S💿

You were on the couch next to Mike, your legs placed on his lap, his hands holding them closer to him.

Mike was watching something on the TV, his eyes searching the screen. Every so often he would say something about the movie, a fact, or an explanation. You found yourself watching him more than the movie.

It was Saturday night and none of you would have preferred to be anywhere else right now. These were the nights you used to dream of as a kid. Nights where you and your friends were safe to just be kids. Teenagers who didn’t have to look over their shoulder every minute, waiting for what was next.

It was gone. All of it.

The upside down, the demogorgons, Vecna, the Mind Flayer.

You all had defeated them a long time ago, but had only just settled into the peace now. There was a part of you that wanted to go out and be a stupid teenager. Crash a party, play beer bong, try some illegal substance and hate it (or love it to the point it was concerning). 

You realized that yes, you wanted those things, but you didn’t want to do it with anyone but the people sitting with you in that very room.

The weight of your earlier rash decision weighed on your chest. You had taken a step alone, wanted to present an idea to the group, but you were nervous. Sometimes they weren’t willing to accept change. In whatever form it came in.

You felt a hand squeeze your calf, making you look up from the floor towards Mike, who was staring at you, eyebrows raised. His hand ran up and down the bare skin of your legs, comforting, familiar. Goosebumps still raised on your flesh in the wake of his touch.

His head tilted, “What are you thinking about?” 

Your lips parted, then pressed together again as you hesitated. Your pulse throbbed against your throat. You tried to speak, your voice silent so only Mike could hear, “Have you ever thought about…” 

You drifted off, leaving it open ended as you tried to be brave. Mike just smiled at your reluctance, knowing that sometimes you just needed some extra help with being direct. “Thought about what?”

You swallowed back the dryness of your throat, leaning forward slightly towards him. Mike watched you closely, his eyes following your every move. Your heart beat loudly against your chest, but it was only Mike. You could tell him anything. 

You blurted it out, “Getting high?”

Mike’s eyes widened. His fingers tightened slightly on your calf. “Oh.”

You pulled back, “Oh?”

He let out a small laugh, short and nervous. He brushed the hair out of his face, the corner of his lip curled up into a half-smile. “That’s just not what I expected you to say.”

You crossed your arms, slightly embarrassed, “Well, have you?”

Mike could hear the slight harshness in your voice, so he quickly answered, “I mean… yeah. Jonathan used to smoke in California.” He shrugged, “It’s definitely crossed my mind. What made you ask?”

You quickly looked away, your eyes avoiding his as your face grew hot. “I might have something.”

His jaw went slack, “You’re kidding.”

You removed your legs from his lap, Mike letting you go with a sigh. You shifted over the side of the couch, reaching down towards your bag. You pulled out a plastic bag, holding it out to Mike, who stared between it and you with wide, shocked eyes.

Your hands shook slightly as you held it closer to him. You didn’t bother to hide it from the group.

“Holy shit.” Max’s words got the attention of the group as she caught a glance of what you held in your hands. Her grin started to become wild, her red hair falling into her face.

Dustin was about to move a pawn but stopped, holding it mid-air. His eyes were excited, slightly glossed over. “Where’d you get that?”

You shied away under the attention of the entire group, quietly saying, “I found it in an empty peanut butter jar in the pantry.”

Lucas wore a shit-eating grin, “Is it Steve’s?” 

Will shook his head, looking between you and Lucas, “I mean it has to be right?” 

Dustin put the pawn down, then clapped his hands together, a wide smile on his face. You felt your smile grow at the sight. Excitedly, he asked, “So we’re doing this, right?”

Lucas pushed him off of his chair. Dustin flailed for a second then dropped to the floor with a groan. Everyone else laughed at them, but you only looked over towards Mike, your wide, pleading expression catching his slightly narrowed eyes. He was uncharacteristically quiet as the two of you spoke without words. Your bottom lip jutted out slightly and he groaned.

He set his face in his hands, his words muffled by them. “We have to go outside to smoke it.”

Everyone in the basement cheered, yourself included. You stood up and threw your arms around Mike leaning against him and into the couch. He caught you easily, his hands naturally finding themselves around your waist.

Dustin and Max both ran out of the door immediately, like two excited dogs. Lucas, Jane, and Will followed behind them with fond expressions. You and Mike were the last to leave the basement, hand in hand. 

You all formed a circle without really meaning to, no one saying anything as you held the joint between your fingers, turning it slightly. You all inspected it like it was a foreign object, because it was.

The reality of what you were about to do settled in. Your stomach twisted as you shifted your weight between both feet. Your voice came out a little quieter than you meant it to, “Who wants to go first?”

Lucas didn’t hesitate, “You should, you found it.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, letting out a small breath. “I’m scared.”

A beat passed as you all looked at each other.

“I’ll do it.”

Your head snapped up immediately. Mike was already looking at you, his eyebrows pinched together, his face serious. His hand was held out in front of you, waiting for you to pass him the joint. 

You gave it to him without words, just watching with a mild curiousness as he brought the joint to his lips and started to flick on the lighter. He acted like he knew what he was doing, didn’t ask any questions, didn’t hesitate. Just brought the flame to the end of the joint and inhaled, white smoke lingering in the air.

For a moment, you all just watched him, holding your breath as you waited for the exhale.

He coughed, hard, covering his mouth with his elbow as he did so. White smoke blew up into the air around him. Max laughed loudly, so loud that Will had to shush her, afraid that she would alert the neighbors.

 As if Mike’s loud coughing wasn’t doing that anyways.

“Holy shit-” Mike managed between coughs, laughing at himself now, eyes watering slightly. “Okay. Okay.”

One of your hands made its way to Mike’s back, rubbing it as he continued to cough. You couldn’t help it as you laughed too, the tension cracking open all at once. 

Mike shook his head, still smiling, then held the joint out toward you. “Your turn.”

Your stomach flipped again. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. You took the joint from him, your fingers brushing as you did. The contact lingered as his eyes stayed on you, curious, softer than before.

You brought it to your mouth, following his example. Mike couldn’t bring himself to look away from your lips as they enclosed around the filter. 

You inhaled, the smoke burning your lungs instantly. The feeling was warmer than you expected, the taste bitter and earthy as you inhaled. 

Somehow you managed not to cough as you exhaled slowly, a stream of white smoke leaving your lips and fading into the dark sky.

“Well?” Lucas asked you, his eyebrows raised. 

The taste of the smoke lingered in your mouth, a reminder of what you had just done. You couldn’t help but feel like you just passed some arbitrary line between being a kid and an adult. 

You blinked. “I don’t… feel anything.”

“That’s because you just did it,” Max said next to you. She reached her hand out and took the joint from you carefully, holding it like it was familiar. “Give it a second.”

Slowly, the joint made its way around the circle. Dustin took too big of a hit and immediately regretted it, coughing just as badly as Mike had, if not worse. Lucas tried to be cool about it, but was quickly humbled by Max, who just rolled her eyes as he exhaled. Will was quieter about it, a little shy at first, while Jane watched carefully before trying, like she was studying everyone else first.

By the time it got back to you, your shoulders had relaxed without you really realizing it. You took another hit and this time, it didn’t feel as harsh.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting upwards, not really focusing on anything in particular. The night felt softer, quieter. A warmth settled in your chest, spreading outward. It felt easy. 

You glanced over at Mike.

He was already looking at you.

There was something different in the way he looked at you now. Softer, or… maybe it was just the way you were seeing him.

The joint made one last round before it burned down too far to keep going around. Lucas dropped the remains into the dirt, grinding it out with his shoe like he’d seen in movies.

For a moment, no one moved. You all just stood there in the circle, huddled around one another, taking it in as you all swayed slightly, lingering in the quiet noises of a night in small town America.

Everything felt light as you all exchanged little jokes, secret things that no one would understand other than the seven people in the circle. It was a familiarity that could only come with experience and time. A bond cemented in what you all knew then and what you understood now.

You loved them. All of them. In so many ways.

When the laughter finally started to fade, no one really said it, but you all moved back toward the house together anyway. Stumbling over fallen branches, tripping in holes that Mike’s dad had made with his clubs. 

You felt yourself slowly slide into a small divot, about to plummet to the ground. But a gentle hand grabbed you before you could.

Jane held the sleeve of your jacket, her smile relaxed. The most relaxed you’d probably ever seen it. You both shared a secret smile as you whispered, “Oops.”

She just pulled you along, leading you through the door and into the house safely. 

You ran your hand down the side of the wall, the wallpaper seemingly the most interesting thing in the world. You laughed at it, then looked around, hoping no one saw you.

Mike did, of course. His eyes hadn’t left you the entire time. He pushed into the space next to you, raising his eyebrows. His eyes were slightly hooded, incredibly relaxed. As if he had just woken up from a nap. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind, resting it loosely across your collarbones.

You leaned backwards, your back meeting his chest as you relaxed into him. He smiled, contently, holding you like he didn’t know how not to.

The group was used to you two like this. Even before you both admitted that it was more than just a friendship. With the slight high, the intensity of his touch was heightened. A weight settling over you both like a blanket as you held each other.

Dustin stood in the middle of the basement, his smile suddenly dropping as he sniffed the collar of his shirt. His nose pulled in, “Do we smell like weed?”

Max groaned. “Dustin-”

“I’m serious,” he insisted, sniffing his sleeve, then making another face. “I feel like we smell.”

“Dustin, you’re being paranoid,” Lucas said.

“Don’t say that,” Dustin shot back immediately. “You’re gonna actually make me paranoid.”

Lucas suddenly jumped from behind him, his hands landing against Dustin’s shoulders. Dustin immediately let out a small squeal, holding his arms out in front of him. You hadn’t heard one of the boys scream so high pitched since Max stole Billy’s car and Lucas screamed like his life depended on it.

You all laugh so loudly as Dustin groans, shoving Lucas off of him. 

You laughed, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes as you grabbed onto Mike’s arm, your grip tightening without thinking. He leaned into you just as easily, laughing too, his chin pressing into your neck.

Eventually, you all calmed down, each of you assuming your normal positions as Will picked a movie for the night. 

Dustin, Jane, and Will were all settled onto the couch, Dustin already snoring softly. His head leaned slightly against Jane, who just rolled her eyes with a fond smile. Will watched the TV intently, his eyes bright as the characters moved across the screen. Max and Lucas made a makeshift bed on the floor, sharing a singular pillow.

