#trianglewrites

they remembered him. they have been remade. for him.

They feel the blood beneath flesh, hot with terror, with shameful arousal. They linger. Pulsing, flexing, massaging, doing the work of myriad hands upon his quivering muscles, all speaking with a wordless unison: “be calm, my darling, my love.”

One vine of unique fullness and conscience seems to look upon his face, takes stock of the flushed cheeks, the thrum of heart and scrape of breath. It draws closer, strokes his cheeks, its flesh of eerie familairity. Glistening, smooth, stiff.

it wraps about his neck like so many comforting arms before it, slithers round to his lips—pink and parted—and slunks into his mouth. rests within him, offers him its patience, permits accomodation. Will struggles as the length bids his jaw open. Gags from pressure on his tongue.

Then there is a teeming. A tingling. A numbing. A swelling. His pants sport a sudden discomfort that demands succor. His eyes roll back as the knowing length delves deeper into him, throbbing with its talent of mind and body, swallowing his moans as he swallows it.

Backpack slumped against the wall. Dropped less ceremoniously than usual and a few good feet from its preferred spot by the still-living fern they manage to maintain.

A rough day. Again. Same as a few days ago, days before that...is each of them meant to be so callous?

His feet wander with a body in tow. Maybe they slough the shoes off, maybe they don't. Socks stay on either way. Cotton ships shuffling across a linoleum sea. He doesn't need light to grab the instant coffee. Finds the faucet like an old friend. He imagines himself as a bartender for himself, and he smiles. Here's your drink dude, on tap. New York's finest and a dash or 6 of powdered caffeine painted black.

The coffee will knock him out. Killer headache. Should take his mind off the pain in his back.

Mail's on the table again. Looks like it fell on the floor too. Feet like ships don't notice and they hit the paper waves, the starboard toe has hit the table, captain! He mouths fuck because he should be asleep and the sleep don't talk, unless they have brown hair and bad dreams.

I've got bad dreams too, thinks the captain. He wonders where he put his mouthguard...

Dimmers in the bedroom, thank god. Pain doesn't mix well with a cranky boyfriend. Even when it's him, Will always groans and throws things. Why, why do you forsake me!

He would like to be forsaken right now. Could take his mind off the knots in his spine and the bills in the linoleum sea.

He knows he smells like burning fats and carbs. Never thought he'd be doing this kinda work but, hey, gotta earn a living, and there's no rest for the wicked. Does that apply? Where are his glasses?

"Mike....?"

If his voice always stayed that deep and graveled Mike would never leave the bedroom. He sheds his work skin. Creaks down onto the springy mattress. Maybe he won't leave it.

"Hey, love," he says. Dammit, he's got salt in his eyes. Sweat and grease don't mix well with tears. They're burning. He just sat down. The hull has sprung two leaks, captain.

Soft arms wrap around him. Someone must have put cotton in his ears, he didn't hear his man move.

"C'mon, lemme get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Captain hoped he could be carried, but arms over the shoulder of his love will do. Will, will do. He chuckles. He's so funny.

Will doesn't need lights in the bathroom. His eyes can still see a lot of things, and no one needs to know he can see in the dark.

"You just relax." Kiss on the forehead. Favorite spot. Mom did that too. Will's not his mom. Shit. But it's still nice. He cries on the closed toilet seat. Shuffling feet accompany soothing words, warm damp cloth on his face. Kisses, lots of those.

He's in bed now. Flat on his flat belly. Not wearing much at all maybe, or nothing. The sheets count. Soft hands are stronger than they look. They break apart the stones in his back. They sculpt him a new one.

"C'mere big guy."

But the only sound like that that mattered was Finn slamming Noah into the cream colored wall of yet another "nice" hotel room. LA clamors far below them. An eagle eye might be able to see into their window, and that's on purpose. Finn and Noah always liked the tease of being caught, being seen. Finn for the thrill of someone, anyone seeing his stroke game, his performance and control (a director in every regard);

Noah, because it's really so simple: he needs to be seen. Needs that attention whichever man might give it. Give him your eyes, your wandering eyes, and hands that yearn and ache to touch him. But he gets off that much more to knowing that no one but Finn gets to satisfy that need. Others have, of course they have, and Finn knows every sordid detail.

Now, once again, it's those big palms and long fingers on Noah. One braces that neck, the other stays those hips, the back doing what he does with its arch and its slender curvature. The butt--that infamous fucking butt--presented to its owner after so many long, terrible months. Clothes aren't even off yet and both men's cocks burn for each other.

Finn, groping the horizon of Noah's ass; Noah, craning his neck to taste Finn's breath. Need, need, need. A craving that reorders polarity, lips that draw close and keep distance. Should they meet, should they kiss? So long without any of this. Would that the teasing inspire more. The dream of a kiss. Those dreams that cradled them by night and day until this moment. Dreams that carved anew the meaning of passion.

Theirs is an unbridled kindness, a merciless lust. That hand closest to untouched need pushing into soft cotton, finding the place Noah kept unmarred all these months. Fresh, tight, ready. No flesh in contact but a finger that wishes to tear open his garments. Cotton curved and tight over his roundness, and he whimpers. Reaches back, feeling the lacking, palm tingling across the short cropped dark. There is no hair to grab, but their is a head, and Noah seizes his Finn and growls in his fulgurous baritone.

if you don't like it you're mean to me and that makes me sad

Mike’s rifling through his drawers searching for anything that might fit Will. Shirts and jeans are one thing but underwear is an entirely different beast to conquer. With one glance Mike reminds himself that Will is much, much thicker than he is, and he turns back to his drawers red faced.

