

Since when did Mike get so desperate? Seriously, he was acting like you were some sort of deity, scrambling at any scrap of your attention you were willing to throw him. And the worst part was that you weren’t even aware of the effect you had on him. Dustin, Will, Max and Lucas chastised him almost every day, telling him to either talk to you or get over it.

But how could he do either? You felt untouchable, always off in your own world or engrossed in something. It was infuriating and endearing at the same time, but eventually, infuriating won out. In the middle of December, you and Mike were assigned together on a paired project for English, and he saw this as the perfect opportunity, if only he could work up the courage to take it. You didn’t talk to him much at first, and when you did, it was only about the project. He tried to change subjects every now and then, steer the conversation toward personal life in an attempt to get to know more about you. But every time, you gave him the shortest, vaguest answers possible, like you were actively avoiding anything like this. Infuriating.

Mike was going to stop trying, he really was. He was going to resign himself to the acceptance of unrequited limerence, maybe write a story or a song about you to try to soothe the longing ache in his chest. But the party had lit a fire under his ass about you, and he knew he was in for a session of verbal abuse if he ever quit trying.

So he kept at it. Every day at school, he talked a little more to you. Even if you responded blandly, he could see the twinkle in your eyes that you tried to hide. He didn’t understand it, but he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. But carts and horses, right?

As Winter Break rolled around, your English teacher advised you to keep working on your projects with your partners, because they would be due the week after break ended. It was annoying, but it provided Mike with the excuse to bike over to your house every day. You felt bad that he was always coming over to your house (and embarrassed because of the knowing looks your mom kept throwing you), but Mike always insisted that your place was more interesting. You doubted it—the Wheelers were better off than your family was—but you didn’t argue.

It was hard to argue with Mike, especially since he possessed the biggest brown puppy dog eyes to ever grace the earth, paired with the fullest, most delicious looking lips you had ever seen on a boy. It was these dangerous feelings that made you shut your mouth tightly around him, scared of accidentally saying something too romantic and landing yourself back in public scrutiny. He was nice, sure, but you had to convince yourself that it was just that—that he was just being nice—so that you didn’t end up with another Valentine’s Day that ended in tears.

Unfortunately for you, though, that resolve didn’t last very long. You were strong for a week and a half, forcing yourself to be boring and dry. But Mike was so damn persistent, so it really wasn’t your fault when you finally cracked, slowly letting conversations drift into easy banter. That was exactly what Mike had been hoping for, and it did not disappoint.

When you allowed yourself to be yourself, you discovered that you and Mike had a lot in common. You both were heavily invested in Star Wars, both loved D&D (he was very surprised), and both liked the Pixies. Along with other things, you agreed that peanut butter should be spread on first, then jam on the other slice of bread, that pineapple on pizza was not an abomination, and that jazzercise was the stupidest thing ever invented.

And every day that you showed a little more of yourself to Mike, you felt a little more comfortable. And Mike? He kept falling harder and harder for you, to the point where one night he caught himself writing his first name and your last name together with the prefix ‘Mr.’…look, it wasn’t his fault if your last name had a better ring to it than ‘Wheeler’!

But aside from that, you could feel the spark. Even if you were too scared to admit it to yourself, you knew that whether you liked it or not, Michael Wheeler had worked his way into your heart. 

Despite spending too much time talking instead of working, you and Mike received a very good grade on your project. And all too soon, January ended and February came rearing its ugly head. This time, you flat out refused to do anything. Your mom knew better than to start decorating for Valentine’s Day, and you knew better than to get ahead of yourself and try to make anything for Mike. 

Just because you had become friends didn’t prove that he liked you that way, and you swore to God that if you had to face another rejection, especially one from Mike, you would simply crawl into a hole and die. So you kept your head down and pretended you didn’t notice all the red and pink streamers being hung up the week of Valentine’s. 

You were so focused on ignoring Valentine’s Day, in fact, that you became blind to the painfully obvious hints Mike was trying to drop to you at school. He started walking with you to classes, closer than necessary, making awful attempts at being subtle. One day, on the way to Algebra II, he brought up the subject of the holiday.

“I know it’s cliché, but I kind of actually like Valentine’s.” Mike shrugged, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?”

“I hate it,” you answered, adjusting your backpack strap, “I always get disappointed.”

“What? Oh, me too,” he fumbled, cringing at how quickly he was switching up.

“You hate Valentine’s?” You raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, and he felt heat blooming across the back of his neck.

“Well—I mean—no, I get disappointed. That’s—that’s what I mean.” He wasn’t sure if that was a smooth save or not (it wasn’t), but it was technically true. No one at school had ever really liked him that way, at least not enough to make it known.

“Oh,” you said, “yeah. I used to like it, I guess, but then I just kept…” You sighed, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

Mike tilted his head, but didn’t press. He wasn’t the best with social cues, but even he could tell it was a touchy subject. He still couldn’t ignore the itch to understand why you had so much distaste for it, though.

“Oh, by the way,” you remembered, and Mike was immediately grateful for the change of subject. “Mrs. Hanson said…”

The fourteenth of February came much sooner than you hoped, and you considered faking sickness and staying home altogether. You slammed the button on your alarm clock as soon as it started beeping, before promptly groaning and pulling the covers over your face.

“Fuck Valentine’s so hard…” you muttered darkly, a deep grimace forming on your lips. You stayed exactly like that for a solid five minutes, willing time to pass you by, until your mom’s voice called up the stairs.