Lucas let her have most of it.

You and Mike were on the old recliner, pressed into each other. It was big enough that you weren’t fully on his lap, but small enough that you had to twist slightly and tangle your legs with his. Mike settled a blanket over your laps, his hand finding yours underneath it.

Neither of you paid attention to the movie.

He squeezed your hand, whispering, “How are you feeling?” 

Your cheeks hurt from smiling, “I’m happy.”

He smiled back, like that was the best answer you could’ve given. “Good.”

You moved a piece of hair back from his face, watching as he relaxed underneath your touch. “How are you feeling?”

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes drifting off of you and around the room. His head tilted. “Light?” 

You hummed, then gestured for him to continue. He started again, “Yeah like weightless. Like I’m floating.”

You nodded, “That sounds nice.”

A beat passed between you. You looked away from Mike and towards the tv, but he only looked at you. A smirk slowly made its way across his face as he leaned towards you. “It’s only because of you.”

You gently pushed his face back with your hand as you laughed. You shook your head as your cheeks turned red, “Oh my god.”

Mike’s eyebrows raised, but the smirk was still on his face. “Too much?”

You rolled your eyes, “That was horrible. Seriously, how did you win me over again?”

He bit his lip, looking down towards yours for only a moment. “If I recall, you kissed me first.”

“Well, when you ask a girl to prom, she’s going to assume some things.” You looked down towards his lips then, as the two of you slowly leaned in.

His hand made its way to your cheek, fingers grazing underneath your eyes, his touch tickling you. “I’m glad you always jump to conclusions then.”

Your voice dropped lower, “You’re going to regret that eventually.”

He shook his head, pulling you in. He whispered against your lips, “I don’t think I will.”

Then he pressed against you, his lips meeting yours. Your fingers tightened around his underneath the blanket as you deepened the kiss, tilting your head. It was gentle and sweet, as all things with Mike were. As you kissed him, you started to understand what he meant by feeling weightless.

You felt like floating when you touched him, your skin heating up and your mind becoming foggy. 

Eventually you broke apart, each smiling like you both held a secret. Mike looked impossibly cute at the moment, his lips a little swollen, his eyes hooded and slowly becoming red. He searched your face with his eyes, watching you closely as his thumb brushed across your cheek.

You were about to lean back in, until a pillow was suddenly thrown at Mike’s head.

Mike let you go, groaning as he picked up the pillow and looked down towards the ground. Max was leaning on her elbows, Lucas and her watching the two of you with a slight look of annoyance on their faces. “If you two are going to make out, Wheeler’s got a perfectly good room upstairs.”

Mike threw the pillow back, but Max caught it easily. She held the pillow in her hands, unaffected, and gave you an unimpressed look. You just laughed, as you settled back down, curling against Mike’s chest, your eyelids slowly closing as you watched the movie.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Eventually, you both fell asleep sitting on the recliner. You were still curled into Mike, his arms wrapped loosely around you.

The tv was still playing the movie, the volume turned down low. Everyone was sleeping, content, dreaming of nothing but good things.

None of you stirred as the basement door slowly creaked open.

Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve walked in, quietly taking in the state of the basement. Nancy paused, looking between the younger teens and the boys next to her, “Why does it smell like that?”

Jonathan paused beside her, sniffing the air. His eyes slid toward Steve, who looked back at him knowingly.

You shifted on the couch, blinking your eyes open, only to meet Steve’s.

You smiled lazily, picking your head up slightly. “Hey, Steve.”

He walked over slowly, crouching slightly in front of the recliner. His gaze flickered over towards Mike, still asleep beside you, then back to you.

“I’m not mad,” Steve said, narrowing his eyes. “But what did you guys do?”

Jane shifted from her spot on the couch, Dustin and Will still asleep next to her, “You seem mad.”

Steve’s eyes snapped towards hers, a little crazed. She just shrugged and leaned back into the couch, content to watch it all play out.

Your stomach sank as you straightened immediately, suddenly not able to look directly at Steve. An awkward laugh escaped you, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mike’s arms tightened around you as you moved, you swallowed hard as they did, watching as metaphorical steam started to leave your older brother’s ears. Mike’s eyes started to slowly blink, accustoming him to the basement light that Nancy had suddenly turned on. 

You noticed his eyes were slightly red and you wanted to fall into a hole when you noticed that Steve did too. 

Mike didn’t flinch back when he noticed Steve, he just sighed, reluctant to see you leave, “Are you here to take her home? Is it already that time?”

“Yes it is, Wheeler.” Steve’s eyes lingered on Mike’s arm around you, but Mike didn’t move. He let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, “But I’ve got a few questions for you first.”

Mike frowned. “What?”

Steve stood up straight, both you and Mike tilting your heads back to watch him. He crossed his arms, “Did you put my sister up to this?”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked, more awake now as the others started to stir.

“I mean-” Steve gestured around the room. “You’re all obviously high out of your minds. It smells like a smoke shop down here.”

Dustin didn’t open his eyes. He muttered, “I knew we smelt like weed.”

Lucas threw the same pillow at him that Max threw at Mike earlier.

“Where’d you get it, Mike?” Steve continued. “Please don’t tell me you just found it somewhere.”

Mike blinked, caught off guard as his arms slowly loosened from around you. You paled next to him, your heart hammering in your chest. Yes, you were an adult now, but your older brother had the tendency to overreact to certain things. Things that mainly involved Mike.

Jonathan stepped closer to Steve, holding his hand out slightly, “Whoa, Steve, take it easy,” 

“No,” Steve snapped. He pointed at Mike, his lips pulled into a straight line. “I knew you’d be a bad influence.” He glanced towards you. “All boys are.”

He suddenly reached for your arm and started to pull you off the chair and away from Mike. “We’re going home.”

“Steve, stop!” you protested, pulling back.

Mike tried to stop Steve, his hand grabbing your wrist as you were pulled to stand, “Hey-”

“I found it at our house!” you blurted out as Steve pulled you up to your feet. “It’s yours!”

The room went quiet. Steve froze, his grip loosening on your arm. Jonathan let out a loud laugh from behind him, hunching over slightly.

Nancy hid her smile behind her hand. “Wow. Guess protective older brothers aren’t exactly great influences either.”

You pulled your arm away and looked up at your older brother. You crossed your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Yeah. So you can leave Mike alone, okay? You don’t get to be a jerk to him just because we’re dating.”

Steve stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He dragged a hand down his face, sighing, “I think being an ass to your sister’s boyfriend is part of my job description.”

You rolled your eyes, “Steve.”

He looked at you.

“Apologize.”

He held your gaze for a moment, refusing with his eyes. You only stayed standing there, giving him a disappointed look. He folded, his head slowly turning towards Mike, who had a shit-eating grin on his face.

For a second, he didn’t want to apologise, until you hit him on the arm. He groaned, letting out a weak, “I’m sorry.”

Your arms uncrossed as you smiled, “Was that so hard?”

Steve blinked. “Yes.”

You ignored Steve’s brooding as you leaned down towards Mike, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. Steve groaned as you did, covering his eyes, “Oh, come on.”

Laughter broke out around you, loud and easy, cutting through the last of the tension. You waved goodbye to everyone as you grabbed your brother’s arm and pulled him toward the door.

As you stepped outside, the cool air hit your face, and something in your chest felt lighter than it had in a long time. Steve followed behind you, still scowling. He watched you closely, noticing the way you smiled, the way you looked back toward the house.

And his chest loosened, just a little.

You were happy, something that was few and far in between for you and your group. He couldn’t bring himself to be mad anymore. He’d done far worse at your age. And even though it was Mike Wheeler you were happy with, he felt himself smiling too.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Mike wasn’t usually a big action guy, certainly not with people he hardly knew, but he felt a certain affinity for you. It was probably just that you shared the same small hometown in a sea of people from other states and cities, but it was enough to get his legs moving toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” He said, immediately realising he hadn’t thought this through enough. You both looked up at him, though the guy’s grip on your body tightened.

“Mikey!” You cried, dropping your cup against the cabinet, not noticing when it spilled. You’d never once called him Mikey in eighteen years of living in Hawkins.

“Hey bro,” Logan gave him the dude nod, which Mike reluctantly returned, “You know her?”

“We went to high school together!” You giggled, though it wasn’t funny, trying to get out of Logan’s hold to drape yourself over Mike. He didn’t let you go.

“How do you two know each other?” Mike asked, arms crossed against his chest. He had no idea how stormy his eyes had gotten, or that his tone wasn't as conversational as he'd intended.

“We just met,” Logan answered for you, then quieter, just to Mike, “She’s been throwing herself at me all night.” He was clearly expecting Mike to laugh, not glower.

“Dude, not cool. She’s clearly drunk.” You tuned back into their conversation, nodding enthusiastically.

“This stuff is, like, so good, I love being drunk.”

“So what, bro? We’re at a party.” Logan puffed out his chest in an attempt to intimidate Mike, but he grew up in Hawkins. Some college jock was nothing compared to demogorgans. Besides, Mike was about six inches taller, Logan was hardly a threat.

“C’mon, dude. She’s nineteen, she can’t even legally drink yet. Find some other chick who can still make a real decision.” Mike grabbed your hand to lead you out, eyes softening when you smiled at him, still somewhat unaware of what was happening.

“Back off, bro, I have dibs.” Logan grabbed you by the hips, trying to drag you out of the kitchen.

“Wait, hey,” You said softly, his predatory grip just now making itself known to you. You locked eyes with Mike, begging him to do something, help you.

“Let her go, asshole!” Mike’s fist flew through the air, landing squarely across Logan’s cheek. In his utter shock, Logan let you go, and you fell to the ground, not used to standing unassisted after he’d been holding you up all night.

Only a few punches were thrown before the rest of the party caught up and pulled the boys apart. Some girl you didn’t know helped you to a standing position, handing you a cup of water and adjusting your clothes until you were decent.

Logan was surrounded by his athlete friends, and Mike by a few alternative looking people. It was an easy choice of who to approach.

“Are you okay?” You asked softly, standing in front of the seat someone had pulled out for Mike. He had some ice wrapped around his hand and his cheekbone, where Logan had reciprocated the fight.

