Nea🩰

****

Hey, uh, it’s Mike. I, um. . . this is stupid, why am I leaving a voicemail? I just figured you’d. . . I don’t know, you didn’t show up tonight, so I just wanted to make sure you were. . . okay. If we’re okay? No, that’s not what I mean. Shit. Just, yeah. Call me back.

You pressed play on the answering machine for what felt like the dozenth time. Mike’s deliciously raspy timbre filled the confines of your room. At that point, you knew every intricacy of the message he’d left - each place where he’d stopped to carefully consider his words, the crackle of static when he shifted the phone against his ear, the deep breath he took at the end before saying, “Call me back.”

You were sitting on your bed, legs tucked up to your chest, cheek resting atop your knee as you listened to his message again. There was a painful aching in your ribcage, one that stemmed from an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was an odd mix of excitement and remorse.

On the one hand, you didn’t miss the implication of Mike calling you and leaving a voicemail. It meant he’d purposefully sought out your phone number, thumbed through the phone book looking for your name. On the other hand, you were sick with guilt over not showing up. You didn’t think skipping your weekly ritual would result in Mike calling and practically begging you - no, not begging, you were just being dramatic - to call him and let him know if you were okay.

If the two of you were okay.

What had he meant by that? You couldn’t decide if you were reading too much into it. Did he mean the casual sex situation? Was he asking if their arrangement was over? Or was he implying something more? That maybe there was an element of. . . friendship that you’d been unaware of.

Was friendship too strong a word? Was it the right word to describe the dynamic between two people who fucked and did nothing else?

You pressed play again.

It was Monday afternoon. You’d spent all day sitting in the same position, or a variation of the same position, repeatedly listening to Mike’s voice and reconsidering everything you thought you knew about him. Your conversation with your best friend, which you’d already left feeling like you didn’t have a true grasp on Mike Wheeler, had only complicated things further.

Because if you hadn’t spent the night with your friends, Mike would have never called you, but if you’d gone to his apartment, you would have gotten your feelings hurt.

It was all too confusing.

The voicemail finished, and you sighed, flopping back into your pillows to stare at the ceiling.

What did it mean that Mike rarely slept with a girl more than once? What did it mean that you’d slept with him four times? What did it mean that he was calling you to see why you hadn’t shown up for the fifth time? Was it really just a matter of Mike relishing in your humiliation and the fact that he had such control over you? Or was it something else? Did he like hooking up with you?

If so, he was really bad at showing it.

You couldn’t believe that you’d skipped your writing seminar, so unprepared to face Mike in person that you instead chose to listen to a 20-second voicemail over and over and over and over. . .

This happened sometimes, though, didn’t it? Things you had a history with wouldn’t let you go, even if those things were boys with lanky limbs and a pretty face.

What if you couldn’t set yourself free from Mike Wheeler?

Ever.

It would have been less painful if Mike cut you open and carved his name into your organs, if he plunged his fist into your chest cavity and pulled out your still-beating heart. Anything other than this, this dizzying back-and-forth of a non-committal relationship. You’d never occupied the in-between space where somebody could matter so much and technically mean nothing at all, and it was sending you into a spiral.

Truthfully, it had been sending you into a spiral since that day in the library when Mike complimented your writing and offered you his joint.

There were so many what-ifs. So many possibilities that could have led you down an alternative route. What if you’d called Mike out on his rude, distant behavior? What if you’d never gone to his apartment? What if you’d never gone to the library that day at all?

You slipped under your sheets, swaddling yourself in your blankets before closing your eyes.

Deep down, even with all these hypotheticals, you knew that your encounter with Mike Wheeler was inevitable. You could just feel that your schoolgirl crush on him had set off a natural chain of events that would, in every timeline, lead you to him.

You reached out from underneath the blankets and blindly pushed play on the answering machine.

Hey, uh, it’s Mike.

****

There was no logical reason why you decided to return to Mike’s that Friday. It wasn’t as if he called you again or anything, and you’d skipped class both Monday and Wednesday (which was a poor choice, in hindsight), meaning he hadn’t been able to leave you another cryptic note. Yet, here you were, standing in front of the apartment door that was growing more and more familiar.

You knocked on the door, the sound making you cringe. Mike was there in an instant.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly.

“Hi.”

“You’re here.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I, um. . . sorry I didn’t show up last week.”

Mike stepped aside to let you into the apartment, looking a little dumbfounded. He looked devastatingly gorgeous, as usual. He wore a faded shirt that read HELLFIRE CLUB, softened by too many washes. The hem was too short and pulled slightly across his chest, so with each movement, it exposed a sliver of his stomach. The right side of his face was pink, as if he’d been leaning on the palm of his hand, and there was a smear of ink on the strong bridge of his nose.

