bells★˚⋆𝄞

The first heatwave of 1989 erupted onto Hawkins with no warning, and Starcourt was undoubtedly the epicenter.

Teens in bright neons and loaded all up on hairspray flooded into the mall looking for one place and one place only: Scoops Ahoy, the best Ice Cream Parlour in town (and the only one, so not a tough competition).

Sure, you could go to Melvalds and get a measly milkshake, or even get a few ice pops from Bradley's Big Buy; but why do that when you could pay less than a dollar for the sugar rush that felt better than getting to third base?

And here you are - in the eye of the storm, standing behind the counter dressed in your polyester bright blue sailor uniform, drenched in sweat and praying for this day to just be over.

The line stretched out of the store, and one regular Erica Sinclair just had to keep coming back to test your patience.

When you were urged to get a summer job to save up before heading off to college, Scoops Ahoy wasn’t exactly what you had pictured. But alas, you weren’t geeky enough for the Palace Arcade and didn’t quite carry the pep in your step needed for the GAP, so, off you set sail on the infamous ocean of flavour.

“You are way too old to be trying this trick, Erica.” Sighing as you hand over what seemed like the hundredth sample of the day.

Erica shrugs, “There is a bogus system here, and each summer it is my job to exploit it. I dare you to challenge me while wearing that abomination.”

The owners still didn’t quite get the memo about the tacky outfits, but it didn’t seem to deter any customers on Hawkins’ hot summer days. And hey, free ice cream for you and your friends!

Well, that would help if any of your friends had time outside their own jobs to visit you or had stayed behind in Hawkins for this last summer before college. It all just seemed like you were cast adrift on your maiden voyage and now you were just waiting for the ship to hurry up and sink so you could get the hell out of here. No amount of summer keg parties could change your mind.

This could all be helped if you had good company while at work.

Unfortunately for you, you have Mike Wheeler.

You knew Mike from school - he was in most of your classes throughout the years. And while you never really exchanged words with him, you were more or less friendly with his group. You had been sure Dustin would follow in his pal Steve Harrington’s footsteps and get a job here, but alas, he managed to be the perfect amount of dorky that the Palace Arcade required in their staff.

Before you could even begin to daydream about having Steve Harrington working with you here instead, at least giving you some eye candy to ogle at every shift, your fantasies were rudely interrupted by Mike slamming the window open behind you.

While you liked the company that Mike kept, you only got to experience him in a perpetually pissy mood.

He’d always been snarky, but his ex-girlfriend breaking up with him at the end of last summer had kind of soured his senior year. Now, with the prospect of all his friends splitting up across the country, and her moving to Iceland, he was loathing having to spend his time in the ice cream parlour all summer.

It seemed that rather than blame his parents for refusing to fund his summer schemes, or his friends for getting on with their lives, you were enemy numero uno for also being forced to work with him in this hell of his own making.

“Dude, you need to step aside and let me on the counter. I’m sick of having to mix all this ice cream up back here and the line is way too long for you to be entertaining her.” Mike slammed the refills on the counter, his scowl ever apparent.

“Sure, no worries - I’m sure the customers will really appreciate your winning smile and sunshine attitude.” You grab them and slot them into their spaces under the counter, shaking your head. This exchange happens almost every shift.

Erica lets out a sound in agreement, smirking while taking her time trying the S.S. Butterscotch.

“What the hell are you agreeing for, dipshit?” His patented eyeroll.

“Language, Michael! She’s a kid!” You scold in a hush, not wanting to alert any customers to his attitude.

“Yeah, Michael, watch your tone with me. Don’t you owe me one for like, the five hundred thousand times I’ve saved your ass?” Erica, wide eyed and challenging, leans across the counter. Before Mike can say anything else you interrupt with a SHUSH, pointing your head in the direction of the growing queue.

“Only my mom calls me Michael.” He retreats.

Turning back around, “Erica, please cool it with the samples. We’re too busy now.” You plead. The freshman shrugs, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You know that’s a promise.

Mike flies out of the doors, bringing the last of the refills with him. You can’t help but sneak a look at him while ringing up whatever order has just been thrown at you.

Maneuvering behind you, his chest lingers at your shoulder. Why did he need to be towering over you at, like, 6’0?