“Are you?” You nodded with a closed-mouth smile, cupping the unbruised half of his face gently. There were still two of Mike in your vision, but you managed to find the right one. He leaned into your touch, looking up at you with the soulful eyes of a thirteen-year-old family dog. It made you giggle despite the dampened mood of the party.

“You wanna take me home?” Mike nodded, standing and quietly thanking the people who’d cleaned him up.

The crowd parted as you and Mike stumbled through, the fresh winter air a nice contrast from the heat of the party. You walked in mostly silence through college row, passing frat houses with a single line of Christmas lights and sororities decked out with decorations.

“Thanks for helping,” You said finally, voice croaky from disuse. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Obviously I did. That guy was an asshole and was trying to take advantage of you ‘cause you’re hammered.”

“Oh.” You stared at the ground, and not only because you still had to focus on where you were walking.

Your walk was cloaked in quiet, Mike’s boots crunching in the thin layer of snow that had fallen whilst you were inside. Goosebumps prickled on your exposed skin, hands flying up to rub your own arms. Mike looked at you and huffed, shrugging off his own leather aviator jacket, lined with wool. You tried to disagree, but he simply tossed it on your shoulders, left in just a long-sleeved t-shirt with a confusing design on the front.

“Who doesn’t bring a coat when it’s snowing?” He muttered, only half to you.

“Wasn’t allowed to,” You mumbled, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Mike looked at you, eyebrows knitted together to be almost one.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know…” You sighed, stumbling in your heels. “My friends say it’s childish to bring a coat; they make me leave it at home.” Mike’s expression said everything for him — what the fuck.

“Why do you let everyone else tell you what to do? Your friends, those guys, do you ever choose anything for yourself?”

“That’s not very nice,” You said softly, putting some distance between you and Mike. He mumbled an apology but didn’t say anything else.

You walked in silence for thirty long seconds before you relented.

“It’s nice to be wanted, Mike. Like, who cares if I’m cold or I let guys get me drunk sometimes when the alternative is being completely alone?”

“Is that really how you feel?” You nodded. “Jesus. You shouldn’t have to degrade yourself or be uncomfortable just to feel like people like you. There are thousands of people on campus, you don’t think any of them just like you?”

You shrugged, looking both ways before crossing the road.

“I’m not like you, Mike. I didn’t have best friends in high school, I wasn’t pretty, people have never paid attention to me before. Sue me for not wanting to be lonely anymore.”

You almost missed it when Mike replied, “You were always pretty.” You just laughed. Yeah, right.

“You don’t have to make me feel better, I’m not ashamed of being an ugly kid.”

“You were in the school musical, right? Oklahoma or some shit. You wore that pretty white dress with the heels, and your hair was straight. Tied with a ribbon.” You looked at him, but Mike was staring straight ahead. “And at prom. Your dress was pink with that poofy skirt, and your hair was curly. You looked really pretty. Just because you don’t know it, doesn’t mean people don’t notice you.”

Maybe you were still drunker than you thought because you couldn’t stop laughing, gleeful giggles that refused to subside. You looped your arm through his, your right through his left and your left clutching his bicep.

Mike’s whole face was red, though it was easy to believe it was due to the cold. He muttered something dismissive, letting you hold onto him.

“You know,” You said, dazing out again, “You’re so nice. Has anyone ever told you that? Like a little guard dog protecting me from bad guys, even though you barely know me. It’s kinda sexy. Mike Wheeler, my protector.”

You were already busy daydreaming about Mike in knight’s armour when his head snapped to look at you, eyes bugging out of his head.

“You really need to go to bed,” He laughed finally, leading you into your dorm building and up to your room.

He lingered while you struggled with your keys, the jangling sounding especially loud when the rest of the floor was dead silent. It finally opened, revealing a neat, if boring, dorm.

“Do you, um, wanna come in?” You asked nervously, holding the door open for him. After a moment of hesitation, Mike agreed. “Have a seat, I’m just gonna change into something decent.”

Mike dutifully looked away as you tried to get changed without exposing yourself or resorting to going down the hall to the toilets. Tossing an oversized t-shirt on first, you shimmied your way out of the strappy top and little skirt, ending up in pyjama shorts while Mike studied your photos and posters.

When you turned around, you looked much more like Mike remembered at Hawkins High. Cozy and natural without all the dark party makeup. You shied under his gaze, and Mike panicked, not wanting to make you more insecure after everything you’d confessed.

“You look really pretty right now!” He immediately regretted it, screwing up his face, but it all seemed worth it when you brightened under the praise, taking a big sip of water from the bottle on your bedside table.

“Thanks, Mike.” You hopped up onto your bed, immediately making yourself comfy amongst the pillows. It was so domestic it made Mike’s heart clench. “Come up here, those desk chairs are such a pain.”

Mike unlaced his boots, feeling completely out of place amongst your decor. You laughed quietly, scooting closer to him, tossing your throw over his legs.

“You don’t have to be weird about it; we’ve known each other for years.”

Eventually, it got less awkward, both of you warming up to each other while your knees pressed together under the blanket. At first, you talked a lot about Hawkins, a safe topic that you both knew much about, but it quickly devolved into nothing, getting more ridiculous as you got more tired.

you wrapped your arms around yourself as you shoved clothes in a bag, the heat having been shut off to your apartment days ago. you were three months behind on rent, and your landlord had never been a patient man. the second he found someone who was willing to give a deposit, he had taped the eviction notice to your door; that was this morning. you had discovered it upon returning home from work, leaving you only 6 hours to pack up your entire life and get the fuck out.

it was a pitiful apartment; it was drafty and the faucet squeaked, and the shower had next to no water pressure- and you still could barely afford it. you didn’t have many belongings to move out, and considering you did have the time or money to hire movers, you supposed you would be leaving your furniture here; it wasn’t worth anything anyway.

you stuffed the last of your clothes into your backpack and grabbed the essentials from your bathroom cabinet, leaving behind anything you could bare to part with.

you honestly weren’t too considered with your belongings at the moment - not that any of the things you were abandoning were prized possessions. you were more concerned with where you would sleep; where you would live.

you considered calling your one coworker that you tolerated, but you knew she had family in town and didn’t want to add on the the workload she already had of hosting multiple guests.

which only left you with one option.

adam.

adam who at this time last year, would have thought nothing of you sleeping at his apartment - you practically lived there. but things went south between you and your ex boyfriend, and your relationship had more or less imploded. you hadn’t talked to him since the night you had screamed at him that you never wanted to see him again, and now here you were, outside his door at 1 am, soaking wet and near freezing from the pouring rain. you would have called, but in the whirlwind of getting kicked out of your home, your cell had died and you were pretty sure you’d left the charger behind.

you mind ran through every possible reaction adam could have to you showing up at his apartment, and you weren’t sure you liked any of them.

somehow you didn’t consider him not answering the door at all. you knew he wasn’t asleep, he never was at this time. it was possible he was in his dark room, headphones on blaring some moody rock song you’d always pretended to hate. you kicked at the weathered carpet of the dirty hallway, hoping none of his neighbours came out to see what the noise was.

adam’s apartment building was barely better than yours, and you’d prefer not to encounter any of the locals if you could help it.

you knocked one more time, not really having another option, but again there was no answer. you fiddled anxiously with your lanyard of keys that jingled around your neck, and then your hand landed on one you hadn’t used in a while.

after one last unanswered tap on the door, you inserted the key into the lock and twisted it with a click, and turned the knob.

you hoped it wasn’t considered breaking and entering if you had a key.

there were no lights on, which wasn’t entirely unusual for adam, and you had grown to be able to maneuver around blindly through the apartment, and you found he hadn’t moved anything as you walked the same route to the lamp in the living room as you had a thousand time. the dusty lamp next to the couch illuminated the room only slightly, but enough to show you that adam’s keys and shoes weren’t by the door, telling you that he wasn’t home.

you were alone.

everything began to sink in all at once, and you took a deep breath, the familiar scent of adams cologne lingering in the filling your nose.

rather than sink down onto the couch in your dripping wet clothes, you opted for a quick shower, the hot water mixing with a few tears that trailed in black streaks of eyeline down your face, smudging beneath your eyes.

adam would always wipe it off with his thumbs with a smile and ask ask why you hadn’t taken it off before getting in.

you wrapped a towel from the hall closet around your body and grabbed some clothes from your bag, throwing on a t shirt and some shorts before curling up on the worn out couch in the (barely big enough to be a) living room. you had almost officially moved in with adam before things ended, and you wondered what your life might look like now if you had.

at one point you thought you and adam might be married by now. he had thought about it too; hell, he had even looked at rings once or twice, but couldn’t afford one.

but that was before, and this was now.

now, was reality setting in that you were homeless, and sitting in someone else’s apartment, waiting for them to get home from who knows where, with no idea how he would react. things had ended ugly between you and adam, but deep down you realized that even after months apart, you missed him. you were both young, and life got stressful and you pushed eachother away. it wasn’t that either of you had royally fucked anything up, things just bubbled over until you both had taken it out on eachother.

your found yourself shivering from the change in temperature from the steamy bathroom to the more open living room, you pulled a blanket off the arm of the couch and draped it over yourself, fighting to stay awake.

you lost the battle, comforted by the familiar sounds and smells of adam’s apartment, and drifted off to sleep.

adam was in such a panicked state when he arrived back at his apartment, he hadn’t noticed the soft light coming from under the door. he hadn’t noticed that it was unlocked either, thinking nothing of it as he stumbled inside, though he made sure as hell to lock it behind him. he was so out of it, he didnt even notice the extra pair of sneakers next to him as he kicked off his shoes, his keys nearly landing in them as he let them slip out of his hands.

adam took a deep breath, running his hands over his face as he tried to wrap his head around what had happened.

that room….

the blood…

it didn’t matter. he had escaped.

he had won.

that’s what mattered.

he walked straight past you with no notice and went to the kitchen, scrubbing his hands under the sink with nearly half the bottle of dish soap before he felt even remotely clean. he splashed cold water onto his face, before wiping his eyes, letting them adjust to the light again for a second before his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion at the sight of your sleeping form on the couch.

was he dreaming? was he still chained up in that bathroom, hallucinating that he’d escaped and that you were here?

he walked forwards cautiously, as if the floor would collapse beneath him if he stepped to hard, but reached the couch with no difficulty. you stirred awake at the sound of the floor creaking, and your eyes fluttered open to look up at adam.