You’d quickly become familiar with the comforting warmth of Mike’s apartment. Your apartment was always a flurry of activity, vibrant with noise and half-finished conversations, as was common when five twenty-something women shared a place. There were always clothes in the living room, shoes in the hall, and makeup bags spilled across every surface. The air was always redolent with perfume, hairspray, and shampoo in preparation for dates and nights out. The mirrors were always fogged over from rushed mornings, and if music wasn’t playing, then someone was singing. There were mugs left out, lipstick stains on the rims, and sweet little notes scattered on counters - have a good day, girls!

And while you wouldn’t have had it any other way - you loved your roommates and the liveliness they brought to your life - you were fascinated by the tranquility of Mike’s apartment. It was always unchanged, stagnant, a snapshot of a moment. There was a sense that everything in the space knew where it belonged. His couch was always slightly sunken in the same spot, the coffee table always covered with pages of messily scrawled drafts and bookmarked novels.

The sound of Mike shutting the door made you jump.

“It’s fine,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to. . . I didn’t expect. . . sorry, I just didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I was sick,” you blurted out. “Nothing contagious. It was my period, actually. Really bad cramps.”

“Oh.” Mike nodded, seemingly unsure of how to reply.

“I would’ve called, but-”

“You still could’ve come over,” Mike interrupted.

You frowned. “I don’t know if I’m into period sex-”

“We could’ve just smoked and watched a movie. Or something,” he finished, looking at you with those big, brown eyes. His lashes were so dark, casting shadows against his pronounced cheekbones. He looked like a puppy. “If you don’t want to have sex, we don’t have to.”

“Oh,” you said, a little dazed. “Oh.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Yeah. I just don’t want you to think I’m using you for sex.” He laughed a little sheepishly at that.

“I don’t think that.”

“You did. You do. And that’s fine. I just want to tell you that if you ever wanted not to have sex. . . you’re still welcome to come over.”

You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again, completely at a loss for words. Mike wouldn’t even let you stay for more than a minute after he rolled off you, and here he was saying that you were welcome to come over and hang out?

Had Mike Wheeler been possessed?

“We could also compare manuscripts,” Mike continued to ramble. “It doesn’t have to be a movie. It just. . . it doesn’t have to be sex. If that’s not what you want.”

“Oh,” you repeated hollowly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well, thanks. I, um, did come here for sex this time, though,” you said. You didn’t quite know how to segue out of this unexpected conversation, especially without admitting how much Mike’s words meant to you, even if they were a lie. “Unless. . . you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to have sex,” Mike said quickly, eyes going wide.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Okay. Sex it is then.”

Mike grinned crookedly, leading you to his bedroom. He flicked off the overhead light so the two of you were bathed in the lamplight and the silvery moonlight filtering through the window.

Mike rounded on you, gently pressing his lips to yours. It was a sweeter kiss than you were used to, but there was still an underlying urgency to it, like he was afraid that if he didn’t kiss you fast enough, you would disappear again. You’d honestly expected him to be angry at you for skipping out on your arranged Friday meeting, that you’d show up and he’d slam the door in your face, but the tenderness of his touch took your breath away.

He held the sides of your neck in his hands, stroking your jaw with his thumb. You slid your hands up his shirt, the stupid faded devil face warping with the movement. You’d have to ask him what Hellfire Club was later. You savored the shiver that went through him as your palms pressed flat against his skin.

Mike tasted like apple cider, and the idea of him making himself a steaming mug made you laugh against his lips.

“What?” he murmured into your mouth. “What’s funny?”

“You taste like apple cider,” you whispered, looking up at him. Your faces were pressed so close that you could almost feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your skin and the hint of stubble on his chin.

“I had some. Earlier.”

“You’re sweet,” Mike replied. “You taste like a vanilla milkshake.”

“I had one earlier,” you echoed.

Mike laughed quietly, sliding one hand down to cup your ass. “Stick your tongue out,” he ordered. You obeyed.

Mike lay his tongue flat against yours, his piercing leaving an indent on your taste buds, the maintained eye contact practically pornographic. The two of you remained like that for a moment, spit mixing and threatening to spill out of your mouth, Mike’s hands gripping and kneading at the fat of your ass. Then, he took your tongue into his mouth and dove in for a sloppy kiss, the two of you practically eating each other’s faces.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he muttered, pulling you in closer by the waist, peppering kisses at the corners of your lips and the apples of your cheeks, then down your throat to your collarbone.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Mike asked, pulling back, a sincerity in your brown eyes that you’d never seen before. “It’s true.”

You shook your head, dropping your gaze to his chest. “Just. . . I don’t want to talk.”

Mike didn’t object, instead maneuvering you to lie down on the bed.

“I just wish I could have the whole day with you,” he said under his breath, more to himself than anything, peeling your jeans and lace panties off. “Wanna take my time with you for once - eat this pussy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Mike,” you choked out, covering your face with your arm. The vulgarity embarrassed you, but you were quickly distracted by the feeling of him pressing a wet kiss directly onto your clit. It had been forever since he’d gone down on you, and the sensation was overwhelming.

Mike nudged his nose against your inner thigh, biting a bruise into the flesh, before turning his attention back to your cunt. Curiously, you peeked out from behind your arm and the sight of him between your thighs, pupils blown out to unreal proportions, was almost enough to make you come.