“Honey, time to get up! I don’t care if it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re not missing school!”

It was times like this that you hated that she could read your mind.

You let out the heaviest, most dramatic sigh you could possibly muster, dragging yourself out of bed like your limbs were made of lead. With the most unenthusiastic look plastered onto your face, you got ready for the day and tried your best to disassociate from everything.

Pulling up to school was the worst mistake you’d made in the past half year, because it looked like the entire school had exploded overnight. Pink and red everywhere, over everything, banners spreading across every surface and confetti nestled into every nook and cranny. You were honestly confused; they never went this over the top before—or maybe you were so focused on boys that you just didn’t notice. 

It was like Hawkins high went all out and didn’t even try at the same time, with every kind of decoration you could think of strewn in the halls, classrooms, and even the bathrooms. It made school hell to navigate, and just getting to your locker took twice as long as normal. If this is what Home Ec was working on since the start of the second semester, you felt terrible for them.

You were so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of vibrancy that you didn’t notice the little envelope sitting at the top of your locker, tucked carefully so that it wouldn’t fall and be lost among the sea of tissue paper.

So you went to homeroom and sat down, missing the expectant look on Mike’s face. You tuned out everything until the end of the period, when the bell rang and you sat up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“So, uh,” Mike’s voice snapped you out of autopilot. “Anything interesting happen today?”

You scoffed and shook your head, remarking dryly, “Other than the school looking like the Ghost of V-Day puked all over it?”

Mike gave a weak laugh, “Well—yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Other than that.”

You tilted your head curiously, dropping the sarcasm. “Uh, no, not really. Why?”

You had no idea why, but he looked disappointed. Sad, even. But then he quickly went back to looking normal, and you told yourself you’d imagined it. “Nothing—nothing,” he told you, “just…curious.”

You nodded. “Well, keep me updated if anything happens on your end.”

“I will,” Mike said, hoping that there wasn’t too much longing seeping into his voice.

Mike knew that you weren’t going to give him anything. It was a fact, plain and simple. He knew you hated Valentine’s, he knew why now (from asking around), and he was exactly 65% certain you didn’t feel the same. But even though the odds were not in his favor, he had to try. He couldn’t waste the better part of a school year of effort just to wimp out at the last minute, and if there was anything you deserved, other than the world, it was a real Valentine if you wanted it.

So he walked alongside you to Physics, talking about whatever you wanted to and not being surprised when it was anything but today’s date. Honestly, if he’d gone through the amount of suffering that you had, he’d probably cross out the date from every calendar he could get his hands on.

Second and third period blurred together, and fourth period was barely any different. When lunch finally rolled around, and you had still failed to see the love note in your locker, Mike began to worry. Had he tucked it too far in? Did you really not see it, or were you deliberately ignoring it? Worse still, did you read it and hate it so much you refused to acknowledge it?

You were oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil as you sat at your table, stabbing violently at mushy peas with a flimsy plastic fork. He’d slid into the chair across from you ten minutes prior, forgoing his usual time with the party to be with you (not that they minded—he kept having to wave off the thumbs ups and knowing looks they were shooting him).

It wasn’t until Mike cleared his throat—a little louder than he meant to—that you actually looked up. “Sorry, did you say something?” You asked, a little guiltily.

“Oh, no,” he assured you, “I just—I was just wondering if you got anything. Like—chocolates or something?”

“What?”

“Well—it’s fine if you didn’t, I was just, like, wondering?” He swallowed, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table.

“Uh…no.” You replied, feeling a little depressed now. “I wasn’t really expecting anything, though.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He felt awkward now. Fuck, why was this so hard? Why were you so clueless?

“No, it’s fine.” You gave him a smile. “I don’t really care anymore.” It was a lie, you both knew it.

“Well…the day’s not done yet. You never know what could happen.”

Your lips curved into a real smile this time, and Mike swore on his life he would do anything to make you smile like that again.

“Thanks, Mike.”

“No problem.”

Mike’s words stuck with you, providing you comfort throughout the rest of your classes. But when you opened your locker to get your books for eighth period, you finally saw it. A light blue corner of paper poking out from the top shelf, something you had definitely not put there. With a crease forming between your eyebrows, you reached up and grabbed it, a suspicion forming in your mind. 

It wasn’t anything huge, just a periwinkle envelope with a little heart drawn on the front in oddly familiar blue ballpoint pen ink. Slowly, as if disarming a bomb, you slid your thumb under the fold and carefully opened it. Your heartrate ticked faster as you pulled out the letter, unfolding it like it might fall apart at any moment. You took a deep breath before you read it.

‘Y/N,

I know this might come as a surprise. I know you probably don’t feel the same way. But I have to say this before I miss this opportunity. The truth is, I really, really like you. Like, so much that it’s embarrassing. And I hate that you’ve never had a good Valentine’s Day, because you deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone else I know.

I don’t really know how to say this in real life, and you probably already know that I’m super awkward. Honestly, if it weren’t for my friends I don’t think I could have worked up the courage to talk to you on my own…anyways. What I’m trying to say is that I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. And if you’re okay with it, I’d like to take you out sometime. You deserve not just a Valentine, but also a really awesome boyfriend. And I might not fill all the requirements, but I will definitely try my best if you want me to.

Love, (should I sign it like this? Is that weird? Nevermind.)

-Mike’

Your jaw incrementally kept dropping as you read, until your mouth was agape and your eyes as wide as saucers when you finished. Your poor heart—it was beating out of your chest like a rabid animal, your mind racing and short-circutting in a loop. 