“hey.. fuck, i’m really sorry, i had no where else to go and i still had your key and-“ you stopped with a soft grunt as he sat down next to you and threw his arms around you, holding you so tight you could barely breathe.

adam buried his head in the crook of your neck, and you hummed in content as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him against you as you leaned against the armrest of the couch.

“it’s okay. i’m actually really fucking glad you’re here,” he mumbled.

“adam are you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you looked down at his white t-shirt that was stained with dirt and… ”is that blood?”

“i - maybe. i don’t know. it’s not mine i don’t think,” he stuttered, sitting up slightly to look at you. “some fucking psycho kidnapped me and -“ he sighed “it doesn’t matter. just… don’t let me go okay? i’m really happy to see you.”

your fingers laced through the back of his hair and tucked him into your shoulder again, a worried look on your face.

“i missed you, adam,” you admitted, and you meant it.

“god, i missed you too.”

in that moment adam needed you more than anything; a familiar face, someone that he felt safe with.

you didn’t know what he’d been through, and you would let him tell you when he was ready, but for now, you held him close as he clung to your body like a life raft.

and you would be there as long as he needed you.

****

It is a cold, sunny day in March, and the blisters on your heels are bleeding cherry red through your socks when you step into the air-conditioned classroom.

You’d known the shoes were a bad idea the moment you put them on that morning, the leather rubbing raw against your skin before you’d even limped halfway across campus. But you wanted more than anything to make a good impression, knowing damn well that, in a week, you’d be waking up 30 minutes before you had to leave and throwing on whatever clothes were scattered across your floor.

You are five minutes late, fashionably, and every head turns to look at you as you make your belated arrival. The attention leaves you feeling dizzy and acutely aware of everything all at once: the backpack strap digging into your shoulder, the barely-buttered piece of toast sitting uneasily in your stomach, the throbbing pain in your feet, and the beads of sweat collecting beneath your arms, despite the aggressive air-conditioning.

The expressions on people’s faces differ to an alarming degree. You catalogue them to the best of your ability, taking in the inquisitive stares and disinterested glances; the faces of those you recognize from prior classes, from campus, or not at all. What are they thinking? Did they see the artificiality behind your outfit? The wincing way in which you shift your weight, trying not to think about how you’d definitely have to throw these socks away when you get home (which was a shame, they were your favorites, blue with little lace ruffles). Had they noticed something you hadn’t? Toothpaste at the corner of your mouth? Mascara smeared beneath your eyes? A run in your tights? Were you in the wrong room? Had you gotten the time wrong?

“Ah, looks like our missing students have finally arrived.”

The professor is a middle-aged man with graying hair and eyes that are perpetually squinting beneath his glasses. His name is Professor Frost, known both locally and nationwide for his bestselling debut novel. In the decade or two since his success, he has returned to his alma mater to teach a coveted spring workshop for seniors. It is well known that he only selects the best.

Supposedly.

“Sorry, sir,” says a voice behind you. You jump, completely unaware that someone had appeared at your shoulder in the first place. “I would blame traffic, but I walked here.”

He is tall, the boy, with one hand still on the classroom door as it swings shut. Dark curls spill across his forehead and into his eyes. There is a worn messenger bag hanging from one shoulder, weighed down by far too many books to the point that the strap is splitting at the seam. Wire-framed glasses are hooked in the collar of a faded black T-shirt (on it is a grainy version of the poster for Eraserhead). There is a casualness to his demeanor - slouched shoulders, Walkman headphones around his neck (still faintly leaking music), and a slowness to his words that makes you wonder if he even cares about being late at all. 

(Meanwhile, you are actively enduring your worst nightmare. A humiliation ritual, if you will. You want nothing more than to just sit down and be out of the spotlight).

“Mr. Wheeler, is it?” asks Professor Frost, glancing down at the attendance roster on his desk. You can picture it vividly - all the names marked as present except yours and his. “You have quite the reputation amongst the English department.”

The boy - Wheeler - grins innocently. “Do I really?” he asks, feigning surprise. “All good things, I hope.”

A few students chuckle to themselves. You feel left out of whatever inside joke accompanies his reputation. If your memory serves you correctly, you’d never had a class with this mysterious, smart-mouthed boy. What exactly had he done to earn a reputation? Be late too many times? Get in fights? You just hoped he wasn’t dangerous, considering you were standing just half a step in front of him. He could easily grab you and snap your neck before anyone could react.

(Not that he’d actually want to. Still).

Professor Frost sighs heavily through his nose, adjusting his glasses. “Take your seats. Both of you.”

Wheeler gives a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

You knew, going in, that the workshop was small, but you’re still surprised by just how few people are in the room. Maybe fifteen students, including you and Wheeler. Two long tables have been pushed together in the center of the room, manuscripts and notebooks scattered across the surface alongside coffee cups and pencil cases that suggest everyone else has already settled in.

Luckily for you, most of the chairs are occupied except for two that just so happen to be right next to each other. Of course.

You keep your eyes fixed on the floor as you make your way over, trying to ignore the hot embarrassment creeping up your neck and the sharp stinging in your heels. Don’t limp. Don’t limp. Don’t limp. It is appalling that you have to place so much focus on walking.

Wheeler reaches the chairs first, sliding into the one closest to the door before noticing you’re hesitating beside him.

“Oh.” He stands halfway back up. “Sorry.”

He steps into the aisle, giving you room to pass, as you begin to apologize, assuring him that it’s okay. An awkward silence follows as you duck into the chair beside him, swinging your backpack off your shoulder. . . and promptly smack him in the knee with it.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, briefly wondering if you’d have been better off just not getting out of bed at all that morning.

Wheeler blinks down at where your bag hit him, then flickers his gaze to where you have unceremoniously dropped it at your feet. He nods solemnly and then, in a gravely serious tone, says, “I think I’ll pull through.”

It catches you off guard, so for a second, you can’t do more than stare at him. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. It’s barely a laugh, honestly. Just a small little smile and a little sound of amusement that you couldn’t swallow down. But Wheeler notices, and the corner of his mouth lifts sweetly.

“Well, it seems we can finally get started,” Professor Frost says, beginning to pass out colorless folders with each student’s name already written in the upper-right corner. 

As the man meanders his way around the room, Wheeler has begun to empty the contents of his messenger bag in an unceremonious heap in front of him. Out spill ragged notebooks, their spines barely holding beneath layers of tape and dog-eared pages. They’re all swollen with loose papers and colorful Post-It notes that stick out at impossible angles, filled with cramped handwriting and rough sketches that you can’t make out without making it obvious that you’re looking.

You accept your folder from Professor Frost with slightly trembling hands, slightly mortified that he knows your name, not because of your standout stories or willingness to participate in class (as if), but because of the ungratefulness you showcased in showing up late to the first day of class. Inside the folder is a syllabus, an intimidating five-page document listing assignments, schedules, required materials, and other class policies. Immediately, your eyes snag on phrases like mandatory peer critiques, weekly manuscript presentations, and individual conferences.

You suddenly feel mildly nauseous. Maybe more than mildly. The only way this day can get worse is if your toast decides to make a reappearance, and then you might just have to-

“As you look over the syllabus, I advise each of you to look ahead to the final page, and you will see that you have all been assigned a workshop partner for the next ten weeks,” Professor Frost says, ambling back to the front of the room. “I’m only experimenting with this model - as some of you may be aware, I usually aim for an all-encompassing peer review with rotating sets of eyes on your work - but I received feedback that it may be beneficial to have a more focused set of eyes. This person will be responsible for reading every draft you produce this quarter. They will annotate your work and provide developmental feedback throughout, which means I expect you to be meeting with your partners outside of class. After reading your submissions, I attempted to pair you with someone whose work differs most in genre or form. I hope that this new model will be helpful, but if you find yourself unhappy with your partner after this first week, please feel free to speak to me during office hours, and we can arrange an alternative pairing.”

The room is drowned in the sound of pages turning, everyone eagerly seeking out the list of names. You follow, flipping to the back of the syllabus, unable to delay the inevitable for too long.

You find your name easily, and almost immediately, your heart stutters.

Next to your name, printed in black ink: Wheeler, Michael.

A strange sense of dread settles somewhere between your ribs. The likelihood that there’s a second Wheeler in the class is. . . very low (even though the boy next to you looks like his name should be something more sophisticated like Alexander or Theodore), and it’s not that being paired with him specifically is the problem. It’s the fact that someone is going to read your work. 

As far as you know, Michael Wheeler is a self-assured, cocky twenty-something who likely writes heartbreaking, ineffable epics about heroes and redemption and likely hates heavy-handed metaphors and overt descriptions of vases. He’s probably never second-guessed his talent or whether he belongs in a room. He has a reputation in the English department. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’d won awards from lit magazines before he graduated high school. You wouldn’t be surprised if he read your messy, unfinished drafts and told Professor Frost that you definitely didn’t belong in such a highly regarded writing workshop.

Around you, people have already begun introducing themselves to their partners, snippets of conversation slipping through the ringing in your ears. Next to you, it seems that Michael Wheeler is putting the pieces together. He untangles his lanky limbs from where he’s draped them lazily across the chair and peers at the identical names printed on the syllabus and the one on your folder. He leans slightly closer, just enough so you can hear him over the din of the classroom.

“I think we’re partners,” he says, pointing at his name on your syllabus. His voice is warm, no trace of the cockiness he spoke to Professor Frost with, and it sends a sudden shiver down your spine. “That’s me. I mean, I’m Michael. Mike.”

You whip your head around to face him, regretting it almost instantly as you find yourself face to face with him. Unfortunately, literally. The two of you are now so close that your noses are almost touching, so close that you can smell the toothpaste on his breath.

Fuck. He’s handsome. Not even just handsome. He’s pretty.

His strikingly dark curls that fall across his browline are slightly flattened on one side like he’d rolled out of bed moments before arriving. His bone structure is also impressively sharp. Like, carved out of stone sharp. His chiseled jawline is softened only slightly by the beginnings of stubble, and his defined cheekbones are dusted with freckles that seem out of place against the severity of his features. His eyes are big, brown, and seemingly endless, framed by long lashes.

 But what strikes you the most is the thin scar that runs from the prominent bridge of his nose, down beneath his left eye, and disappears into the shadow cast by his cheekbones. It’s clearly a few years old, healed enough but still tinged a faint red, and it cuts jaggedly across his face. You ache to know the story behind it - was it some sort of accident? - but know that you’ll never bring yourself to ask. It would be rude to, anyway.

