⋆˚࿔ wrenwrites 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The night had been long, but the details were blurry. Kenny had been late to the party—and to be honest, you’d only really gone to see him. After Stan and Kyle introduced you to the bartender, you’d started drinking—without Kenny there, and after you’d gone off your meds last month, your new drinking habit turned into a marathon of Boston Iced Teas, three, maybe four, later. Vodka, rum, gin, coffee liqueur, amaretto, and cranberry juice.

“You sure about this one? It ain’t for lightweights.” Stan had asked you.

“I’m not a lightweight,” you’d retaliated.

You were definitely not a lightweight, but it turned out, maybe you were a bit of a mess when drunk.

You remember bits and pieces after that.

Kyle, Stan, and Cartman hovering around you like an awkward trio of bodyguards—Stan had been drunk too, and Kyle concerned and pissed off at Cartman, who couldn’t stop laughing at you.

Kenny had arrived shortly after, and with one glance at you, his demeanor changed completely.

You remember this one moment perfectly.

Kenny’s eyes locked on yours, and you stared at up at him off the floor like he was the most perfect thing you’d ever seen.

You were so drunk, the music of the party became a distant cacophony of bass, twisting your imagination. Kenny’s ruffled blonde hair and tired blue-gray eyes became your compass in the confusing sea of partygoers.

He had hoisted you up with surprising ease.

“I’m taking you home.” He’d said. Firmly, with no room for disagreement—not that you had any.

Cartman jabbed and whispered something to Kenny, whose eyes seemed to darken in annoyance.

“She’s not just a body, Cartman, you fucking asshole,” he snapped back, to which Cartman’s response was murmured and indignant but incoherent in your state.

After saying goodbye to Kyle and Stan, the two of you had made it to Kenny’s beat-up old truck before you even realized.

The drive home was uneventful. Neither you nor Kenny had said a single thing. He’d done it all wordlessly.

Ushered you into his house without a word.

Helped you run a quick shower and remove your cheap glittery dress without a word—not even a flirtatious comment about seeing you naked.

Left his orange hoodie and boxers in a pile by the door so you had something to change into—all without a single word.

Your patience grew into longing as you lay on his bed, surrounded by his scent and by his things, but noticeably and unfortunately missing him.

You wandered around the house aimlessly until you walked into the living room, where Kenny was sprawled across the old couch, socked feet hanging precariously off the arm.

“What are you doingggg?” You slurred sleepily, shuffling over to him swaddled in one of his blankets.

He turns over and looks at you incredulously.

“Sleeping?” he replied, eyebrows raised.

“Nuh-uh,” you retorted. “You’re awake.”

He blinked at you, as if unsure how to respond to this observation.

“Come to bed,” you yawned. “It’s sad without you.”

He blinked again, this time, seemingly processing what you were saying.

“I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you or—” Kenny started.

“Bed,” you demanded simply, making a hilariously dramatic gesture with your hand cloaked in blanket.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, then followed you back into his room where you flopped onto the bed with an unceremonious oomf.

He crawled in next you. After some convincing by way of you shuffling closer, he relented and put his arms around you fully. You made a soft sigh of content into his chest.

He shifted awkwardly, huffing a small breath and putting part of a pillow over his lap.

“Kenny.” You teased.

“Shut up,” he murmured and kissed the top of your head. “Shut up.”

You nuzzled your face into his neck and, without your presence of mind, kissed it absentmindedly, taking in his scent.

“You really need to stop drinking,” he murmured in response, voice husky and quiet. “But I’m glad you’re not hurting yourself anymore. I’m…I’m really proud, actually…” He stroked your back, his fingers tracing through the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mmf,” you murmured happily into his chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” He played with your hair carefully.

You slowly drifted off, but not before hearing him whisper—

“With the janitor, yes, I’ve heard,” Jason interrupted me dryly, staring at me blankly as I continued to make a mess of my filing cabinet. “Where is he taking you, anyway? Olive Garden and then back to his room in his mom’s basement?”

I repressed a laugh, and instead plastered a scornful look on my face, pursing my lips.