What?

What?

WHAT?

…

No wonder he was acting weird.

You folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope, and then clutched it to your chest like it was a winning lottery ticket. Because to you, it might as well have been. Not only did you finally (finally) receive a real, authentic Valentine, but it was from someone you actually liked.

Also—Mike Wheeler liked you. What the fuck?!

You couldn’t believe it. You were so, so, unbelievably happy. You were literally about to jump around and dance, or giggle at some impossible frequency, or do something cliché that teenage girls do when they find out that there’s a teenage boy that likes them. But then the late bell rang, and you nearly leaped out of your skin, snatching your books and scurrying off to class.

Usually, you didn’t think much about sharing all your classes with Mike. You were happy to have a friend, sure, but you were so focused on keeping yourself in line that you didn’t realize just how much about him you were missing. But oh boy, you sure did now.

It didn’t even seem like you understood a single word your teacher had said in this class. You were too busy staring intensely at Mike—almost frighteningly zeroed in on him. The way his fingers tapped against the side of his desk, the way his legs were just a little too long to be cramped up in the little school chair, pulling him into a somewhat awkward position. The twitch in his nose whenever the teacher looked at him, like he was preparing for a possible confrontation; the way he occasionally blinked twice as if pulling himself out of a daydream.

It was so funny, so stupid, how you’d never noticed any of these things, all year, until the moment you realized that Mike Wheeler had noticed you. And suddenly, it seemed like a clever twist of fate that eighth period was the only class that he sat in the seat to the right and in front of you.

Forty-five minutes felt like four hours, and at one point you got restless from staring at Mike so much. He himself felt like he was under a microscope, your eyes burning holes into the side of his head and making his heart race way too fast. He couldn’t focus on anything, anxiety clawing its way up his chest. He was 83% sure it was the wrong move to slip that note into your locker, but now he was completely certain. You hated him, he thought, his pencil hovering over his empty notebook page. You took one look at the letter and were so disgusted by him that he would never be able to speak or even look at you again. He was so ashamed, so embarrassed, that he didn’t even consider the possibility that you might not have been glaring at him. 

But at long last, the final bell rang and the teacher dismissed you. You got up, gathered your things (you hadn’t taken much out to begin with), and just…stood there. Staring at Mike. Even after everyone else had left the room. He didn’t even look at you, too mortified to meet your gaze, but he did linger. When you still didn’t say anything, he assumed that you probably despised him forever and he should leave. He made it to the door, thinking that maybe he had escaped you, but then he heard it:

“…Mike?”

It was so small, so quiet, that he might’ve missed it if it wasn’t just the two of you. He turned slowly, the sound of his joints moving way too loud in his ears. His throat bobbed, and he hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet yours, expecting anger, expecting hatred, disgust, maybe even hurt.

But not wide doe eyes, gazing at him as if he had just hung the moon and stars.

And that stole the breath from his lungs far more than anything would’ve.

“Yes…?” His voice came out hoarse.

“I—” you paused, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “I got your letter.”

He nodded slowly, like if he made any sudden movements you would disappear into thin air. You exhaled.

“You…you aren’t just saying those things, right?” It sounded so dumb coming from your lips, like it all could’ve been revealed as a cruel prank at any moment. But the letter was sitting like a boulder in your backpack, and you couldn’t not address it.

Mike shook his head quickly. “No,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, adding more firmly, “no. I—I mean it. A-and I get it if you don’t like me like that, or if you don’t like me at all now, but I just—I had to say it, I had to. Because you’ve, like, never had a good Valentine’s Day and I couldn’t stand by and let this one be bad too, and especially since I already…really like you, but I understand if it was too far, if you want I can just leave you alone from now on, or something, I don’t know—”

“Mike.”

“—But I had to say something, ‘cause it felt like I was gonna drown if I didn’t. Because I like you, okay? I’ve been liking you since, I don’t know, September? And that sounds so weird and creepy—”

“Mike.”

“—And I know I’m not really good at explaining this stuff. But sometimes it’s not really my fault, okay? ‘Cause when you look at me sometimes it feels like…yes?”

It seemed his brain finally caught up with his mouth, and he realized that you were trying to talk just as he was about to say something mushy. But too late, you looked interested in what he was going to say.

“Wait, what?”

“What?”

You gave an amused huff. “What did you just say?”

“I—” he panics, “a lot of things. I say a lot of things,”

Your lips spread into a disbelieving smile, and he can’t help but offer a shaky one in return.

“No, Mike,” you roll your eyes, “what was the last thing you were going to say? About when I look at you?”

Oh. There was no getting out of this.

He sighs, dropping his gaze. He mutters something like ‘knees and whatever’, and you squint, laughter bubbling its way up your throat. “What? You’re gonna have to speak up.”

The tips of Mike’s ears tinge red, and he scoffs. “When you…look at me,” he looks like you’re forcing him to admit to a federal crime. “I…my knees, they go…weak.”

Wow, okay. That was a very nice feeling that was blooming through your chest. You stepped forward, making Mike’s eyes flit nervously up to you again. But this time, you were smiling at him.

“Mine too.” You said it quietly, your voice only meant for him. And whatever wire that was connecting the neurons in his brain short circuited momentarily, leaving him speechless. 

A strange, small sound came from the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down, cheeks fading pink. Yours followed, and you gave a little chuckle at the sheer teenage-ness of it all.