Swallowing air and chewing slightly on your already chapped lips, trying to fix your focus onto the register keys. His breath is warm on your cheek.

“The customer ordered a Mint Choc Chip double scoop, not a triple. You’re over charging him.” Scoffing, pushing in and evading your space like he always does. Looking up at the customer apologetically, you hope that he understands your mistake - the man looks unamused.

“Maybe I’d be able to concentrate if you weren’t slamming shit on the counters and sulking around so much.” This earns you another eye roll. “Maybe the line wouldn’t be so long if you actually did your job.” He counters, handling the cash while you prepare the order.

This demeaning attitude drove you crazy, you worked just as hard as he did. The way he spoke about you in this place made it seem like anything was always two seconds away from burning down without his intervention. And intervene he did, you felt like you couldn’t breathe at times from him jumping down your neck over the tiniest things.

“Mike, did you take out the trash-”

“Obviously I did, do you think I’m some sort of idiot? I’m not you.”

“Mike, did you turn off the-”

“Yes, the mixer is off. Jesus Christ, you need to worry about yourself.”

It made you want to call in sick for the rest of the summer. Except no teen in their right mind would ever want to work here to get your shifts covered, and you felt guilty about throwing in the towel over a stupid boy.

The sweat is lashing off you. These goddamn uniforms. The cheap material doesn’t help with the heat, even for an ice cream shop. Your jaw is wound up so tightly you didn’t even realise how hard you were gritting your teeth. Fuck this summer so much.

Unbeknownst to you, Mike was in the same boat as you were. He knows well that Lucas and Dustin have a bet against him that he wouldn’t last long working here. If there was one thing that exceeded his need for cash, it was his stubbornness.

In order to work together without a fight, you had to exist in silence; which made the shifts feel even longer and more torturous. Eventually, you would both blow up at each other anyway due to a minor unspoken miscommunication.

By week 3, you had decided you hated Mike Wheeler.

You hated his scoffs, his eyerolls. You hated the way his voice stayed that monotonous, condescending way half the time, as if he thought you were beneath him.

You hated the way he spoke to customers that were taking too long, or the way he would refuse to serve certain classmates that then meant that you would have to go and double down on your niceness to avoid awkwardness.

You hated that he would randomly ditch to go out and smoke behind Starcourt with Eddie Munson, who was the manager in the record store upstairs. Or, when the cute girl from the bookshop would come in on her break and he’d do that shy smile and let her have whatever she wanted.

But more than anything, you hated that while he did not have Harrington-level looks, Mike Wheeler was unfortunately attractive.

Too ashamed to admit that you had indeed thought about what it would be like to pull on his dark hair, or sometimes even hope that he would grab your waist when moving past you, you channelled the frustration into how you dealt with him. Fighting dirty was not, not an option.

Wheeler was scrappy in an argument, enjoying to back you into corners and leave you stuttering. Sometimes he’d smirk at you with narrowed eyes as if he was harvesting all of your sanity for his own sick satisfaction.

One night, after a particularly heated shift that ended in raised voices and slamming doors, and notably you getting a particularly nasty jab in about him playing DND, you couldn’t get him out of your head the entire car ride home.

Even after the shouting match, you had still turned to him at the employee exit behind the mall and asked if he wanted a ride home. It felt like you were handing him a white flag and your dignity on a platter. He bluntly insisted that his sister was coming for him, and you left it at that.

You watched his dark figure in the side mirror as it shrunk into the distance. He seemed to watch your car as you went. If he was trying to intimidate you, it was working.

With the steering wheel gripped tightly in your hands and your eyes stuck on the road in front of you, you couldn’t help but let out all of the snarky comments you wish you’d made instead of feeling so damn spineless.

This continued the whole way home, slamming the door behind you upon entering your house.

Socks and shoes shed and left abandoned, your keys hit the rim of the hall mirror as you carelessly toss them, you’d hoped that they would land in the small bowl instead.

You’re still ranting to yourself. Your parents would be used to this by now if they were ever home. This was a sore subject for you.

Safe in the sanctity of your room, it felt like you could finally breathe. Shedding your uniform as if you were ridding yourself of your own skin, your mind goes blank as your back hits the duvet.

Sunlight seeps through the window across from you, a strip lands on your face. The sky is a picturesque blue, with fluffy clouds that look like they had been painted on.