“Don’t be arrogant,” I scolded him lightly, but the amusement glittering in his dark eyes told me he saw through my righteously offended mask.

“Yes, I’m very sorry, I don’t mean to insult your knight in shining coveralls,” Jason said with an air of mock-seriousness, leaning back in his chair and looking annoyingly nonchalant. “I’m sure he’ll wine and dine you before making you split the bill. And I’m sure he’s washed his sheets…at least once this month. And I’m sure he’ll make you cum…or he’ll try his best. And—”

“Jason, enough,” I cut him off, face burning bright red with embarrassment. What a dick. “Can you just help me find the form? It’s the release form for our health inspection liability policy…we need to renew it.”

“Ohhh, that one. Yes. I’ve had it on my desk for an hour.” He held up a paper, twirling it in his hand dramatically. “I’m sorry, looks like I accidentally made you miss your date.”

I stood in the middle of the carpet between the desk, pure confusion etched into my expression as I stared at Jason, who looked just about as ashamed as a petulant child.

“But…you knew I was looking for that?” I asked, voice quiet. His face crumpled a little bit at my slightly hurt tone before he regained his composure.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice even and gentle. “I did…I didn’t want you to go on your date.”

I stared at him, confused.

"I haven’t had a date in a really long time, I…have I not been doing enough work for the quota? I can put in some overtime, I j—”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. It was stupid and childish of me to keep the dumb paper.” Jason clarified. He stood up from his desk chair quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to go because he’s a creep and I don’t trust him. Not with you.”

“I know, but, I haven’t been invited out in a while, and I thought I should…I don’t know, set my standards lower.” I explained, somewhat ashamedly.

Jason laughed darkly, shaking his head again. “I’m pretty sure that dude is below the standard for any girl that looks or thinks like you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I replied, eyes round and confused again. Why on Earth was this guy complimenting me right now?

Jason looked at me incredulously for a second, then sighed, as if giving up some internal battle he’d been fighting with himself.

“Look. You’re pretty and you’re smart and you have the talent to do a lot more than check my e-mails. And you’re certainly meant for better than that creepy ass janitor. You deserve…way better,” he trailed off, staring at the window. The huge, floor to ceiling glass panels made up each wall of our huge shared office. He walked to the control box by the door and typed in the code. The glass panels darkened, the shadowy tint on them increasing—no one could see in or out of this office. All of the lights were off, so Jason’s form was only illuminated by the small slivers of moonlight coming in through the tops of the tinted glass, or the ebbing headlights of late-night commuters going home down on the highway, seeping in through the bottom of the glass.

“Look. I know this is fucking stupid to say, okay? I know that. But I’m so tired of seeing you chase after these worthless ass men. And I want…fuck, I want to take care of you, and I want to help you realize you’re worth more than that. And I know it’s weird because I’m your boss, but…I don’t…I hate seeing you get hurt, okay? That’s why I kept the dumb release form.” Jason’s voice was so quiet it was barely a whisper, but the dark and completely silent, empty floor of our office made his words clearer than ever.

“You want…you think I deserve…you?” I ask, voice silent. I’m not used to sounding so small. I don’t really like it, but with Jason, it doesn’t feel so scary.

“You deserve more than me,” he laughed softly. "But it’s a good start. For one…I’d take you out to a real restaurant. You know, sommeliers and folded napkins. And another thing? I know I could make you cum because I’ve done it before. Just because you act like that New Year’s office party didn’t happen doesn’t mean that I forgot it.”

A shiver ran down my spine. He seemed to be getting closer with every word, and the janitor and the release form were going and fading into the background of my mind, barely even thoughts. My mind was focused on right here, right now—in the safe, dark, private shared office, and Jason was pressing his lips to mine.

It wasn’t a rough, sloppy kiss—not like the New Year’s party, which had been the result of too many Jell-O shots and a midnight hour, and ended up with me waking up in his annoyingly expensive silk sheets the next morning—no, this one was calculated, almost nervous in nature, as if he was afraid to offend me.