Mike’s eyes widen.

“Oh. Sorry.”

He immediately leans back, knocking his elbow against the edge of the table.

“Fuck. I didn’t mean to, uh, like, invade your personal space,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.

“It’s fine,” you assure. “I’m the one who was in your space, really.”

“It suits you,” he blurts out. “Your name, I mean. It fits.”

“Thanks.”

The conversation dies there. How magnificent, you can’t even manage to hold a decent discussion with the person you’ll be baring your soul to for the next ten weeks (yes, it’s that serious). Briefly, you reconsider returning the compliment - “Your name suits you, too!” - but it would be an outright lie. You didn’t think his name suited him. Mike was too mundane for a face like his. So, instead, you begin to look around the room, hoping to kill time until Professor Frost brings the room back together. It seems that everyone is getting along with their assigned partner - some have already started passing manuscripts back and forth, others are deep in conversation about shared interests. Professor Frost is staring out at the room with parental pride. You doubt he’s going to cut this short any time soon.

“So, what do you write?” Mike asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“What? Oh, nothing really,” you stammer, caught off guard by his question.

Mike arches an eyebrow. “Nothing? You’re not a writer?”

“No, I am. That’s not what I meant. I write about nothing,” you explain evasively, already preparing yourself for the shift in Mike’s demeanor when he discovers you prefer literary fiction above all else. It’s definitely not as highly regarded as fantasy or mystery. Even romance would be better. You want to put that discovery off until necessary. “What about you? What do you like to write about?”

“Monsters, mostly,” Mike replies, leaning back in his chair, the front two legs coming up off the floor. “Fantasy. Sci-Fi. Horror. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Like. . . real monsters?”

Mike considers this question for a moment, teetering precariously. “Well, kind of,” he decides. “They’re from. . . well, have you ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons?”

You shake your head.

“Okay. Basically it’s this tabletop roleplaying game. Everybody makes their own characters, and then one person - the Dungeon Master - kind of builds the world. They tell the story, throw monsters at everybody, come up with puzzles and quests and stuff, and the players decide what they want to do, and you sort of. . . react to it.” Mike pauses. “It’s a lot more fun than I’m making it sound, I swear.”

“And you write about the game?”

Mike grins crookedly, cocking his head to the side. He sets the legs of his chair down with a thunk. “Not really. I take a lot of ideas from the campaigns I created growing up. I was always the Dungeon Master.”

You nod. “I guess I was just wondering if these monsters. . . if they’re like ghosts or zombies or. . . or people.”

Mike looks at his battered notebook for a moment, still closed on the table. “Sometimes they’re people. Or were people.” When he looks back at you, his expression is thoughtful. “Or did you mean serial killers? Because I definitely don’t write about them.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I was just curious.”

Mike rubs his thumb almost absentmindedly over his scar. “Is that what you write about? People who are monsters?”

“I don’t write about serial killers, either, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good, I’d be a bit worried if you did. Probably wonder how you got such in-depth information.”

“Well, I’d do my research,” you mumble. “But no, I write about ordinary people. I don’t think they’re monsters. They’re just doing nothing. Living their lives. And maybe they’re a monster to other people. Maybe they’ve hurt someone, or disappointed someone, or they’re selfish sometimes, but not. . . not necessarily. . .” You wince. “Sorry, I’m not making much sense. I don’t really think it comes across how I want in my writing, either. Sometimes it’s too contrived.”

“Contrived how?” asks Mike, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I don’t know. Maybe I just try too hard,” you say before you can stop yourself. You don’t know how Mike’s managed to do it, but you’re spilling your guts to him in a way you’ve never done with anyone else. “I just want to come off as earnest, but I don’t know if I am,” you finish.

“You want to be earnest, or you want to be a good writer?”

Your stomach drops and something on your face must give it away, because Mike’s eyes go wide almost immediately. “No, shit, I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists, shaking his head. “That wasn’t supposed to be an insult.”

“Okay. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. You wish you could rewind time and take back the last three minutes. This is what you get for telling someone you just met (okay, yeah, he’s your workshop partner) about your deep-rooted writing insecurity.

“I wasn’t trying to say that you’re not a good writer,” he says, turning his body to face you. Mike props his elbows up on his knees and stares at you intently. “I just meant that, in my experience, people mix them up a lot. Like. . . everyone kind of wants to sound like they know what they’re doing, especially when they don’t. And I don’t think sounding earnest is the same as. . . I don’t know, having good prose. I guess my point is that I would rather be a considerate person who understands my characters than a writer whose greatest strength is stringing a sentence together.”

Your lips part, but you can’t seem to get any words to pass through them. Mike’s manner is so genuinely sincere, so sincerely genuine, that it has your heart pounding in your ribcage. Your left arm starts to go numb, too. Are you having a heart attack? No one has ever said anything like that to you. Maybe you misunderstood - maybe Mike meant you weren’t considerate in your writing. Except, no, that wouldn’t make sense; he’d never read anything of yours. Right? Unless he had. Unless he really did know you and was playing a prank on you. Maybe Professor Frost thought your submission was so utterly laughable that he got everyone else in on it. Any second now, Mike was going to burst into laughter - she thinks she’s a real, bona fide writer, just because she’s getting a degree for it!

Mike snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Hey, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

Discreetly, you press the back of your palm against your cheek, making sure you’re not overheating. This whole situation was turning into a disaster. You’d known Mike for all of ten minutes, and already you’d started prattling on about being earnest. The only way you could make this worse is if you started crying - and that wasn’t even out of the question, actually.

“Um, are you going to pass out? Do you want me to get you some water?”

“No! Oh God. I’m fine.” You shrink down into your chair, laughing weakly. “I’m sorry. This is. . . I shouldn’t have. . .”

You smile. Or at least you think you do. For all you know, you could just be baring your teeth. Your heart is beating so hard you’re surprised that Mike can’t hear it over the conversations happening around the room. You are painfully aware of everything all over again: your damp palms pressed against your thighs, your left foot bouncing beneath the table (only furthering the pain of your blisters), the warmth spreading up the back of your neck.

Why are you acting like this? Why are you panicking? It’s just a class. Mike is just a person. Why didn’t you just say something normal? I write literary fiction. I like character studies. Now, you’ve come off as the kind of writer who talked in circles about authenticity because they didn’t have anything else to say.

Mike is still staring at you, waiting for you to say something, but your tongue feels too big for your mouth. You hear someone laugh and you’re certain that they’re laughing at you - they’ve noticed the way your conversation has ground to a halt.

You are miraculously saved by Professor Frost clapping his hands from the front of the room. Any longer and you probably would’ve just outright told Mike that you didn’t think you belonged in this class.

The rest of the hour is hazy. You spend the remaining time replaying your conversation with Mike, wincing over everything you said. The scraping of chairs and the zipping of bags is what alerts you that everyone has started to pack up. You just hope that everything Professor Fros said while you were zoned out is covered in the syllabus.

As you’re gathering your things, Mike wordlessly slides a folded piece of notebook paper over to you. He’s already put his headphones on and is slipping out the door before you even had time to react. Quickly, you stuff your own notebook and new folder into your bag and grab the paper, clutching it tightly between your fingers as you follow the stream of students out the door. The friction against the back of your heels worsens the moment you get to your feet.

It’s only when you’re safely out of view of anyone you can see you crouch down (an effort to take the pressure off your feet) that you unfold the note. It takes you a moment to make sense of the scrawling, messy handwriting.

Mike Wheeler

(underlined once, slightly uneven with a lopsided smiley face doodled beside it).

Below is what you presume to be his phone number. Under that:

Hope I didn’t interrogate you too hard. I’m glad that we’re partners. Can’t wait to read your stuff. P.S. Those shoes looked painful, so I thought you might need these.

Two Band-Aids tumble out into the palm of your hand.

****

The only thing that gets you out of bed on Thursday is the promise that you will stop and get yourself a smoothie before class. It’s raining by the time you drag yourself across campus, the condensation from your smoothie sweating into your hand and your heels still tender. You opted for more practical shoes this time - a more practical outfit, too.

You’re alarmingly early today, not wanting to cement yourself as someone who’s always late to class. You slip into the same seat you were in previously, not wanting to take someone’s unofficial assigned seat and risk a confrontation. Artfully, you begin to arrange your notebook and pens into little rows. One by one, your classmates trickle in, bringing in the smell of spring rain and steaming cups of coffee. The room fills slowly, you patiently sipping at your smoothie all the while, until someone drops into the chair beside you with a groan.

“Jesus,” Mike mutters, running a hand through his rain-soaked curls. “It’s gross out there.”

You glance over at him. His sweater is damp around the shoulders, his bag darker where the rain has soaked through the canvas. Like last time, he’s slung his headphones around his neck, the music still playing quietly through them. A lone raindrop drips from his curls and down the side of his face, and you track its journey carefully.

“What’d you get?” Mike asks casually, nodding toward your smoothie and interrupting your ogling. He begins to pull out his own slightly waterlogged notebook.

“Oh. A smoothie.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“It’s strawberry peach, I think.”

“Cool. I didn’t take you for a smoothie person.”

You purse your lips, unsure of what to make of that. You weren’t exactly a smoothie person, but sometimes you skipped breakfast to make it to class on time, and a smoothie was better than nothing. Was it because smoothies were considered healthy? Did he think you looked like someone who drank soda all the time?

Oh, God. Was Mike calling you fat?

“I just figured you’d be a coffee drinker. Isn’t that, like, the writer stereotype?” Mike adds with a shrug. “In high school, I always drank black coffee - no cream or sugar or anything - because I thought I looked cool. How stupid is that?”

“What do you drink now?”

“I’m a milkshake man, myself. Hot chocolate if it’s too cold. But there’s this place in Seattle called Starbucks - I visited some friends there last year - and they can mix coffee into the hot chocolate. I can’t believe I’d never thought of that before. They’ll even add whipped cream if you ask and-”

Mike cuts himself off abruptly.

“Hey! Why didn’t you call?”

“Call?” you repeat incredulously. There’s about a minute left before class is due to start, meaning Professor Frost is bound to walk in at any moment.

“Yeah, I left you my number, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t know that you wanted me to.”