You couldn’t shake off the feeling inside of you. The vision of him clung to you, no longer able to pretend that the flush of your cheeks is coming from the ray of light covering them.

It felt like he’d burrowed into your chest and was using your heart as a drum.

The fight replayed in your head again. Flashes of him, his mean smile, his head tilting condescendingly, his dark eyes goading you on, his hands grasping onto the counter that separated you.

The way his veins looked as he pushed a frantic hand through his hair and scoffed. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” He’d told you. You squirm, trying to fight the all too familiar heat rising within you.

A tentative hand slips under your panties, your fingers quickly covered in the wetness down there. Methodical strokes over your clit as you bite your lip and try to shake away the thought of Mike Wheeler doing this to you. It’s no use, your imagination begins to run free. You felt so dirty.

Chest heaving from the pleasure, your fingers sink inside of you and you imagine they’re his. Those long fingers, what they’d feel like if he was here with you right now. You frown at the phantom feeling of them as you know no matter how good you touch yourself, it will never fill the void. If he was here, he’d be able to go deeper. Harder.

When you cum, you can’t help but let Mike slip out. Your free hand snaps to your mouth, wishing you could force it back in.

It feels almost foreign on your tongue. You spend the night with a pit of shame in your stomach. But the heat remained.

So, quite frankly, ever since that night you’ve wanted the ground to open wide and swallow you up every time you’ve been in his presence.

But still, you insist that this changes nothing - you hate Mike Wheeler.

And here he was, working right by your side on the counter.

The place is too busy to bicker, and you don’t doubt that he feels just as icky as you do drenched in sweat. Aside from a few annoying comments from either of you, nothing terrible happens.

Until he leans across you to grab a finished ice cream tub sitting on the counter beside your hip. You can’t explain the manoeuvre yourself, but the way he leans over and crosses behind you leaves no personal space. In the crossfire, you can feel his front press up against your back, as you’re pushed into the counter.

You freeze, you can feel him pressing into you - all of him. Forced into the counter, you can’t help but jerk back involuntarily.

A soft moan falls from his throat, he almost grunts to stop himself. You gasp.

Dropping a sundae you were preparing into the ice cream display below in reaction, letting out a curse at the mess created. “JESUS, WHEELER!”

He frowns but looks apprehensive. “You’re blocking the whole damn display, shit, what else was I meant to do?” Mike shakes his head and reaches for the fallen bowl as you go to do the same. “Leave it, I’ll clear it up.” You mutter sternly.

“But I-”

“Seriously, Mike.” You insist, unable to look him in the eyes. He softens at you saying his name. His own eyes nervously shift around, struggling to focus on one thing. You wonder if he realised what noise he made, if he realised the effect it had on you, if he was as embarrassed as you were. It was all too much, too close. “Can you just go and clean some tables, please? The line isn’t long anymore.” The end of the rush was in sight, he hesitates for a second and then nods.

Falling back into that gross silence, the type that you know is only acting as respite for an even worse fight brewing, is worth it for now. You can’t bare to look at him, and he keeps his distance from you.

Then finally, for the first time all day, no one is waiting at the counter. No longer wanting to be inside on a day like this, you presume. The masses of disgruntled parents juggling their kids or tweens coming down from their sugar rushes were now Hawkins Community Pool’s problem, not yours.

The last few patrons take their time as you close up, the fluorescent strip bulbs drone grows only more apparent with the lack of atmosphere in the parlour. A couple in the corner booth finish their milkshake through two straws, you try not to laugh at the girl dragging her bare leg up his calf under the table in a flirting attempt. You cough to get their attention, mopping close to their booth. They get the idea, and leave while sending you smiles that seem fake.

Over the past few weeks, you’ve managed to get the end of shift mop down to a fine art, finding that Mike was too sloppy whenever he did it and ended up delaying what time you actually got out.

“You missed a bit.” Mike snorts, nursing a vanilla sundae that he must have helped himself to. If looks could kill he would be already six feet under. He points to a small dry patch behind you, you hate that he’s right.

“Oh, whatever Wheeler.” The mop is aggressively plunged into a soapy water filled bucket. “Can you just make yourself useful? Stack chairs or clean counters or something?”

