"Actually Good" Finn Wolfhard Imagines

High Society (SMUT)

TW: Sexual Content, Drug Use

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Ana set the plate of pancakes down in front of you, beside the steaming cup of tea and massive bowl of freshly sliced organic fruit. But you weren't hungry.

Your mother sat across the large dining table from you, reading a self-help book. You pretended not to notice the fact that the coffee she sipped on was spiked with whiskey. Her trusty flask was always full, usually stowed in one of her Hermes handbags.

"Y/N," your mother sighed. You snapped into reality, avoiding eye contact with her. "Why aren't you eating, darling?"

"I'm not hungry." you muttered, pushing the pancakes away from you. "Do you want these?" you asked your mother, gesturing to the pancakes.

"Honey, I haven't eaten that many carbs since 2004. Ana, you can take these away."

Ana, the housekeeper, took the pancakes back to the kitchen. You hated wasting food, but the truth was, your stomach was all consumed with butterflies. You couldn't help it.

Your mother took a swig of her coffee/whisky concoction and went back to her self-help book. She never inquired about your feelings. And while sometimes you longed to talk things out with a maternal figure, you were glad she wasn't asking what was bothering you so much. If she found out what had happened last night, you wouldn't be able to bear it.

The night before had been more than out of the ordinary. Your best friend Becca had invited you to her cousin's party in Williamsburg, and you obliged, expecting it to be like every other high-society New York party you attended.

Since you had grown up in a multi-million dollar condo on Park Avenue at the top of New York society, basically everyone assumed you were an uptight spoiled brat. People you didn't even know would spend their days Tweeting about your most recent outfit, who you were dating, where you were going... And it really took a toll on you. Even going to parties with your friends, you had to act the part of Manhattan's darling.

Becca texted you the address as you were slipping into a new REDValentino dress. It was black, above the knee, classy. You hopped in the back of your mother's driver's car, telling him the address, and you were on your way.

It was rare that you ventured into Brooklyn. Due to gentrification, it was now an up-and-coming hipster town, but you weren't a hipster. The graffiti and brick of the city made you uneasy - But you got out, thanking the driver, and made your way into the party.

As soon as the bouncer opened the door, the scent of cigarette smoke and beer hit your nose. The venue was a pretty tiny dive bar, with a small stage, where an indie rock band played loudly. The lights were dark, teenagers mingled, danced, drank. You immediately felt very out of place.

Typically, the parties you went to were hosted in lavish spaces in the city, with tray pass hors d'oeuvres, $700 champagne and guests dressed in pearls and diamonds. The closest you ever got to live music was a quiet jazz trio. This was nothing like that.

Self conscious about your outfit choice, which was a little formal for the setting, you set out to find Becca. Looking to the left to glance at the stage, you noticed the lead singer of the performing band. He was pretty tall and gangly, with a leather jacket and jet black curls falling in his eyes. You stopped dead for a moment - you just couldn't take your eyes off him.

"Y/N!"

You felt a tap on your shoulder and spun to see Becca, hugging her and getting a whiff of her Chanel Eau De Parfum mixed with tequila. Becca was a rebel. Her parents were filthy rich and owned half of the buildings in Manhattan, but you never would've guessed it. Her personality was more vibrant than her hot pink hair.