“I guess that’s, uh, a good sign, then?” You tilted your head, folding your hands behind your back.

“Guess so…” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “So…do you…what do you…?” He sighed, and you waited. “I mean…what do you think? Of, like, the letter?”

He cringed at his own words, feeling it deep in his soul. But luckily, your lips just widened into a grin.

“I think this is the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

“Yeah?” He said hopefully.

“Definitely.” You took a step closer, your heart beating hard. “And…yes. I, um, want to be your girlfriend.” 

It felt like the most juvenile, immature thing ever, but what were you supposed to say when you were this giddy, this overjoyed? It looked like Mike literally melted, his entire face relaxing into a soft smile. His eyebrows, those overly expressive eyebrows, drew up as his smile morphed into a grin, matching yours.

“Really? No bullshit?” He asked.

“No bullshit,” you confirmed, chuckling. He took a half step towards you, both of your faces softening. Your hands found each other, fingers brushing together before you gently took his in yours, interlacing them.

It was like you were pulled in by gravity, gazing into his deep brown eyes until you felt spellbound by them. And if you were spellbound, then it wasn’t your fault if you moved forward until your chests were separated by a mere three inches, right? And you weren’t guilty if you brought your free hand up to cup Mike’s cheek, correct?

His breath hitched at first—you had never been this close—but he couldn’t help but relax and lean into your touch, his free hand (previously hanging uselessly at his side) hovering over your hip hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure where to touch.

It’s not like you knew what you were doing, but you shifted closer anyway. Both of you leaned in until you could feel the other’s breath ghosting over your faces. You leaned in until you could count the freckles dotting his cheeks, until he could see each of your eyelashes. You leaned in until the tip of his nose bumped yours, and you let out a silent giggle. 

“Can I…?” Mike whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips. You responded by pressing them to his, kissing him for the first time, making him your first kiss. 

But if you had any say in it, it wouldn’t be your last with him.

His lips were warm against yours, just slightly chapped but full and supple. He tasted slightly like cheap Valentine’s candy, the powdery kind that your mom picks up at the value store and leaves in a jar around the house. It took a full three seconds for Mike to kiss you back, but when he did, it was so soft and sweet and emotional that your heart felt like it was going to burst.

You kissed Mike until you were out of breath. Both of you were clumsy and, at times, misaligned, but it was so worth it. Because when you pulled away, panting, his lips followed yours like he would kiss you until he was tempting death if it were up to him. 

“That…” He huffed, out of breath. “You—we, uh—”

You shut him up with another kiss, your fingers sliding from his cheek to his hair, burying themselves in his raven curls. He made a small noise, almost like a yelp, but melted into it, letting his fingers travel over your waist.

It was magical, the way he felt against you, lips moving back and forth in a dance neither of you knew but were determined to learn. And when you two finally pulled away for a substantial amount of time, he asked you:

“Does this mean I can take you out?”

And all you could say was:

“Yes. Obviously.”

A/N: holy wow okay so i actually think this kind of sucks, but i promised i would post something for valentine's day so i will deliver!! thank you guys so much for reading this, i had fun with it and it was my first time writing a kiss scene 😭 (lmfao you can probably tell) Anyways I'm gonna go drink some water now, thank you again for reading and stay tuned for more!

-DMIS

thanks to @kodaswrld and @lobster-graphics for these beautiful dividers <3

Ash motes floated and waltzed with wildflower pollen in the now quiet meadow. The scent of singed grass and lingering magic still weighed heavy in the air, for the battle had only ended an hour ago. The afternoon birds chirped their cheerful tune, finally feeling safe enough to resume their choir. Bees still buzzed about, ants still scurried to and fro, and the occasional rabbit still hopped through, flicking its puffy tail.

But Sir Michael Wheeler was aware of none of it as he stumbled through the greenery, armor clanking loudly. He had finally found his sword after being disarmed earlier; now all he needed was to find a good place to rest and wait for his party to return.

But this proved much easier said than done, because he felt as though his limbs had been transformed to lead, the heavy iron plates that covered them only adding to the burden. His muscles protested with every step he took, each taking turns between aching and burning, but nonetheless, he trudged on slowly. There was no telling when the enemy would return, nor when his party would come looking for him. He hoped the latter would come soon and the former not at all.

After what felt like eternity, Mike crossed the meadow and entered the woods, where he hoped he would be safe to lay low for a short while. Leaves crunched underfoot, gnarled tree roots protruding from the ground like the feet of giants, just waiting to be tripped upon. Bird calls he didn't recognize fluttered through the mosaic of green leaves above, bright sunlight filtering through like a stage play. Out of sight, the sound of a creek running and frogs croaking made its way to his ears. If he wasn't so weary, Mike might've stopped to appreciate the scenery.

At long last, he reached a small lake in the middle of a clearing, complete with willow trees and lily pads in bloom. The sun hung lower now, casting a goldenrod glow over anything it touched. Finally, Mike stopped ten paces from the shoreline, letting his satchel fall to the ground before his knees followed. The air here was sweet; unpolluted by civilization, humidified by the late spring warmth. The aroma of fresh blossoms filled his senses—iris, marigolds, water lilies—not quite familiar, yet it made his chest settle with peace. If he weren't being held together by his armor plates, he might've melted into the grass right then and there.

Just a lay-down, he thought, resting against a nearby tree trunk, the leafy branches providing the perfect amount of shade. A couple hours rest, but stay alert.