As if spurring him forward, I kicked off my chunky black corporate heels, opting to stand on my tip toes and reaching up to loosen his immaculately ironed dress shirt collar. He groaned into my mouth, a deep but raw sound, as I grazed the spot where his jaw met his ear with my fingers. I loosened his tie with one hand and cleared off my desk of papers with the other, not really caring where they landed because paperwork could wait until morning and Jason could definitely not.

He pulled back for breath, leaning his forehead against mine, as I hopped up onto the desk and put one thigh at each of his hips. I pulled him in again with my legs around his waist, and he kissed me fervently this time. He pressed his wet tongue to my bottom lip, pleading for entry, and I obliged him with an embarrassingly enthusiastic whine. I could feel a bulge in his suit pants, pressed in the crux of my thigh and my pussy through my thin tights. He was fisting the fabric of my houndstooth skirt in his hands, practically white-knuckling it, but he hadn’t let himself rub his erection against my thigh yet, because he was a gentleman (when he wanted to be).

“Clothes off?” I murmured, dragging my hand down his button-up. He looked uncharacteristically nervous, his hair a little mussed up. I leaned up and kissed his cheek tenderly, trying to ease his worries. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing swathes of lean muscle and bare torso. He undid his belt with shaky hands and forwent his suit pants. He reached up for his tie, but I took his hand.

“Leave the tie?” I murmured, biting my bottom lip softly. His eyes glimmered with arousal and amusement.

“Fuckin’ freak,” he teased playfully, although I withheld my comment about his huge hard-on in his boxers. He grabbed my blouse, and, after waiting a second for me to back out, began taking off my clothes feverishly one by one. He took off my blouse first, then my bra, then my skirt—he left the tights for a second, before looking at me meaningfully.

“Can I touch you? Please?” He asked softly, palming and squeezing the flesh of my thigh. I nodded vigorously. The ache in my core was beginning to become painful with each passing moment on the cold office carpet.

Grinning mischievously, Jason grabbed at my tights and ripped them at the seams. He tore the fabric at the sides of my thighs, exposing my bare skin to the room.

“Jay!” I squeaked indignantly.

“Relax, baby, l’ll buy you two more pairs. I promise.” He murmured, leaning forward to kiss me again.

I sucked on his tongue, too lost in the sensation to notice him slipping down my panties.

He brushed the pad of his thumb against my throbbing clit, applying a little pressure, and swirling it in tiny circles, apparently reveling in the fact I was already so wet for him, and let out an approving moan against my lips.

He thrust his first finger into me gently, but firmly—he was clearly pressing his pent up feelings into his hand, adding another digit and curling his fingers to hit the most sensitive spot. His fingers coated themselves in the hot wetness that gushed from my core, and the lewd noises coming from his ministrations echoed up to me, the sound of his fingers thrusting into my warm, velvety walls.

His other hand palmed at my tits, squeezing and massaging them as if for his own entertainment. He licked and sucked at my lips, murmuring little praises into them I couldn’t really hear but sent warm shivers through my body nonetheless.

“Jason,” I whispered, my voice silky and weak. “I don’t wanna finish on your fingers. Please, I don’t wanna wait, can you—mmh!”

I let out a noise of surprise as he withdrew his fingers from me, my pussy now clenching desperately around nothing. He grabbed my hips gently and took me to the floor, sitting himself down first and placing me on top of him. He groaned, staring at the slick of my pussy coating the fabric of his boxers.

“So fuckin’ pretty for me, baby,” he murmured, grinding his clothed hardness up into me. I moaned softly, and he smiled, kissing me on the head.

I whined into his neck, nipping and licking at the flesh there, the smell of the cologne he sprayed permeating my senses and making me feel fuzzy.

“Are you sure about this?” He whispered in my ear, kissing my temple carefully.

“Yes. Please,” I replied. I wanted his affection, and his lust, and I really did want him to take care of me like he said he would. I wanted to make him feel good too, more than anything, right now.

His breathing became hitched as he struggled out of his boxers and lined himself up with my entrance. He circled his tip around my clit, gathering up the lubricant of my wetness, and his eyes flickered back into his head for a moment, as if he could barely handle going slow right now.