“It was implied.” He frowns, and for a moment, he looks like a sad little puppy. “We’re partners, aren’t we? Figured you’d call and we could-”

The door flies open violently, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Mike jumps in his seat, head whipping in the direction of the door, arms bracing against the table as if in preparation to lurch to his feet. There’s a sense that he’s about to bolt, if a situation arises.

“Sorry, folks!” Professor Frost’s cheery voice says as he saunters into the room, briefcase in hand. “Guess I don’t realize my old strength. Apologies for my late arrival, but it appears that. . . ah, yes, everyone seems to be here.”

You look down at your hands, worrying a hangnail just to avoid making eye contact with Mike. Your cuticle starts to bleed as you peel the skin away. You figure that it’s less embarrassing for him - his reaction to the door slamming - if you pretend you didn’t notice.

Mike lets out a slow breath, muttering something to himself, before finally relaxing back into his seat as if nothing happened.

At the front of the room, Professor Frost is writing out the day’s lesson plan on the chalkboard. A 10-minute free-write followed by a lecture on syntax and idiolect, rounded out by a brief workshop with your partner.

“For the first ten minutes, I’d like each of you to describe a character based on the way they talk rather than the way they look,” says Professor Frost, dusting the chalk off his hands. “As writers, we have the unfortunate burden of getting around the lack of speaking out loud, but we gain the advantage of sentence structure and word choices. This character can be a real person - perhaps one of your closest friends - or it can be a character you’ve worked with before. If you want to be especially daring, I urge you to create someone new. Give them an overly specific way of speaking. Perhaps they use words incorrectly. Perhaps they tend to pause between words - how would you convey that? You may begin.”

The blankness of your notebook is daunting. You didn’t come equipped to do such in-depth writing. You expected a quick five minutes spent describing all the things in the room in overbearing detail or maybe writing something based on your favorite song, things you’d done in other classes. This was too much for your brain, this early in the morning, and it sows another seed of doubt in your mind.

If you can’t even keep up with this simple free-write, who’s to say you’re cut out for the class at all?

Mike is already scribbling away, hunched low over his paper and pen clutched in his hand. He’s oddly holding his pen, you notice. He’s writing at a rapid speed, which explains his sloppy handwriting.

You take a sip of your smoothie and look at the clock. It’s already been a minute. You know that the golden rule of writing is to just write words, even if they don’t make sense, and soon your ideas will start to flow, but you’re paralyzed by inadequacy. How did Mike come up with something so fast? Maybe he’s using a character he already worked with before, or maybe a real person. You rack your brain for a character that has enough unique quirks to translate into her way of speaking, but nothing comes to mind.

Your strength was not in character work. If Professor Frost tasked you with describing the rain against the window or the way a room was laid out, then you’d be set. All your characters were. . . shells. They were nobody. It was exactly like you told Mike - you wrote about nothing. Your characters were nothing, and your ideas were nothing. You didn’t know anyone interesting enough, either. . .

Immediately, you shake the thought away. You can’t write about the person sitting six inches away from you. That would be way too weird.

You don’t know Mike enough to ascertain the way he speaks, especially not enough to put it on the page. You’ve had, what, two conversations? One about monsters and one about smoothies. Hardly enough to build a whole voice around.

How did he talk anyway? Sometimes it seemed like someone whose mouth couldn’t quite keep up with his thoughts, but how do you show that in writing? He had a habit of starting a sentence before deciding how it was going to end, interrupting himself constantly - how did he even get from whipped cream to phone calls, anyway? - and he was always talking with his hands, punctuating every other sentence with a shrug or an open palm, his pen waving through the air whenever he happened to be holding it. Every so often, he’d rake a hand through his curls. He never seemed able to sit still, either, but those weren’t things you can put into writing.

That was the problem.

“Time’s up!”

Mike slams his pen down like it’s hot to the touch, flexing his lithe fingers. You continue looking at your blank piece of paper. You didn’t even manage to write the date on it.

“We’ll return to those later,” Professor Frost reiterates, picking up the piece of chalk again. On the chalkboard, in big letters, he writes SYNTAX and IDIOLECT. “Can anyone give me a definition of either of these terms?”

Someone near the middle of the room raises their hand. “Syntax is grammar. Idiolect is personality,” they say matter-of-factly.

Professor Frost nods, content. Underneath the words, he writes GRAMMAR and PERSONALITY. “Correct. If I were to ask everyone in this room to say ‘sorry,’ all of you would say it differently. The issue is determining how to make that clear in writing. Do we change the dialogue tag? The punctuation? Your job as writers isn’t to tell me who your characters are, but rather to let them betray themselves through speech.”

By the time Professor Frost dismisses everyone into their pairs, your notebook contains exactly three pages of notes and one completely untouched free-write. You’ve been given fifteen minutes to trade notebooks with your partners.

Mike reaches for his notebook, then hesitates. “Um. . . you wanna go first?”

You look down at your own notebook and wordlessly turn it toward him. “I didn’t write anything,” you admit. “I just couldn’t think of anyone.”

“That’s okay,” Mike assures. “It was just a free-write. I doubt Professor Frost actually cares how much you wrote.”

You huff a laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

He glances at the paragraphs he managed to scribble down before the time ran out. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Okay, fair. But we can just make something up for you, yeah? A few sentences. Just so you have something to turn in.”

“Who did you write about?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

Mike drums his fingers once against the edge of his notebook, subtly nudging it closer to himself. “Oh, just a character from one of my novels. He’s, uh. . . like, a sorcerer.”

“That’s cool. Will I ever get to read it? The novel, I mean.”

Mike scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s still kind of a mess.” Then, he quickly adds. “I mean, all first drafts are; that’s the point.”

You frown. “Okay. What are you going to submit for class?”

“Short stories, probably. They’re easier for me. The novel has been in the works for years,” Mike says, chuckling to himself a little. “It’s a shit show, honestly. I don’t really know if you’d like it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Mike looks genuinely caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know, actually. Maybe I will let you read it one day.”

“That would be nice. I’d like that.”

“Hey, about earlier,” he says, quickly changing the subject. “I’m sorry about the phone thing. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could tell I did.”

“No, really, I was mostly confused.”

“Confused?” he repeats.

“Well, yeah.” You look down at the desk before speaking again. “Like I said, I didn’t know you actually wanted me to.”

Mike blinks. “Why else would I give you my number?”

“I thought you were just being polite.”

Mike smiles. “I’m not polite enough to hand out my phone number for no reason.” The sentence is so matter-of-fact that you laugh. “Seriously. We’re partners! I figured we’d meet up a few times a week, go over our stories, get coffee, get to know each other.”

“I don’t think being friends with your workshop partner is in the syllabus,” you say. “I’m not a very interesting person, if I’m honest.”

“Bullshit,” Mike scoffs. “I’ve never met anyone who’d rather stare at a blank page for ten minutes instead of pretending to write something just because everyone else was.”

“And that’s interesting? You must not know a lot of people.”

“I know enough people.”

You shake your head in disbelief, heat creeping up your neck. You can’t decide whether to laugh or argue with him. Across the room, Professor Frost is pacing between tables as students murmur over each other’s drafts.

“I’ll call you on Saturday,” Mike decides. He pauses before adding, “If that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah, um, that’s okay,” you say. Saturday is your one day off - usually the day you sleep in until late afternoon and slink around your apartment. 

ynsuser whatever u say handsome 👀 i love u too

user1 stop i want this kind of love

user2 Literally! I'm jealous 😩

gatenmatarazzo Does this mean I can finally post all the pics of you two I've gotten over the past year?

finnwolfhardofficial If she says it's fine, I say it's fine

user3 oh he's obsesseddd with her 😭 i can't

user4 WDYM A YEAR???

user5 A YEAR? I'm gagged. How did they keep this a secret for THAT long?? No one even suspected it omg

user6 hard launch? on MAIN? yeah she must be the one bc we never get posts like this from him. i'm obsessed

user7 we need more casual finn posts like this!!!

user8 THE PHOTOBOOTH PICS OH THEY'RE TAKING IT

user9 Does this mean we're getting a love album next?? 👀

user10 i've got an idea but everyone has to get really open minded really fast

chris.tian02

♫ Kiss Me • SixPence None the Richer

Liked by ynsuser and others

chris.tian02 — One more year at Camp Pineaway but my first with @ynsuser (love you!!) 🌲⛺️❤️

ynsuser why is over half of this post just me when did you take these photos 😭

ynsuser i love u too btw this is so cute im not mad

ynsuser hellooo am i muted 😅 @chris.tian02

chris.tian02 Oh my GOD. I'm so so sorry I don't have notifications on, I love you the most baby @ynsuser

whosbobby Thank god it's over so I don't have to watch you two bone in the cabins every night anymore

ynsuser all we did was kiss sometimes btw 😭 nobody made u watch btw 😭 free will btw 😭

chris.tian02 Dude I've seen you do way worse in the cabins with people you weren't even DATING. Don't even start

whosbobby I can't help that I'm a total STUD

user1 stfu i already had fomo that i didn't become a camp counselor this year pls tell me all the details NOW

ynsuser wait let's meet up it's too much to say over text

chris.tian02 Pleaseeeeee please please let me tell the story of us getting together I'll do ANYTHING

trulyshannon so cute!! oh and chris is there too i guess

ynsuser says u 😘 meet me behind the counselor cabin

chris.tian02 Are you flirting with my girlfriend in my comments?? And why are you flirting BACK??

user2 I thought you couldn't have phones at camp?

chris.tian02 I took these on a digital camera and transferred them over to my phone when I got back!

therealziggykatz

♫ There is a Light That Never Goes Out • The Smiths

Liked by ynsuser and others

therealziggykatz — i should really write a song about my gorgeous funny smart gf @ynsuser... oh wait i already did. OUT NOW ON YT!! link in bio!!

ynsuser dare i say it's ur best yet lover boy

therealziggykatz hard to say when everything i write is my best yet 😩 love u babe

ynsuser baby let's not get ahead of ourselves now...

user1 baby? oh they're together together 🫣

user2 involve me IMMEDIATELY

user3 She's so lucky... I wish he would write a song about me

user1 ikr he wrote a song for her that's so cuteeee

user4 more like she's so strong BYE 😭

ynsuser yo the wind is crazy here (he practically begged to get with me, that's my why)

therealziggykatz y/n get out of my comments?? now?? check ur texts?? stop ignoring me??