For the first ten minutes, he kept his promise, busying himself with sorting out his belongings and repairing what had been damaged. For the next twenty, he stared blankly at the glittering lake; anyone looking on might've said he looked deep in thought, but that certainly wasn't the case. He was simply too tired to think much of anything for too long, his inner monologue cutting itself off with silence every other sentence. As the sun sank lower and lower into the deep blue sky, it became increasingly harder for Mike to fight off sleep.

As the clouds began to tinge pink and the cicadas came out from hiding, he finally gave into the will of his drooping eyelids. His last half-formed thought was, just a few minutes won't hurt.

Mike didn't know when he had started, but he was running. Not from anyone or anything, though—that was a nice change. No, he was running for pleasure, something he hadn't done in many years. His chest felt elated with the freedom of simple linen clothes in contrast with the everyday iron he bore. His bare hands were outstretched on either side of him, brushing over the soft awns and sturdy stems of wheat stalks. He felt light—like at any point he might actually start lifting off the ground and flying without any magic spell.

He wasn't aware of how long he ran, only that when he stopped, it was to appreciate something beautiful. Something that he had caught in the corner of his eye, glinting in the golden luminescence of the wheat field. He slowed his pace, approaching it carefully. He wasn't sure what it was; if he tilted his head one way, he could make out a face, but if he shifted even slightly, it would transfigure into something different.

Finally, he stopped right in front of it. At this point, it stung his eyes to look at it directly, but even as he shielded his face with his forearm, Mike couldn't tear his gaze from it. It would be useless to try to describe it with any other word than magnificent, a bright shining light in all its glory, rivaling the sun in its radiance. Mike felt a deep sense, inexplicable sense of peace wash over him the closer he inched, warmth spreading up from his toes to the very center of his heart, until—

His eyes fluttered open all too soon and just at the right time, it felt like. It had been a very nice dream, but all dreams have to end at some point, right? And now he felt the pain of his injuries rushing back to him in full force, earning a low groan and a deep grimace. He felt bruised all over, every muscle like pudding on his aching bones. There were so many points of affliction that it took a minute for him to register that something was pressing against one.

Still half-awake, Mike's eyes drifted down from the sky to his torso, which was now exposed and wrapped with…leaves? He didn't remember doing that. Then, slowly, apprehensively, he turned his head to the right.

Almost instantly, as if plunged into ice-cold water, he jerked fully awake, letting out a small yelp. The creature gasped in surprise, it's head whipping toward him as if being caught at the scene of a crime. It was then that Mike realized this wasn't a creature—at least not anything he'd encountered before. No, it seemed to be a girl. And an ethereal on at that. Mike felt his heart stutter out of something other than fear or surprise.

"H—hello," he whispered hoarsely, before clearing his throat, "wh—what are you doing?"

You looked like a startled animal, eyes wide and frozen in place. You were holding a wad of blood-stained cotton like it was a totem of protection. Painfully slow, you lowered your hand. Mike blinked twice, hard, making sure you weren't some sort of mirage; you certainly looked the part. He was just about to open his mouth again when you spoke.

"Apologies, knight." your voice sounded like, well, nectar and ambrosia, for lack of a better expression. You could've been berating him and he wouldn't be any less enchanted. "I was only tending your wounds."

"O—oh," he breathed, "right." He had nothing else to say—all comprehensive thoughts seemed to have flown out of his mind in the wake of your beauty.

"…I shall leave you be, then," you started to stand, assuming that your presence was unwanted; it was most definitely unpermitted, for if any of your fellow sprites discovered you associating with a human, they would surely exile you.

"No, no," Mike said suddenly, reaching out for your hand but stopping halfway, remembering himself. "You are quite welcome, my lady, if you wish to stay." He almost winced at his own desperation, but already felt that your absence would be far worse than his blundering in your presence.

You paused, eyes gazing into his for several moments. He felt a heat of embarrassment crawl it ugly way up his cheeks, before your lips twitched up in a small, grateful smile. Mike swore he never saw anything that could compare.

"Very well, Sir…" You trailed, bending down to your knees again. Oh, yes, he had a name.

"Michael," he blurted, a second too late, "Sir Michael Wheeler."

You smiled again, offering your own name. He tested it under his breath, committing it to memory.

"You seem to have suffered a great battle," you dabbed gently at his abdomen once more, fingers tracing feather-light across the gash. His skin tingled, though he wasn't sure whether it was for a healing charm or for the simple contact. "Have you a party?"

He nodded once, his head feeling strangely light. "Y—yes, we were—ah—separated." He hissed through his teeth as you wrapped a long, unfamiliar-looking leaf around the laceration. You offered a sympathetic look.

"It will sting at first, but it draws out the toxins." You explained, smoothing the plant over with your slender fingers and caressing the surrounding skin. He could've melted then and there.

"Tell me," you continued, moving on to his arm, which had weathered a nasty burn. "Is the adventure worth the pain?" It wasn't a sarcastic question. In fact, your voice carried a hint of longing as you asked it, biting at the inside of your cheek as you spread some sort of greenish paste across the tender skin. It prickled at first, then settled like water over the redness, soothing and balmy.

"When you're at the worst of it, no," Mike answered honestly, watching your hair sway in the silver moonlight as his stammering heart tried to catch up. "But at times like this…yes." He didn't mean to be flirtatious, but the truth slipped out of him.

Your eyes widened a fraction, flitting up to his. You internally thanked Artemis for her veil of darkness, otherwise he would've been able to see the bright flush spreading across your cheeks like the vines of wisteria. "You flatter me, Sir Michael." You smiled, dabbing absentmindedly at a small cut on his hand.