“Why can’t you? I’ve worked hard enough, you complain when I do literally anything so I’ll just let the expert lead.” He drifts over to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world, a daring look in his eyes as he brings the spoon to his lips. You fight the urge to smack it away.

“Well, we can get out of here quicker if you do literally anything to help.”

“I’ve already cleaned the full back area-”

“Yeah? Well I’ve cleaned the front.”

“No you haven’t you liar, those kids have barely just left.” You slam the mop against his chest, he whines.

You get the surface cleaner and wipe down the booth, leaning over it as you clean. When you look around at Mike, his eyes dart away. “What? Something funny?” He shakes his head in response, still not looking at you.

You continue cleaning, stretching over the table, a sickly sarcastic smile as you pick up the empty milkshake glass left behind.

When you turn around to brandish it, he does the same again. Your mouth went dry, and your eyes widened. He was checking you out. “Watch it, perv!”

“Oh, you wish.” Mike scoffs and takes another spoonful of his sundae, moving the mop away lest it be used as a weapon again.

The tall glass hits the soapy water in the backroom, splashing up and soaking your top. Scoffing at the inconvenience, you power through and keep scrubbing. The window to the front of the store opens with a blast, you parade the clean glass through it as a trophy. “There! Happy?” Mike shrugs, a smile almost teasing his lips.

“The ice cream needs to be put away into the freezer.” He says, as if doing you a favour.

“Are you gonna do that?”

“Nope.”

“Well neither am I.” That gets him, the mop is discarded and his sundae is slammed on top of the counter. “What? C’mon!”

“I’m trying to help you with everything else I’m doing here, Mike. You’re standing eating fucking ice cream. I just want to get out of here, but you drive me so crazy!” You snatch the sundae bowl and begin to head to the sink. He follows in hot pursuit.

“I’ve taken the trash out, I got the delivery in, I’ve cleaned in here, everything is prepped for tomorrow.” He grabs his Ahoy hat from his head and tosses it on the table in the centre of the room.

A hand runs through his hair, you turn away and focus on the task at hand before allowing anything to stir within you. “I hate this. I hate having to deal with a micromanager like you. And you’re not even smart enough to be a manager!”

An uncontrollable rage surges through you. Taking the sundae bowl, you turn around and throw it over his head. It hits the wall behind him and smashes instantly.

“HOLY SHIT!” Mike exclaims. “You could have killed me!” Whatever shock was on your face quickly dissipated to unamusement. “Get a grip.”

He keeps motioning between you and the bowl as if it’s achieving anything. You’re already sweeping up the pieces.

“You crazy psycho! What the hell was that?”

You struggle to find words, disappointed in yourself that it came to that.

“Just so not professional. Just ‘cause all your friends have abandoned you for the summer, you think you can take it out on me!” He starts shuffling around you as you grab a broom and dustpan to clear up the glass pieces on the floor. You eventually find yourself on your hands and knees to get the difficult pieces as tears well up in your eyes. That does it.

“Oh I’m sorry, Michael. I forgot about how much fun you were having all summer galavanting around with your girlfriend- oh wait!” The comment leaves him dumbfounded. That has to sting.

He scrunches up his face, and heads towards the window. You prepare for the worst as you stand back up and dust yourself off.

He picks up the clean milkshake glass and drops it on the floor in front of you, you flinch as it explodes into a hundred little pieces, adding to your workload. “Whoops.”

You stare daggers, but say nothing and just keep clearing the area.

With no response, he just clenches his fist and stares until you’re almost done.

“Jealous bitch.” He mutters. Your eyes widen.

“Sorry, what was that? As if I’d be fucking jealous.” You begin to laugh maniacally. “Jealous of what? Your fuckin’ right hand?”

“Real mature.”

“Oh fuck you. I’m leaving, Wheeler.” Heading for the back exit, he trailed behind you.

“Sure, go ahead, say hi to your parents for me. Oh wait.” He shrugs with a twisted satisfaction. A killing blow, you really had to give it to him.

With no constraint left after your previous outburst, and just so desperate to get him the hell away from you - you turn around and slap him clean across the face.

The unpleasant THWACK echoes through the back room, and you’re not at all proud of what you’ve done. His right cheek is bright red and both of your mouths hang open in shock. Your hand is aching. His pupils dilate.

Something shifts in him, in both of you. The charade is dropped.