user5 this is my super bowl

user6 literally dhmu my fav niche singer just hard launched his gf and she's everythinggggg. i can't even rn

user7 idk how he pulled her fr

user8 oh so they're just both fine af okay got it

user9 More love songs pls!!

mikethebrave

♫ Head Over Heels • Tears For Fears

mikethebrave — bet you guys didn't see this one coming @ynsuser

willsgallery i think the entire town of hawkins knows already with how much you talk about it

dustinanddragons fr like you're not mysterious bro

lucas.sinclair LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 IM CRYINGGGGG 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

mikethebrave it is NOT that funny bro.

m4dm4x oh but it is

elbunnyhopper You two are very very cute! 😊🥺

ynsuser thank you el! 💕

m4dm4x did he pay you to say this??

lucas.sinclair all that's in his wallet is some pocket lint, a button, and flies 😭😭😭😭 LMFAOOOOO 😭😭😭😭

dustinanddragons damn we got mr giggleshits over here 😭

m4dm4x el you don't have to lie to him

mikethebrave genuinely WHAT is your problem

nancyarchives Too cute! 🤍 She's my favorite sibling

mikethebrave ok but she's not even your sibling??

nancyarchives Sister-in-law to be, close enough 🤷‍♀️

ynsuser my favorite wheeler!!

mikethebrave are you kidding me

ynsuser sorry.... not rly.... love you tho!!! 😊

a/n — stop bc i love insta smaus so much id do them for a living if i could. maybe ill do more #selfindulgent

taglist: @welcomesatan @calls-sovereign @unicornkweef69 @zaylarae @veeweepeeknee @kailyndavillier @maddesolationwill @sophiamikaela13 @teacup-thoughts @rimonjinn @kunklefunkle @samomalovaa @gyattmaster2002 @cciessuzi @fwluverr @dontmentionitseriouslyy @vodka-baby @geminizmoonz @bloodytragedyblog @mikes-sorcerer @velvetaux @pissylivvie @romanroyapoligist @okayparkers @cravingforvik @kc-skye @antivenus @k-hirf-rv @lanadelrae-wrld @planetsophiet @crying2hs @babybyers08132 @skywalker987 @fleetingpulp @scturne19 @tonspresso @lexi8712 @revlayn916 @byleraisa @colettebrown088 @0nlybitt3r4may @owlwingsstuff @tsukkiru @pinkie1pie @ammacrellinlover @sturngrande @looooooooooosworld @minsingular @finjascherry @bl3ssedp0etry

you’re sat close together with finn on the couch, the both of you talking about everything and nothing at the same time as you split a bag of pocky sticks between the two of you. the sun has long set, your dinner date extending much longer than the actual dinner itself.

"have you ever tried the pocky challenge?" you hum out in an overly casual manner, taking one of the sticks and biting off a piece.

he nods his head, making little to no effort to hide the fact he's probably done so a couple times by now. late nights with friends with one too many drinks in their system are to thank for that. "yeah, i have. you?"

on the contrary to him, you shake your head. not once has the opportunity even presented itself. it's met with a brief stint of silence between the two of you, the only sound in your ears being the crunching of the stick in your mouth.

"we can do it now. if you want to, of course," finn offers, adding in the disclaimer at the end within a split second.

you're well aware that it was your idea. that a part of you was hoping he would offer just as he did. but you might've been in way over your head, because now the thought of his lips on yours seemed like the most daunting task you've ever had to undertake.

regardless of the pit in your stomach, your head bobs up and down sheepishly. as he adjusts how he sits on the couch to be facing you, you become acutely aware of the way his knee bumps yours and the lack of distance between you on the couch. you hear the pulse of your heartbeat in your ears pick up every so slightly and the crinkle of the foil wrap as he grabs a new stick for the both of you.

he places one end into his mouth, the other end of the thin stick pointing out toward you. you focus hard on not going cross eyed as you take the other end in your mouth. how fucking embarrassing would that be, right?

once your end of the stick settles between your teeth, you muster up the courage to look up at finn's face. you find him already looking at you, to your surprise. his dark brown eyes stare directly at you and immediately the skin of your cheeks heat up. you can't help but huff out a laugh, sending the both of you into a fit of giggles at how stupid this is.

"shut up, shut up, focus!" finn says through his own giggles, his enunciation a little impaired by the way he's trying not to drop his end.

you take in a breath to calm yourself, nodding your head limitedly as you let yourself focus again. it feels less awkward now that you've gotten your amusement out of the way. like acknowledging how stupid this game is made everything feel a little lighter between the two of you.

finn makes the first major move, his teeth inching forward as he takes more of the pocky stick into his mouth. you sit there frozen in front of him as he comes closer and closer, up until he stops when he's about a quarter of the way down. "come on, you gotta put in work, too."

oh. right. you roll your eyes at his demands, also ignoring his amused huff and the way you're now so close that you can feel his breath on your skin when he does that.

you take a couple bites down the stick as well, your teeth biting off the bits you take into your mouth. finn doesn't even wait for you to stop, simultaneously trimming off more from his end at the same time.

when your noses brush against each other, the both of you pause with less than an inch of the pocky stick left between the two of you. you can't really get a good look of finn from this angle without going cross eyed. you focus your gaze upwards, looking through your lashes at the ceiling to avoid being flustered at how damn close you are.

finn lets out another huff, but you're not quite sure if it's from amusement or impatience this time. it may be a mix of both. within the span of two seconds, he bites off the rest of the stick for himself, leaning forward the rest of the way to press his lips against yours. your eyes widen as your heart leaps into your throat, feeling the warmth on your lips that sends a tingle down your spine.

within a split second, you jerk back just enough to catch finn off guard, his eyes flickering open as he sits back himself. his eyes quickly search yours for an explanation on what he did wrong, what exactly made you react that way. "fuck--sorry, i didn't mean to--well, i did. obviously. but i didn't mean to push you into anything."

you shake your head back and forth adamantly, your hand coming up to dismiss his worries. "no, no. it's not that. it's fine. it's not you."

god, as if this couldn't already be more of a cliche. it's not you, it's me, my ass. but it kind of is that way.

"i just don't, um..." you hesitate, trying to find the right words to express this without making yourself sound like a total loser. "i don't know how."

it feels like the words bounce off the walls to taunt your ears in the silence that follows. you can't exactly get a read on finn no matter how hard you try. he's just kind of sitting there with a dumbfounded look on his face, his eyelids blinking rapidly.

it feels stupid to admit. that you don't know how to kiss. it seems like it should've been something you learned way back in high school along with all the other awkward phases. but it just never came up.

"okay." he finally breaks his silence in the most underwhelming way possible. "okay, then i'll teach you. no biggie."

no biggie? is he being serious? your brows knit together at the air of casualness that surrounds him. it's almost like you didn't lay yourself bare to him in admitting that.

although, there is a comfort to his relaxed demeanor. he doesn't seem to care as much as you thought he would. he doesn't look at you like it's a foreign concept to him, in fact taking it in stride.

"...you'll teach me." just to make sure, you echo his sentiments.

"yeah. i'll teach you." he shrugs it off, like it's really 'no biggie' at all. "just relax and follow my lead, yeah?"

your head nods a total of two times, trying not to overwhelm yourself with the thought of everything that could go wrong. what if you're a slow learner? what if you don't learn at all? what if he thinks it's gross and it's the worst kiss he's ever had?

"okay, just... put your hands here. or on my shoulders. or you can keep them on your lap. whichever one works for you." he digresses every so slightly, one of his hands comes up to the back of your neck, gently holding you close to him as his fingers settle in the roots of your hair.

you hesitate to copy him, your hands stuttering mid air before you finally settle for resting them on his shoulders. the act feels so juvenile, like a kid learning to dance with their crush at a middle school dance.

finn nods encouragingly, seemingly doing everything he can to ease your obvious nerves. his eyes dart between yours, giving you a few seconds to back out at the last moment if you so please. when you don't use the opportunity, he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly and closes the gap between you again, both of your eyes fluttering shut.

he's much more conscious about it this time. he takes your bottom lip between his, slotting your lips together. your breathing stills in your chest when you feel the warmth of his mouth against yours again, this time more intentionally. his lips slowly move against yours, lightly sucking on your bottom lip to pull it between his. the feeling is overwhelming.

the pressure of his lips on yours snaps you out of your frozen shock as he leans forward to be closer to you. you try to mimic what he's doing, moving your lips in the same way as his. it's awkward and clunky at first, your pace not quite lining up with his. he hums softly against your lips, using the hand at the back of your neck to tilt your head back just a little bit.

the change in angle of your head seems to do wonders, although you're not sure why. the two of you settle into a rhythm that makes the kiss flow smoothly. finn never changes up the pace on you, making it easier for you to adapt to his lips and figure out what feels the most natural for you.

it does really all seem to fall into place. you'd always thought it was just something people said to comfort you when you admitted your next-to-nothing knowledge about how to kiss. but it truly does just take a leap of faith and a willing person to guide you.

you don't yet dare to change up the pace of the kiss yourself, strictly following finn's guide and mirroring the rhythm of his lips. he moves to be closer to you on the couch, his hand that's not on your neck snaking down to your hip. the heat of his palm sears through your clothes, but it's not enough to distract you from the way he presses his lips against you more adamantly, trying to pull more from you.

you pull back just a little bit when he does this, your head spinning from the adrenaline and probably the lack of oxygen. you didn't even realize you hadn't been breathing until you took a breath.

he doesn't let you go far, not that you were trying to anyway. you look at him once you've put enough space between your faces to see him properly. his lips shine with a mix of your spit and his own, the skin just around his top lip slightly swollen from where your lips had been. the thought of it being your doing makes your heart stutter in your ribs and you wonder if your lips look like that as well.

"you're okay?" finn questions. his shoulders immediately relax under your hands when you nod your head and reassure him that yes, you're fine. you just needed to collect yourself. "you're sure you're not fucking with me? you learn fast."

a sheepish laugh escapes your lips when he says this, both flustered and flattered at the tease in his voice. "yeah, i'm pretty sure i'd remember if i was kissed like that."

"'like that'? trust me, you haven't seen anything yet."

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 you were both so well dressed, there was no doubt in your mind that you two would end up here, hands slipping under fabric and feeling up whatever skin you could. As he said, this was just like a date night, including the late night sex.