"I only speak with verity," he said shyly, studying the blades of grass under his other arm. You felt your heart splutter—Gods, if anyone were here to see you fawning over this human, you'd be disgraced. But strangely, it felt well worth it just to be here with him. Before you could get your bearings, you found yourself slowly raising his bruised knuckles to your lips, planting the softest kiss to them.

His eyes found yours again, startled but not in the slightest disgusted. You lowered his hand again, coughing just slightly to hide your abashedness. "Pardon me, the kiss of a nymph is…healing." It wasn't entirely untruthful—your own mother used to kiss your scrapes better—but in plainness, the kiss of a nymph was no more 'healing' than one of a frog.

"Well, then," Mike laughed gently, his chest filling with a warm, fuzzy feeling, "kiss at your will."

You suppressed a grin at his words, a mischievous idea swirling in your mind. What if there was a bruise across his cheek? Even better, a wound on his lower lip? The wiser part of you scolded it, but you couldn't help the longing feeling that was beginning to take hold in your heart. He had just given you permission, after all.

Meanwhile, Mike was waging war against his own thoughts, chastising himself for being so forward with a lady, one of whom he'd just met. And a nymph, no less! There was no doubt there were rules that prohibited nymphs and naiads to romance with humans; Lucas had warned him about this sort of scenario, most likely from personal experience.

And yet, here he was, gaping in the moonlight in the presence of one he didn't deserve. You looked more magical and breathtaking than anything he'd ever been graced with, and you were there, of your own accord, might he add, taking care of him. It was hard to have one's head on straight in these sorts of situations. Especially when one could just lean forward and—

Crunch.

Both your head and Mike's snapped toward the sound, hearts racing in sync. What was that?

Your grip on his hand tightened, like you were either bracing yourself or getting ready to flee. His eyes flitted everywhere, trying to gauge whether he should leave or stay close. You turned to him, putting a single finger up to your lips before you let go of his hand, standing silently.

With bated breath, Mike watched as you crept around the clearing, checking for signs of any intruder. He tried not to move a muscle, but his fingers twitched involuntarily on the grass, as if itching to reach out for you again.

At last, it seemed as if all was well. You turned back to him, wearing a relieved smile, before—

“Psst!” A voice called to you, making you whip around in less than an instant. “What in heavens are you doing?”

Your heart lurched into your throat, beating so violently you were sure it was echoing through the woods. “Thysa,” you gasped, before remembering she had a very incriminating question. “C—couldn’t sleep,” you stammered quickly, taking a small step to the left to hide Mike from her view.

“Must be all that mint tea,” she tutted, shaking her head. “Look at you, you’re all jittery from it! Haven’t I been telling you to pause your consumption?” She scolded, but you were grateful for the excuse.

“R—right. Sorry, Thysa.” You fiddled with the edge of your gown, trying to calm your nerves. “I will be up in just a moment, I just need to—” you gestured vaguely at nowhere in particular, “—get my bearings. You scared me, you know.”

She rolled her eyes, folding her arms and tapping her fingers upon the inner elbow. “So very skittish nowadays,” she commented, “very well, then. But no more than five minutes, and then I will be impatient.”

You nodded fervently, praying to your gods she would make haste with her departure. But luck was not yet on your side. “Oh, and one more thing,” Thysa added, pivoting back to you. You suppressed a frustrated groan and tried to look interested.

“Yes?” You asked, hoping you didn’t sound panicked. She looked at you for a long moment, as if studying you. You swore you felt a bead of sweat slide down the nape of your neck.

“Don’t forget to bless the lilies, yes?” She tilted her head at you.

Your head bobbed again, and you almost let out a sigh of relief before recalling that her words usually wouldn’t warrant that if you were, in fact, not hiding anything. So you bid her goodnight once more and watched her go until she was completely out of sight.

Finally, you walked back toward Mike, a disappointed look on your features. He exhaled a breath, gazing up at you. “I do not know how to thank you,” he breathed, eyebrows drawn close in gratitude.

You smiled, kneeling down beside him once more. “There is no need to, Sir Michael.” You told him, “However, I must tell you—we have not much time now, for I must return to the others. I truly do apologize,” you added, your hand sliding over his before you could think about it.

He bowed his head, looking slightly crestfallen. “I understand, my lady,” he assured you, eyeing you with an expression of adoration. “My time with you, however short, has been unforgettable.”

Your poor heart, having had so many stumbles already tonight, skipped yet again. “I feel the same,” you muttered, trying not to sound too winded. For a long moment, you stared at each other; the same sort of longing in his eyes was visible in yours. His raven locks curled around his forehead, framing his face like the painting it was. Your fingers interlaced with his, thumb brushing affectionately over his knuckles.

Then, as if drawn forward by gravity, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. Mike froze, his mind spluttering to a halt, before it restarted and he found himself kissing you back. It was as if the entire world was slowing down, each of you lost in the other’s embrace, never wanting to let go. When you eventually pulled away, his lips and cheeks were flushed pink, making his freckles stand out like constellations against his alabaster complexion. You never saw something so wonderful, and he never felt so alive and, well, smitten.

“Goodnight, Sir Michael Wheeler,” you murmured softly, slowly withdrawing. His eyes, honey brown and glistening in the moonlight, followed you with a sort of reverence you’d never experienced.

“Goodnight to you, too,” he whispered breathlessly, feeling dazed and tingly. “May we meet again.”