Still, he slowly pushed into me, inch by inch, holding my hips steady above him and rubbing them, whispering encouragement as he pushed fully inside.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” he breathed out heavily, his tip finally kissing my cervix. I nodded dumbly, pressing my head against his shoulder, trying to adjust to the stretch. “You’re so goddamn tight, baby.” He kissed me on the head again, breathing heavily as he waited for me to get used to his shape inside of me.

It only took a minute or so for the burn of his size to level off into a trickle of white hot pleasure, stirring a molten feeling in my lower gut.

“Please, move. Please, Jay,” I whispered into his neck, tightening my grip on his firm upper arms. I spread my legs as wide as they would go, because I didn’t care how needy I looked, I just needed him as deep as possible.

It didn’t take him long to oblige me, fucking me firmly but not angry, filling me completely with hard, long strokes. I moaned out softly, wrapping my legs around his waist again, locking him in. The second I did that, his kiss-bitten lips parted, letting out guttural-sounding moans, soft whimpers of my name, and muttered expletives as he bucked and rutted into me.

I tightened around him, the feeling of his raw cock sliding into me and hitting all the right spots just too pleasurable for me to hold my composure very long. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. The second I tightened around him, my pussy clenching and fluttering around his hard length, his eyes were rolling into the back of his head again. His lips parted more, letting out more sweet moans and praises.

“Good fucking girl, fuck,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. His thrusts were becoming sloppier, less calculated, more desperate. “Please, cum, baby, I need you to cum on my dick.”

I moaned softly, crying out his name into his warm, bare chest as my pussy pulsed and I shivered with my impending orgasm.

“Jay, please, don’t stop,” I cried out, the pleasure hitting me like a tsunami, gushing hot all over his length, bucking my hips up uncontrollably.

“Yes, fuck, good job, ride it out, that’s my good girl—oh, shit, I’m so close,” he moaned, pressing his forehead against mine. I grasped at his arms again, kissing him feverishly—my body feeling like putty, my post-orgasm mind only telling me to shower him with affection. He whimpered loudly as I tugged his hair.

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna—god, I need to pull out, shit,” his voice broke, moaning incoherently as his hips stuttered quickly.

“Please don’t,” I wrapped my legs around his waist again, pulling him in deeper. His eyes widened, and he let out a surprised moan against my lips.

“Wh-what? You’re not on birth control—“

“Please, fucking please, cum in me,” I pleaded him. I didn’t know why, but I needed him to fill me up, to make me feel like he really WANTED me, fully.

“Ah, this is such a bad idea,” he moaned and whimpered, but he didn’t pull out—he grabbed my thighs and squeezed, my legs tightening around his waist, trapping him in. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna fill you up—holy fuck, hold me, kiss me—I love you so much—“

“I love you too,” I replied desperately, pressing his lips to mine.

He dissolved into pitchy moans and desperate whimpers as I kissed him, hard, feeling sticky ropes of his release coat my insides, feeling the bubbly euphoria fill up my chest.

We laid there for a long while after that, entangled on the floor of our shared office, skin to skin, heavy breathing.

“I’m not sorry I kept your paper,” Jason confessed after the stretch of silence. I burst into laughter, swatting him playfully. He groaned, and reached for his clothes, pulling them back on. He gave me mine back to put on, clipping my bra for me.

“Can I…sleep at yours tonight?” I asked shyly.

“Not only are you sleeping there, I’m gonna force you to use my big ass shower,” he promised, watching me button up my blouse. “That dumb ass janitor won’t ask any questions when you walk in smelling like my shampoo.”

I giggled at him, letting him open the door into the hallway.

“Jesus, you’re more possessive than I thought,” I poked his shoulder lightly.

“Now, excuse me for having a close relationship with my secretary.”

• All writing creds to @imwrenwrites •

- My name is Rachel Louise Norella, but I typically go by Rae, with the exception of my mother, who calls me Rachel, much to my chagrin.

- I live near Danford Creek in the more eastern side of Hawkins, with my mother and my aunt.