“Ohmygod- Mike I’m so sorry, what the fuck! I don’t know what came over me, I swear!-” You begin to ramble, reaching out to touch his cheek, but his hand reaches there first.

You try to read his eyes, it’s like he’s struggling to even process what happened. You frown, this is the worst you’ve ever felt in your life. You need him to say something, anything. Hell, you kind of even want him to slap you back just to make it even.

His breathing is heavy, you hadn’t noticed before now. He’s just standing there, staring at your face. You’re so close. His eyes are so, so dark. He kind of shakes his head, an unreadable amusement flickers briefly on his face.

You realise that while he may be in shock, he didn’t not like it.

The heat returns full force, you bite down on your lip, unable to look away from his face. Your eyes dart from his eyes, to his lips and back up again. Then, you feel the dampness between your legs. You unmistakably tremble, jaw slack.

“Holy shit.” You don’t know who mumbled it, maybe you both did.

Some unholy force washes over you both, and you grab each other like you might die if you don’t. Your lips meet his in a fury, your fist tugging tight on the red tie from his stupid fucking uniform. You feel drunk on the adrenaline, it’s dangerous, but you can’t stop.

He rips your hat from your head, and throws it across the room. His hands slot through your hair, holding you in place. Noses, tongues and teeth clash, a giddiness rises within you.

This was Mike versus you at its rawest, and you weren’t sure who was in the lead right now. His hands fall to your waist and slide under the sailor top, you jump at the feeling of the coldness on your skin, not expecting it considering how warm you both had been. He pulls you forward with a harsh tug and you can feel him against your pelvis. Rock solid.

Vanilla unrelenting on his tongue, it was addicting.

You drag your fingers through his messy long hair, he feels like just how you’ve imagined. You pull his head back, but chase his lips. Mike groans and grabs you tighter, nails pressing into you, it sends shivers down your spine.

For a second, you come back to reality and push him off of you. He is wild eyed and breathless, but apprehensive.

“I dunno what happened-” He starts after a beat, but you push past him and head straight for the steel table in the centre of the room. Sitting on top of it, you shed your damp shirt, exposing your bra.

“Shit.” He stands there awkwardly, obviously in shock.

“Are you gonna come here, or what?” Your voice shakes when you say it, but you still can’t believe your own boldness saying this to Michael Wheeler of all people. He starts frantically nodding, he can’t believe this is for him.

He approaches with caution, eyes not leaving you the entire time as he flickers from your face to your body. You curse in your head for not picking out a nicer underwear set today of all days.

“You know, you can touch me, Mike.” His brow furrows, as if he’s about to whine. As if he knows just as much as you how wrong this all feels. Unfortunately, that just made it hotter.

His left hand falls to your breast, his right cupping your jaw. A little unsure of himself, he leans in and kisses tentatively this time. There’s something about his touch that while it was greedy, it felt inexperienced.

You put your hand over his on your breast and get him to knead harder through the fabric, he follows without hesitation.

The kiss escalates quickly, sloppily dragging his tongue over yours as he grabs your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table. He slots himself between your legs, and you feel him again, rubbing yourself against him as he swears into your mouth.

He grinds even harder and you whimper, he can’t stop himself from smiling against your lips.

Breaking away to catch your breath, there is a shy excitement on your faces shared between you both now. If you gave yourself too much time to think, you think you would short circuit. From the way he seemed to be hiding his nerves, you thought he might do the same.

The air in the room is thick with heat, and you want him to lick it off of you.

Without thinking, you reach between his legs and grab his erection. Hissing, he jerks towards you. Mike relishes in the feeling for a moment and then with a wide, panting mouth, he captures you in a kiss again as you palm him through his shorts.

Your other hand snakes through the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls back. Biting at his exposed skin, not too hard, but hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck you.” You hear in your ear, it only makes you wetter.

The grip on your thighs grows tighter as he rocks himself into your hand, trying to alleviate the pressure building inside of him. His hand moves down to your knee and hooks it at his waist.

Through his strain he blurts out, “Can I feel you?”. With hesitance, you nod.

Both halves of your uniform are reunited on the floor, you feel bare. He is still looking at you in a sort of awe filled way, it makes you feel even more naked despite not being fully just yet. For the first time today, you feel chilly.