You grinned, committing the sight of him lying there, perfect in the silver darkness to memory. “May we meet again.”

A/N #2: EEEKK hope y'all enjoyed!! Should i make a part two for this? I do have some ideas 👀 anyways, thank you all so so much for 100+ followers, I really want to do you guys justice! GINORMOUS thank you to @0nlybitt3r4may for reading, love you spousey!! I love you all, I'm going to go eat something now hehe

-DMIS

Light yellow beams of afternoon sun filtered through your sheer curtains, painting soft patterns across your room. It was the perfect example of a boring, unnecessarily hot summer day. And with nothing else to do, of course you invited your boyfriend over to read comics and listen to music...is what you told your parents you'd be doing.

And to be fair, you did tune your portable radio to your favorite station, and you did flip through most of a comic. But how could anyone expect you to ignore the way Mike's lips looked, all flushed and parted in the heat of the day?

So here you were now, your comic issues, long forgotten and discarded to the floor as Mike sat right across from you, lips moving clumsily over yours. Neither of you were very experienced when it came to kissing, both of you barely fourteen, but it hardly mattered when he was so close he was quite literally connected to you.

You tilted your head to try to angle it better, letting out a little hum as you felt his nose nudge your cheek. You had to spend weeks convincing him to stop breaking kisses just because his nose would bump or poke some part of your face, making heat rush to his own in self-consciousness. He almost didn't believe you when you assured him you didn't care, that you actually liked his nose and that his face was literally one of the main reasons you fell in love with him in the first place, so why would you mind it now?

Your thumb glided slowly over his cheek, eyelids lifting to appreciate all the freckles you could see from this close up. You liked to keep your eyes open when you kissed Mike. It was a little odd, yes, but you couldn't help yourself; he was simply too beautiful to not be stared at—in the way a girlfriend is allowed to ogle her boyfriend, obviously.

"You're staring at me, aren't you?" Mike muttered between kisses. Sometimes, you could swear he was psychic.

"Mmm…so what if I am?" You replied, "'S that a crime?"

He chuckled low in his chest, almost inaudible.

"No, just…not used to it." It was truly amazing how determined you were to keep your lips in contact even through laughter and choppy conversation.

"Well, y'better, cause I like to…appreciate art." Sure, it was cheesy, but you have to admit it was a little smooth.

But instead of laughing or swooning, Mike pulled away abruptly, looking at you with a strange expression. Almost instantly, your cheeks burned. You didn't mean to make him uncomfortable.

"…Too much?" You probed, wincing as he just kept watching you. You were half-convinced he was about to walk out when he finally spoke up:

"What? No, no," he said quickly, placing a reassuring hand over where your still rested on the side of his face. "It's just…no one's ever, uh, said that before…about me, anyway."

You furrowed an eyebrow. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to be creepy or whatever, I just…I dunno," you sighed, gaze dropping as you muttered, "I just really love the way you look."

Mike paused again, tilting his head into your hand. "Really?"

You nodded somewhat hesitantly. "Well…yeah, I mean, look at you, you're," you gestured vaguely with your free hand, "ethereal, for lack of a better word." You blushed, but he grinned.

"What? Me?" His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing slightly. "Ethereal?"

You shrugged, letting out a small laugh through your nose. You could tell he wasn't letting this go any time soon.

"Yes, you, Mike. You're very gorgeous." Might as well play into it, right?

He beamed again, scooting impossibly closer to you so that your noses brushed again. "…You mean it?" He whispered, holding your gaze like if he said it too loud your words would suddenly vanish.

You nodded slowly, not looking away. "Yeah…I do."

He practically jumped forward again, catching your lips in a sweet and almost overjoyed kiss. His hands came to either side of your face, cradling you there like you were the most precious thing in the world. A small noise of surprise escaped your throat before you melted into him again, practically putty in his hands. So yeah, even if they are a little clumsy, Mike's lips are truly a masterpiece.

A/N: errr...idk what to say about this one guys, i wrote it very late at night sorry if its buns

thank you to @pixopix for these lovely dividers and to @0nlybitt3r4may for beta reading!

You were a city girl.

You were born in one and raised in several more. And though moving wasn't a foreign concept to you, living in anything other than a city certainly was.

So imagine your surprise when your very city-folk parents announced to you, their very city-folk daughter, that you'd be moving from Chicago to a small town in Indiana that you'd never even heard of. 'For a change of scenery', was their excuse. You suspected it had more to do with money, or lack thereof.

Nevertheless, you ended up in the 'charming'—or so your mother dubbed it—town of Hawkins, smack dab in the middle of Summer. It took almost seven hours of driving (and getting lost once or twice) before you finally pulled up to your new house. Your legs felt like the muscles were atrophying, and you got out of the car with a small groan, leaning against the door for support as you stretched them out.

Your little brother, Josh, was already racing up to the porch when you sighed ans slammed the car door shut. You took in your surroundings, inhaling the air of rural-adjacent suburbia. The air here was much different than you were used to; it was richer, sweeter, unpolluted. At least there was that.

The house was, well, big. Bigger than the pocket-sized apartments you grew up in, anyway. A bedroom for your parents, one for your brother, one for guests, and one for you—up until now, you'd always shared with Josh, which caused more arguments than you could care to count.

Now, you'd actually have your own space, and with that came a new, different sense of freedom. As you opened the door to your new sanctuary, you were met with a pleasant surprise; the room was cute. It was on the second floor with a Juliet balcony; there were some nice big windows with ruffly curtains already installed; and the closet was huge.