- I am in the same grade as Mike, along with Dustin, Lucas, Will, Max, El, and other kids the same age. I attend the same schools they do.

- My mother works as an accountant and my aunt works as a hairdresser. My aunt temporarily had a salon in Starcourt Mall, but it was destroyed in the attack.

- My parents aren’t technically divorced, just permanently separated. My father lives up in Chicago, and I see him several times a year.

- I have a significantly better relationship with my father than my mother.

- I am female (she/her), but I express some genderqueer beliefs and tendencies about my identity. I am also bisexual but this is not greatly mentioned or talked about.

- In the fall of 1980, I quickly made friends with Dustin Henderson, who was the son of one of my mother’s new coworkers. He and I both joined The Party with Will, Mike, and Lucas soon thereafter.

- In the campaign, I took on the role of the Druid.

Skills:

• Drawing, art, sketching

• Writing prose and poetry

• Singing and songwriting

• Fashion, sewing

• Photography, film, videography

Relationships:

My mother: Rocky at times, I love her and she loves me, but we don’t get along well and have very conflicting personalities.

My aunt: Playful and goofy, but she sometimes struggles with emotional control and can get a horrible temper.

My father: Despite his distance, we get along very well, and we send letters regularly. He’s more similar to me in personality.

Mike Wheeler: Romantic interest/crush, mutual adoration—we mesh very well, and have a relatively teasing relationship for most of the seasons, although as young kids It’s much more platonic. While he’s with El, he notices me kind of avoiding him for fear of interference. Big romantic confession and explanations ensue.

Dustin Henderson: Childhood best friend, mutual care, and still close currently. I tend to be a little more impulsive defending him from bullies in s5, although I do have much more of a hesitance around Eddie Munson as a whole, even if I warmed up to him.

Lucas Sinclair: ‘Cousin’ type of friend, mutual care. Sometimes we get in arguments because we’re both so opinionated, but most of the time our sarcasm meshes very well.

Will Byers: ‘Brother’ type of friend, mutual adoration. We are both artistic and sensitive, although I always feel a slightly jealous kinship of his complicated feelings for Mike. I spend a lot of time with Will.

Eleven/Jane Hopper: ‘Sister’ type of friend, mutual adoration. I quickly warmed up to El, and as a very nurturing person took comfort and joy in helping her get used to Hawkins.

Max Mayfield: Very close friend, mutual care. I always thought Max was cool, but when Mike was sort of pushing her away from the Party, I struggled with the conflict. After that, I spent time with her often.

Steve Harrington: ‘Big brother’ figure, mutual care

Nancy Wheeler: ‘Big sister’ figure, mutual adoration

Jonathan Byers: ‘Cousin’ figure, mutual care

Erica Sinclair: ‘Cousin’ figure, mutual care

Hopper: ‘Uncle’ figure, mutual care

Joyce Byers: ‘Aunt’ figure, mutual care

Robin Buckley: Friends/mentor, similar in personality and mannerisms

Holly Wheeler: ‘Little sister’ figure, mutual adoration

I might write fics based around this soon <3

JAMES POTTER

James Potter lovesss Quidditch. This is a well-known fact. It’s practically what he’s known for.

So when the Gryffindor game loses matches, he’s bound to get a little upset.

It feels so stupid to him to get upset over something like sports, especially when he knows there’s worse things happening out there—that guilt can make it worse.

When he loses to Ravenclaw, the Captain of the Ravenclaw team made a point to make fun of the Gryffindor Team—especially James, who, with his confidence, tended to be a target for teasing.

You find James in his dorm while his dorm mates are out, instead of attending the Ravenclaw celebration party practically half the school was at (Ravenclaw parties were pretty legendary).

You’ve only seen him cry a few times, so when you see him sniffling, holding his glasses at his side so he doesn’t fog them up, you rush to his side.

At first, he’s reluctant to explain to you what’s got him so worked up—he’s embarrassed to admit that the Ravenclaw captain really got to him, calling him prideful, saying he was so confident but couldn’t live up to his ego.

Obviously, you tell him this is totally reasonable to be upset about.