“I- I’ve never-“ Mike seems at a loss for words, but you understand what he’s saying.

“You’re a virgin?” Eying him curiously, he grimaces. He looks down at himself in his sailor uniform, and crosses his arms as if he’s the one almost naked.

“No! It’s just I’ve never, like, touched someone like-” Motioning his right index and middle fingers through a hole made of his left hand, you suppress a giggle.

“You’ve never fingered someone before?” He almost stutters but no words come out in response, hanging his head in shame, as if he’s worried what you’re going to say next.

A twinge of pity rang through you as you looked at the timid figure in front of you. Softly, you capture his hand in your own. Bringing his digits to your mouth, you suck. He shudders, the image better than anything he’d ever imagined.

Guiding him to the waistband of your underwear, you admit, “I’ve thought about this, you know.” His eyes burst open.

You push his fingers past the elastic, “That day when we were screaming at each other in the freezer, I went home and touched myself after.” He understands, you continue guiding him down.

“I came on my fingers thinking about you. About how much I can’t stand you.” Biting his lip, his fingers trail against your clit, you gasp at the contact. You were only half convinced by what you were saying.

There is no hesitation on his end, he immediately begins to rub his wet fingers against your core as if soothing a generational hunger.

The room is filled with your uncharacteristic whines as you grab his arm. Your underwear is pulled down your legs and thrown, abandoned with the rest of your clothes.

“Please, Mike, please.” You beg, grip growing tighter. At the mention of his name, he sinks his fingers inside of you. The gasp you let out feels like the first time you’ve ever breathed.

His face hovers on top of your own, as he leans you back. Your noses are parallel to each other, as your eyes stay locked on his and vice versa. His jaw is clenched as he works his way into you, trembling.

The noise of his fingers fucking into you is pornographic, and feeling even a little of his weight on top of you makes you yearn for everything to be harder. Deeper. Rougher. Just like it was in your head that day spread across your duvet.

“Do you like it when we argue? Do you always get this wet?” The question catches you off guard, especially the way he says it. Teasing, but entirely curious. You frown, but nod, tightly shutting your eyes out of embarrassment.

He brandishes that annoying grin he reserves for when he knows he’s under your skin. “Knew it.”

You couldn’t help but tighten on him, in response he begins to curl his fingers, hitting a spot that feels like uncharted territory. Those damn long narrow fingers. You knew you were right to imagine them fucking into you so much. Whining, you feel like your eyes are wound shut so tightly that you might cry.

Eager to please, he moves them a little quicker, a little more greedy. You tap his arm, Mike takes this as a good sign. “So fuckin’ wet, it’s crazy.” He admires.

It comes to you in a wet hot flash, one you’ve never quite experienced before from your own doing. You call his name out and he goes even faster, chasing after euphoria.

This desperation for Mike Wheeler was unbearable, and the worst part was you could practically feel his ego growing as you sat up on your elbows on the steel table and he kissed you hard again.

“Take your shorts off now.” You whisper. He does so without hesitation, taking his boxers with them and exposing his hard length to you. It was long and skinny like he was, with dark wild hair around it. Exactly as you’d pictured.

He began to take off his shirt but you stopped him.

“Freak.” He scoffs, but obeys nonetheless.

“Shut up, bet you can’t even unclip a bra.” Pushing your chest out towards him. Accepting the challenge, Mike fumbles around with the back of it for a moment before it pops open. “Beginners luck, I guess.” He smirks, and pulls you in again. You could kiss him forever, you think.

Entirely topless now, Mike almost doesn’t know what to do with you.

“You look….. good.”

“Shut up,” You almost go to cover yourself but he stops you.

“I’m serious! Especially when you sit there all horned up and just shut up.” You hit his arm. “Ouch.”

“Oh, whatever, you like it when I smack you.” You joke but feel guilty for even saying it, he blushes.

“True.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d hit me back, in the moment. Not in a weird way, just like, to make it even.” You open the floor to it, all cards on the table. You were already picturing your arch nemesis ramming into you in your work place where anyone could walk in and see, may as well suggest some further experimentation.

Mike contemplates for a second and then awkwardly, “I don’t think I’m really into that, sorry.”

Shrugging, “No worries,”, you challenge him, “Are you atleast going to fuck me or are you just going to stand there being a pussy?”.