You took it all in, standing in the middle of the empty room with a smile you weren't even aware of. You were already thinking of where you'd put your stuff when your mother called from downstairs—right, the boxes.

You clambered down the steps, legs still a bit uncoordinated. You followed your dad outside and to the small trailer he'd rented, watching him pull up the door and grab a box. You did the same, opting for a smaller, lighter one that was less likely to break your arms. And thus began the process of unloading and fumbling with cardboard cartons to see which rooms they were assigned to.

You were on your fourth trip out to the car when you saw it—or rather, him. A tall, gangly, raven-haired boy around your age, riding down your street on a bike that was beginning to be too small for him. You didn't know why, but you found yourself staring at him, standing completely still with a heavy-ass box in your hands. He slowed down as he approached, eyes flitting to the trailer, the house, then finally landing on you. You gave him a small smile.

"Hello," he called, slowing to a stop but not dismounting yet, "d'you need any help?"

You blinked, realizing he was, indeed, talking to you. "Oh, uh…" You trailed, looking to the open trailer (still full of stuff) to the burden in your arms, feeling it slip ever so slightly as if on cue. "Maybe," you admitted with a sheepish grin

He returned it, hopping of his bike and walking over to you, letting you transfer the weight to him. He was stronger than he looked, you thought.

"Thanks," you told him gratefully.

"No problem. I'm Mike, by the way," he added, "I live just down the block."

You nodded and gave him your name in return, reaching in for another box. "I live right here," you joked, but then immediately wanted to grimace.

Thankfully, he laughed, though whether it was because he actually found it funny or if it was out of pity was lost on you. Either way, you were glad for the help, and your parents were, too. The only one that seemed to not appreciate Mike's presence was the only one not helping carry boxes—your brother.

He sat on the porch with his jeans rolled halfway up his calves, a Popsicle (where the hell did he get that from?) melting in his hand. He eyed Mike suspiciously as he passed, and when the latter introduced himself, all he said was: "Are you here to forninacate my sister? She's got cooties, y'know."

All you could do in that moment was close your eyes, try to ignore your flaming cheeks, and pray to anyone listening that they would smite down you, your brother, and everyone in this neighborhood.

"My brother, Josh." You mustered calmly through gritted teeth, gesturing to your brother who was currently blowing a raspberry at you. Mike's cheeks were bright red, and you wished you would miraculously die in your sleep tonight, but he just laughed it off again. You were relieved he didn't turn the other way and run, but as he turned, you looked over your shoulder at Joshua, a grim expression on your face as you dragged your thumb across your throat and mouthed, 'you're dead'.

"Sorry about him, he's…got a large vocabulary." You told Mike as you caught up, shaking your head in regret that your parents decided to have another child.

"No worries," he smiled, though his face was still a little pink. "I've got a little sister around his age, I know how it is."

You smiled, reassured, and opened the garage door for him. After that, conversation came easily. The topic flowed from bands you liked to your favorite movies, which led to you finding out that he played D&D:

"No way, you too?" You asked casually, a bit taken aback when his eyes widened comically.

"What do you mean, 'you too'? You play?!" He leaned forward, looking like he was checking if you were messing with him.

"What?" You chuckled nervously, "Is that a crime I'm not aware of or something?"

He blinked, pulling back again like he just realized how close he was. You felt relieved, but also slightly…disappointed?

"No, I just—sorry, I guess I thought someone like you wouldn't even know what it was." He said, running a hand through his hair.

"'Someone like me'?" You scoffed playfully, "So, what, girls can't play?"

"What? No, no, " he panicked, looking almost horrified, "not like that, I just meant—I actually know other girls who play, I was just—"

"He's saying he thinks you're sexy!" Josh hollered from the other room. Your teasing grin evaporated in less than an instant.

"You shut your fat mouth, Josh!" You yelled angrily, "You shouldn't even know that word!"

"Sorry," you sighed to Mike, whose face was currently a very concerning shade of red. Too bad you were too busy kicking the baseboards to notice.

"A—all good," he assured you, though his stutter didn't make it very convincing.

All too soon, the last box had been delivered to the laundry room, and the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky. Your almost asked Mike to stay for dinner before she remembered there'd be no dinner suitable to serve guests for a little while with the state of the barren kitchen, so they settled for next week instead.

"Thanks a million, Mike," you told him as you walked him to the door, hands in your pockets.

"It's no problem, really," he gave you a soft smile that had your heart doing somersaults.

"My mom's gonna go all out next week, y'know." You joked, looking down at your shoes with a dumb smile that you really couldn't control.

"Can't wait," he said, reaching for the doorknob (though he didn't really want to leave just yet.)

"Yeah, me either," you said, though you weren't actually talking about your mom's cooking anymore. Your voice carried a hint of sincerity; you already missed him and he wasn't even gone. "Well…bye, Mike." You looked up again, meeting his honey brown eyes with yours.

He grinned, "Bye, see you soon."

After you shut the door, you leaned up against it, beaming stupidly at the ceiling. Outside, Mike skipped—something he was not known to do—as he went to pick up his bike from your lawn.

So, maybe Hawkins, Indiana wasn't going to be the end of your life after all.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed, anon! Sorry this took so long, I was wracking my brain for ideas with this one 😓 anyways, if you liked it, feel free to like, reblog, comment your thoughts, or request something! Love you all 🫶

-DMIS