You end up lying down next to him, cuddling him in his bed—glad that his dorm mates arent there—he cuddles up to you, head on your shoulder.

While your hands stroke through his dark chocolate curls, whispering murmurs of “it’s okay, Jamie”, you can’t help but think that a vulnerable James Potter is a sight you were glad to behold.

SIRIUS BLACK

Sirius Black hates family Christmases.

It’s the day before all the students going home for Christmas leave on the train, and he’s packing up his trunk. He’s leaving all his favorite things here, safe from his family—his David Bowie records, his silver hair clips, his hidden stash of fire whiskey—and most importantly, his friends.

He stares at the pictures of all of them on the wall, moving Polaroids taped just above his bed, already feeling homesick for his real home. Pictures of James, Remus, Peter, you, Lily, Marls, and many more, all of his close friends, and he couldn’t bear to think he would be spending Christmas with the Blacks—who didn’t have any photographs, only stern-looking oil paintings Sirius had ‘accidentally’ left in his room at home.

Before he noticed, teardrops ran down his cheeks, falling onto his messily-thrown white dress shirts, the ones his mother was sure to criticize for their haphazard wrinkling.

You walked into the room, about to ask if he needed help with his packing—he was standing opposite you, facing the wall of Polaroids, and it only took you a second after seeing his shaky shoulders to call out a hesitant “Sirius? You good?”

He turned gently, and upon seeing you, wiped his tears and cracked a grin, although it was half-hearted at best and clearly forced.

“Yeah, you know. Just fuckin’ thrilled about seeing my lovely family.” He joked, but his silvery-blue eyes held the glassiness of tears still.

You gently walked up to him, and when he didn’t back away, quickly threw your arms around him and enveloped him in a hug.

He was tense for a second, but then his body relaxed, letting his forehead fall to yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered shakily.

You promised yourself never to let him go home to the Black family for Christmas again.

REMUS LUPIN

Surprisingly, the pain wasn’t the worst part of being in Madame overnight wing.

For as long as Remus could remember, every full moon brought the indescribable ache in every part of his body, and every morning after brought new gashes across his skin.

The worst part was being alone. Madame Pomfrey, of course, was a comfort, but there’s little to replace the feeling of being surrounded by one’s own peers, especially when one’s own peers happened to be frequent visitors of nightly detentions, meaning they weren’t exactly trusted by Madame Pomfrey.

Remus lay in his bed on that freezing autumn night, the linen sheets doing their best to conserve his body heat, but the scratch of them was too much to bear against his fresh wounds.

A creak of the big double doors told him a visitor was approaching—but they weren’t pushed open as forcefully as Madame Pomfrey did, usually bumped with her hip as she ushered in a cart full of ointments and medicines.

No—instead, you appeared, illuminated by the light of the huge glass windows on the far side of the room. You walked quietly across the tile, making little noise in your cozy-looking socks and pajamas.

Remus tried to sit up to talk to you, but you gestured him to lie back down, offering a soft smile.

You sat down on the side of his bed, facing him. You reached out, tracing away a dust-track from fallen tears—Remus had been crying before you’d come in. The silent, muted crying he had learned to do, the kind that didn’t get him picked on by the older boys at his school.

“Brought you chocolate,” you murmured, handing him a tiny tin of chocolate truffles with chunks of sea salt. “Jamie stole them from the house elves.” You add, trying to make Remus’s lips quirk up in a smile.

Remus nodded in thanks, and winced, a fresh wound on his neck straining, sending a stinging pain arcing through his body. Your eyes widened, and before he could push away your coddling, you unlocked the bedside cabinet with a quick ‘Alohomora’ and grabbed a bottle.

You poured a little of the oil on the tips of your fingers, and before Remus could flinch away, stroked some of it down the wound on his neck. Contrary to his worry, it didn’t hurt a bit—it was cooling, soothing the sting away into a quiet hum.

“Cornflower oil. Cornflower’s used by centaurs, y’know.” You whispered to him when he looked up at you, amber eyes full of confusion. You continued to work the oil into his cuts, and he scooted to be closer to you, letting your hands soothe away the pain.