“Uh, all i’ve got are these,” Mike says, brandishing some tighty whities. “They’re clean, trust me.”

Will snorts. “That’s the least of my worries, Mikey. Look at them! How am i supposed to fit in those?”

“Only one way to find out.” Mike walks over and homds out the briefs for Will to step into.

“I think i can manage getting dressed,” Will says before wincing as he stands.

“Nope. not happening. My room, my rules.”

Will gulps. “Didn’t realize you were the boss of me.”

“just. just get in the undies.”

Step by step Will gides into the holes, holding Mike’s shoulders for support. It is hard to stand and Mike does his part to pull the cotton up Will’s thighs. Already its clear they are too small when they tighted around those thighs, the front barely covering Will’s dick, the back not even at his butt

“Gonna need some elbow grease.”

“Mike, theyre too small!”

“Nope, we can do this!”

Mike reaches around, grips the cottons tight, and yanks them up. Will giggled and yelps, his butt bouncing and his joints yelling for reliefe. Theres a momentary concern for tearing but, at last, the snug little undies are shielding Will’s nethers.

“They are so snug, Mike. this is ridiculous….Mike?”

Mike’s staring. Transfixed. Will’s barely contained in those briefs, his dick and balls about to pop out (and he’s hard, just like Mike is) and even from the front Mike can tell how much that fucking ass spills out in the back. All his blood rushes to his cock and his cheeks and his mouth is dry as a california summer

Will covers himself again. “Mike, what. is it? dont just stand there. Say something! Ugh maybe i’ll just go commando.”

“No!” Mike snaps, albeit quietly. he steps forward slow, autonomously, hands extended. Will doesn’t exactly rear back but leans away confused.

“Mikey?”

“Turn around.”

Will obey and slowly turns. Mike doesnt want to see how comfortably they fit and Will knows this. He wants to see how his ass is eating these briefs, made them almost into a thong, his round, smooth cheeks cascading out the inner edges of the fabric. Mike plants himself behind Will and gropes that succulent butt, all his breath escaping past his tingling lips. His head’s on fire.

Will shudders at the touch. “Michael…” he drones.

He was of no mind to notice the crunch, crunch, crunch of cotton steps upon the dried leaves. The vines, their strength, their soporific touch lulled the young William into a deep stupor. The vines had thus raised him off his feet and bound him to the tree at his back. That within his mouth was now patiently in his throat, pulsating an opiate-touch against the velvet folds of his within.

The smaller ones tightened round his limbs and ascended. Meandered under his pants, his sleeves, making themselves known across his silken skin, testing the threads of his garments.

So came the figure that bound him. Tall, of willowed build, his hair the flavor of wheat and honey. Will did not see him. His hazel eyes fluttered behind the lids as that thickest of vines gorged itself on the tightness of his throat. A smile slit across the man's face. Drip, drip came his voice, languid and resonant.

"William. My William. You ran for so long. I am so glad that I can help you rest, now. Help you see."

He curled his left hand an two vines slid across the boy's waist, one traveled north, the other, south. The north-vine cleaved apart William's shirt, pop pop pop each button went, fleeing as of their own accord. The shirt itself exhaled with the boy, his chest of an arched fullness as he reacted mindlessly to this disrobing.

The southhward vine was most lecherous. It slid round his waist more and more, an embrace tender and binding, the vine traveling further and further below the hem of his pants with each orbit. In time the button and zipper succumbed to the pressure and split apart, as did the posterior, and poor William moaned sweetly into the vine that penetrated him.

His clothes aren’t so lucky.

Now that he’s staying at the Wheelers he and Mike have taken to sharing the occasional coat or button up. Mike always preffered baggier stuff and his height had him getting mediums/larges. Will, while shorter, has that cozy thickness Mike has come to love holding.

After this latest mission, though, Mike rushes Will into his (their) bedroom because, well, there’s not much protecting his modesty at the moment. Will tends toward layers and when he’s exploring the other side he puts on even more, and the winds and claws of that dark dimension did a number on everything he wore.

Not to mention he’s pretty beat up this time. A hug and a kiss from Henry.

Mike eases him onto his (their) bed and takes off the tattered layers. gotta take it easy this time, some stick to dried blood and bad cuts. Eventually he gets them all off and Will sits beside him in nothing but his old white briefs…which weren’t exactly spared a ribboning

they share a look and Will, tired, slumps his head onto Mike’s shoulder and lets him shirk off the bits and pieces of underwear. Not the first time he’s seen Will naked, but the first time he’s been this close to Mike. Neither really feels the lustful draw, either.

Mike kisses Will’s hair. It still smells of wet leaves and rusted metal. Strokes Will’s thigh, up to his rounded hip. Smiles, finding a little joy in Will keeping a bit of his plush after the UD has taken so much, and the food shortages don’t help.

Will Byers, at the encouragement of Dustin and some other new friends, joined the school's theatre class in the hope of finding himself through acting. And he's taken to it marvelously. After a spate of great performances in both leading and supporting roles, we find our darling Will backstage after one of the plays, and he's about to meet some adoring fans

NSF fucking W