"I wanna get you out of this," he sighs, hands roaming down your figure to cup your waist as he stares at your body with a hungry, attentive gaze, "I wouldn't be shocked if some clip goes viral tomorrow of me checking you out tonight. I mean—it was hard not to." You laugh at that.

"Then get me out of this, you urge him, hands running over his suited chest, "and take me to bed."

"Shit." He curses under his breath, giving a delayed nod in return out of surprise, "yeah, yeah, I'll—I've got you. I can do that."

Coming behind you, you feel warm hands on your back. His fingers pull down the zipper of your dress with a newfound quickness, though he's careful not to harm the piece. Helping you step out of it as he strips you of the outfit, he's greeted with bare skin and lacy undergarments.

"Bed," he falters, entranced by the sight. His demands come off weak and needy, "now."

But you comply, driven by arousal and your boyfriend's sexy appearance of disarray. His hair a mess of black curls that heat and sweat have taken over, suit tugged at in places thanks to your wandering hands, and most of all, his eyes that are clouded with attraction and arousal.

"You're too clothed." As you sit on the hotel bed and lie back against the soft pillows, your thighs rub together in anticipation.

Before following you to the bed, Finn stops at the edge and slips off layer after layer. It's gradual, though rushed, watching him strip himself like your own personal show. And, in a way, it was.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you catch your first glimpse of his pale skin. He's slipping off the last layer, a collared button up, and you're desperately reaching out for him. Without a second thought, he draws closer, stepping out of his dress pants and finding his spot on the bed.

He starts beside you, clothed bulge brushing against your thigh as he leans forward to catch your lips in his. Beyond needy, he immediately groans, muffled against your mouth, accompanied by a slow roll of his hips against the plush of your thigh. You spur him on as you shift your leg further between his thighs, feeling his breath catch. It's an opportunity to deepen the kiss as you let your tongue wander his mouth.

"You looked so good tonight," you pull away to whisper between kisses, "so sexy."

The praise makes his cock twitch beneath its confines as he moans against your jaw, struggling to keep his composure just like you.

"Condoms?" You ask, looking up at him at the reminder. He falters, blinking before mumbling, barely coherent as he grinds himself once more against you, "don't have any."

"...'s just one night, right?" He knows what you're implying, and he's quick to nod in agreement.

"Just one night." He repeats with a strained voice, "we're good about it every other time, it's okay. We—we're careful. Just this once..." He trails off.

Exhaling, you can feel the arousal building in your core once more and waiting any longer sounds like a punishment. So, finally, you reach up to cup his cheeks and whisper the words you've both been waiting for all night.

"I need you to fuck me," it's barely composed, but it makes his stomach twist so tight so that he grinds against you helplessly and stifles a strained groan of his own.

"You don't have to tell me twice," he huffs out a small laugh, sitting up with an increased fervor and parting your thighs with big, greedy hands as he settles between them like they're home.

"Do you need me to prep you?" He asks, already rubbing at your clit with his thumb through your underwear, "god, you're wet."

Shaking your head, your hips buck into his hand and you clutch at his forearm helplessly to halt his movements, "no, I'm ready. Just need you."

Complying, Finn taps your hip to notion for you to lift them for him. A small thing he's always done and you just caught on to with time. Raising your hips, he slips off your underwear with hooked fingers as he helps them past your calves and over your feet.

"You looked like an angel tonight. You still do." He praises, "I almost started to think I wouldn't be able to wait until we got back to the hotel."

"Thank god you did." You sigh, legs wrapping around his hips to draw him closer.

"Tell me about it." He smiles, abashed. It's those little tells that warm your heart the most, when it's like he forgets you're his girlfriend and that you want him just as badly as he wants you.

Then, with shaky hands, Finn is tugging at the waistband of his boxers to slip them off and over his legs. You watch intently as his hand moves to stroke himself in quick gestures.

"Don't stall," you reach down, too, hand resting over his and moving in tandem with those up and down motions.

"I'm not," he huffs, watching your hands and how they look running over the length of his cock so easily, "you're just impatient."

Finally, he nudges his cock at your entrance before pressing the head inside of you. It's intense, the combination of no condom for the first time and no real preparation, but it far from hurts. It's electric, the added level of closeness.

"Shit—" his head falls forward to stare at the space where his cock is pressing deeper into your pussy. He's already farther gone than you, eyes knit tightly shut as one hand loosely grips the base of his cock while the other desperately clutches onto your hip.

"You're so..." he groans, trailing off and losing his train of thought.

He steadily slides out of you before pushing in a little further each time. Eventually, you dig your heels into his lower back, and that's when he finally buries himself to the hilt inside you. Your head falls back and eyes fall shut before you immediately look back up at him, needing to catch his reaction, too, when he bottoms out.

His lips are wet and parted and you can't help but stare. Once he notices, he leans down over you until your chests are pressed flush against one another and gives you a heated kiss.

Cupping the back of his head when he pulls away and buries his face in your neck, his thrusts, once slow and cautious, turn fervent and rhythmic. The only stimulation against your clit is his navel and while it won't be enough to get you off, you'll need whatever it takes to stave off the impending orgasm already buzzing low in your stomach.

"You're really warm," he breathes out against your neck before laughing, words choked out, "and tight. There's no way I'm lasting—oh, shit. Thought about this all night, during every interview. Especially when I kissed you in front of everyone. Fuck, that got me worked up."

Reluctantly, he pulls away from your neck and sits back up like before. One of his hands rest on your waist like before, the other reaching up to try and slip your bra up and over your chest. He wastes no time in grasping at your exposed breast and thumbing over your nipple. All while his hips continue their steady yet debilitating pace in and out of you, fighting back his own orgasm.

"You don't have to," you shake your head, "we can go another round, yeah? Just want you to feel good."

"Yeah? You wanna go another round?" He nods, eyes on yours, "you can't just say that to me when I'm already close, that's—it's too much. Do you even want me to last? I'm getting the feeling you don't." Softly snorting, he rolls his cock deeper inside of you, nestled as deep as he could be.

His thumb on your nipple finds its way to your clit, desperate to get you to the same point he's at. He needs you to understand just how much he's teetering on the edge.

"Want you to cum for me," he says, his thrusts slowly getting less calculated and more needy, "and I wanna cum for you." He admits in a plea.

You nod back, feeling your own climax start to creep up on you. It's when your breathing quickens and your thighs tense that you realize just how close you're getting.

"Cum for me, baby," you encourage him, heels digging into his back once again as your hands find purchase in the white sheets and grip tight. "Want you to cum in me—wanna feel it."

Those words actually make Finn's thrusts falter, fucking into you again before stilling. Then, you hear him before you feel him. His low groans and shaky breaths, his murmurs of your name as he grinds into you restlessly.

He practically whimpers, thumbing at your clit weakly as his hand on your hip rests above your head. Leaning down to hover over you, he groans and says under his breath during his orgasm, "oh my god, you feel so good."

His cum spills inside of you, the flood of warmth new but welcome. You haven't felt him like this before, without anything stopping you from feeling him fully, let alone being full of him.

"Gonna cum," you inhale sharply as you warn him, staring up at your boyfriend's face that's inching closer to yours with every passing second.

You take in the sight of his dewy features. A thin layer of sweat gleaming as his grown out hair sticks to it in every which way. His fucked out eyes that beg to meet yours. Freckles against flushed, pink cheeks. And, your favorite, his pretty pink lips glossed from a mix of your saliva and his.

"Then cum for me, okay? I won't stop until you do." He murmurs, "cum for me, pretty girl."

Leaning up to kiss him, you capture his lips in yours and cup his face in one hand. The other cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls to hold him close.

He moans into your mouth, fucking into you despite his growing overstimulation. His tongue licks at yours, pushing past your lips as he explores further inside your mouth.

With the mix of his cock flush inside of you, his thumb persisting on your clit, and his tongue in your mouth, the high you've been chasing finally hits.

Moaning wantonly into his mouth, your fingertips dig into his scalp desperately as you draw him deeper inside of you with your heels. Your hips stutter and falter with every wave that hits you as you attempt to grind up against his hand that's stimulating your clit. It's all too much, but you don't want it to stop.

The mantras he utters against your lips only intensifies your orgasm even more.

"God, you're so pretty like this."

"I still can't believe I get to call you mine."

"I've gotta get you to do this on my face next time. Doesn't that sound good?"

Head falling back against the plush of the pillow under your head, you look up at him through hazed over eyes. He looks like the spitting image of heaven right now, kneeling over you with the softest expression you've ever seen him have.

"How are we feeling?" His fingers graze your cheek as he talks you down from it, "you did so good. I love you so much, you know that?" He kisses your forehead before resting his own against yours.

"...That was so hot." You weakly laugh, unable to form a proper thought, "and so needed after tonight."

"You think?" He smiles, giving a toothy grin he can't hide, "I knew I'd need this from the moment I saw you in that dress. It took everything in me not to go down on you in that museum, I swear."

"Shut up! You wouldn't." You huff out a laugh, hitting his back weakly before pulling him closer so he's lying on top of you, cock still buried inside of you. Softening, but the warmth and closeness is far too intimate to deprave yourselves of it now.

"I wouldn't, yeah, but I'd fantasize about it. Just as distracting." He scoffs, burying his face in your neck as he leaves a light peck there. "Didn't know we'd have our own afterparty, though. That would've been even more distracting."

"Whatever you do, just please wear that suit again." You kiss his hair, rubbing his pale, freckled back lovingly, faint pink marks visible from where your feet dug into the skin. "That was enough foreplay for me, seeing you in that." You joke.

"Only if you wear that dress. Just so I can get you out of it again. And again. And again." He smiles against the side of your neck, peeking up from where he is to look up at you through long lashes, "for me?"

"...We'll figure something out." You shake your head, relishing in the post-orgasmic afterglow that dawned over the two of you. "You just might have to hold me back once those red carpet photos of you come out, though. Seriously."

"You can hold me down." He teases, nose nudging your jaw as he gazes up at you.

Snorting at the comment, you just playfully hit his back again before soothing the spot over with a light palm. He doesn't move an inch, neither of you daring to interrupt this moment.

Maybe the media was right. You should marry this boy sooner rather than later. All that tonight told you was that he'd ruined you for anyone else long ago, so you might as well indulge.

Especially if that means getting the best sex of your life every time you do so.

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