Breathe

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Finn didn't like parties mostly because he hasn't got the material time to attend them.

He had to work on day on set, deal with Millie's face and her British scent dancing around him like a constant and sticky reminder of her presence, escape from paparazzi hunting him down anytime he went out shopping in a record store and, last but not least, he had to work for other projects and fashion campaigns.

In sum, he was a busy guy (a workaholic as he used to define himself) with an endless list of commitments and who had better to do throughout the day.

But when Violet, a LA party girl, had come over in Atlanta for the weekend after the first two weeks of filming, he really should have seen the question coming.

"Babe, are you going to organize a party for your 21st birthday?" She asks it very casually, as her fingers massage gently his bony shoulders.

"Uh? Nah. I am not for parties." He lets out in pleasure, eyes shut as his girl friend keeps on stroking his nerves.

God. She's so fucking good at this. Honestly, Finn wouldn't get enough of the feeling of her hands all over his body. She is grazing her lavender oily fingertips all way up to his neck and shoulders in sensual circles. Violet is so sweet to him, and he feels so lucky to be her boyfriend.

"But you can legally get drunk in US. Shouldn't it be a valid reason to party?" Her laughs is soothing and seductive, as she peppers some kisses from his neck and sliding down, and down from his bare spine...

"Vio," He giggles, feeling ticklish, "I'm not really comfortable with the crowd, you know that."

"I know, but I'm not telling you to organize something big. Just your close circle friends, maybe here? There is enough space..."

Of course she's right.
Finn's luxury flat is in the very center of Atlanta. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a huge living room that, yes, is specifically projected to contain dozens of people.

Nevertheless, he doesn't feel like dancing and drinking around too many people. He was a reserved guy (and very family inclined).

"Since when you want to share me, uh?" He smirks,  turning his face slightly just to smash a tiny kiss on her lips.

"Since when you are freaking boring! You are like the Finn Wolfhard and you are behaving like a grandpa!"

She stops what she's doing, hands firm on both of her sides. Oh no, she was giving him that look — the irritated one.

Finn lets himself fall on the bed, laughing and rolling his eyes up to her, "See? Fame can be deceiving. I am always the same lame guy, despite walking on the red carpets."

"How's it, though?" She asks, eyes shining, "Walking on the red carpets?"

"Annoying, kitten. Too many voices ordering you where to look. Too many cameras recording you and catching all the bullshit you say, all the smiles you fake. It's... awful."

"So why did you choose this job?" She snorts.

It seems so no sense to her. How could you despise the golden dream of being known worldwide?

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