“You’re such a dick.” The boy shakes his head, smiling. Catching you off guard, a tight hand lands on your throat. He holds his other palm out under your chin. His cock is already working up against you, you exhale.

“Spit.”

You oblige.

He lathers the stream of saliva on himself and spreads the rest over your already soaking entrance. Pumping himself a few times, he lines himself up, takes a deep breath and pushes himself inside you.

The stretch burns ever so slightly, but you still cry out in ecstasy at the feeling. Mike is holding himself against you, trying not to come thinking of your naked figure pressed up against his body alone.

Eventually adjusting, he begins to move, rocking into you slow but steady. You can’t help but moan. His hot breath on your forehead as you sit there, both throbbing, feels so intimate.

It felt so filthy, it felt like the worst thing you could ever do. To be with him in this way, after everything.

Your mouth is wide open, panting, and his jaw is resting above it. You can hear every little struggling noise he’s making, you can almost feel how nervous he is and taste his sheer selfish want.

His hips snap into your own, you hold his chin to force him to look at you. “Look at what you’re doing to me.” You struggle out, overcome by pleasure. “Take it all out on me. Go on.”

He hums and your name spills out of his mouth as he starts to thrust harder. You’ve been with guys before, sure, but never like this.

“You feel so good, shit.” He whimpers, the table begins to shake and he unforgivingly buries his hilt inside, filling you so entirely. So, so deep.

“Aw fuck, I’m not going to last much longer.” Mike strains, you bite your lip in an attempt to ground yourself but accidentally draw blood.

“Keep going, idiot, fuck - I’m gonna cum.”

“Don’t be such a fucking bitch about it-”

“I despise you-”

“Ditto-” You lean forward and graze your teeth into the side of his neck again, and he comes undone.

Body tensing, Mike falls into you and your back is pushed against the table. The feeling of him convulsing sends ripples through you, and you finally release once more, fingers grasping his hair for dear life as he fills you.

Covered in sweat, you both stay there for a moment, not saying anything.

He leaps up. “Oh shit, we never used a condom.”

You struggle to get up on your elbows, nonplussed. “I’m on the pill.” Still trying to stay in the afterglow before you have to come crashing back to reality.

Mike sighs, relieved. Pushing away the dread at the potential of having to tell his mom and dad he got a girl pregnant before he even reached college.

“I think that’s the longest we’ve went without, like, properly arguing.” You sigh.

“What are you talking about? That’s how I argue with everybody.”

You smack his chest, he lets out a little ow, but smiles. You smile back.

Your head falls back onto the table. Mike sorts out his clothes, then gathers some centrefeed roll from beside the sink and hands some to you.

“Jesus, I feel like I can’t get up.” The ceiling stares back at you. Mike hurries around the kitchen, you zone out as you clean yourself up. Nothing a cold shower can’t help with when you get home.

By the time you finally get up and redress, you realise Mike has done the rest of the close.

“I mean, it’s the least I could do seeing as you literally just let me cum inside you.” He shrugs, half joking. You amusedly huff. He gets a little stir out of seeing you smile at one of his jokes.

“I appreciate it, seriously.” A moment lingers between you. Maybe it’s an awkward silence. You’re not quite sure what to say.

Mike stands there, awkwardly nodding. “Cool.”

“I can lock up if you want. Do you need a ride home or…?”

“Nah it’s fine, Nance is coming for me. She’s probably here already.”

“Cool.” Another beat passes, neither of you move.

“I should go then.” He grabs his jacket from the hook beside the door, getting ready as you clear the last of any mess.

“Hey, Wheeler,”

“Listen I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about-”

“No, not that. God, I’d just deny it anyway.”

Mike rolls his eyes at you, but he still hesitates to open the door. “What’s up?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you were down, I’d be up for this same time tomorrow again.” Your gaze drops to the floor in shame, here comes the punchline - Mike Wheeler is probably never going to let this down.

But instead his face lights up.

“Sounds good.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“I still cannot stand you though, Wheeler.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.” He says it with a smile, and takes his time leaving through the employee exit, still unable to take his eyes off you.

The second he leaves the room, you let go of a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and gripped onto the table you were practically spread across a few minutes ago.

What the fuck just happened?

But then, you remembered, tomorrow.