He wrapped a hand around your ankle, dragging you further down the bed, practically directly onto his face. You let out an undignified squeak that dissolved into a moan as Mike wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard.

“Fuck, Mike,” you gasped out, fingers drawn automatically to his curls. You heard him laugh between your legs.”

“Feel good.”

“Fuck off. You know it does.”

Mike delivered one last teasing kiss, right against your dripping slit, before licking his lips and climbing over you. “I’ll take my time with you another day,” he promised, sliding your shirt over your head. You’d worn a lacy top, one that would’ve been completely see-through if you hadn’t decided to wear a bra (you’d toyed with the idea, admittedly, but put one on anyway). “I missed you this last week, missed the way you feel. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Don’t,” you repeated, shrugging off your bra as Mike reached behind you to unclip it.

“I mean it-”

You pulled him down for another tooth-gnashing kiss, trapping his words and swallowing them down. You didn’t want to hear it this time, didn’t want his pretty words replaying in your mind the entire drive home. Mike ran his hands up your naked torso, pinching and pulling at your hardening nipples while simultaneously licking into your mouth.

It was the filthiest experience you’d had with him so far, more spit and drool than usual, and you could even taste the faintest hint of yourself on his tongue, masked by the fading apple cider. Your cheeks felt hot as Mike rolled his hips against you, his cock hard inside the confines of his sweats.

“If you don’t go down on me,” you said in between Mike’s frantic kisses, “then can I suck you off?”

Mike pulled back, his face flushed. “What?”

“Never heard of a blowjob before?”

“You don’t have to.”

“You don’t want me to?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mike corrected, averting his eyes, deft fingers tracing lightly down your sides. “You just don’t have to, like, repay me, or whatever.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mike. It’s a blowjob, not a loan.”

Mike swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Okay,” he said weakly. “Fuck, please.”

In record time, Mike pulled his clothes off and perched himself on the edge of his bed. His hands flexed against his thighs, lips slightly parted as he watched you sink to your knees before him. You wished you’d thought to slide your underwear back on, because you’d practically started dripping down your thighs just from kissing Mike, but it felt unnecessary. He would just have to take them off again.

Especially when you had Mike Wheeler’s dick - long, flushed, and pretty - right in front of your face, leaking precum and standing hard against his flat stomach.

You had a fleeting urge to suck hickeys into his thighs, mar the milky skin, but you didn’t know if he’d want the next girl seeing them, so you let the thought pass. From above you, Mike looked like he was about to come from the sight of you kneeling in front of him.

You weren’t as good at sounding sexy when you talked, not like Mike, so you let your actions speak instead, leaning forward and dragging your tongue up the underside of Mike’s dick, tracing the vein. His hips bucked up unexpectedly, and he let out a little groan, head tipping backward slightly.

When you wrapped your fingers around him, the taut muscles of his stomach tensed. You squeezed lightly, your fist slowly sliding higher. You paused, watching his reaction before running your thumb around the tip, a bead of slick precum where your skin met his. Your knees were already aching uncomfortably against the carpet, but it just made the whole thing feel more real. Mike’s eyes looked hazy, the same way he looked after he smoked, and his fingers continued to move restlessly, clearly itching to touch you in some way.

“If I can pull your hair, it’s only fair that you can pull mine, right?” you said, repeating your movement from earlier, drawing your wet tongue against the length of him.

Almost as if it was punched out of him, Mike reached out to dig his hands into your hair. It was at this moment that you realized, for the first time, that Mike’s overly dominant persona might partially be a facade. That maybe he liked being told what to do from time to time, liked relinquishing control.

In the same way you stored away the idea of giving him hickeys, you pocketed this realization for later. You could certainly get behind the idea of Mike being pliable.

Finally, you gave him what he wanted, your kiss-swollen lips wrapping around the head of his cock. Tentatively, your tongue slid out, tasting him. Mike twitched in your hand.

“Shit,” he hissed. His hand fisted in your hair clumsily, his fingers tangled at the roots. You squirmed a bit, aching to reach down and relieve yourself of the arousal growing inside you.

Your mouth stretched around him as you took more, eyes already beginning to water. Gently, Mike guided you. You could sense his restraint, the way he was fighting against fucking up into your mouth, so you bobbed your head a little faster. You were overcome by the urge to please him in the same way he pleased you.

“So good, baby,” Mike babbled, his cheeks a pretty pink. You stifled a gag around him. “Your mouth feels s’good. Fuck, please. I can’t-”

He was losing control of himself with each twist of your hand, each bob of your head from tip to base. There was drool dribbling out from the corners of your mouth, down your chin, and onto his thighs. Mike’s eyebrows furrowed, his hands digging tighter into your stands, before finally he snapped.

“Baby, m’sorry,” he moaned out, rutting into your mouth with reckless abandon. You let your jaw go slack, hand dropping as you surrendered yourself to his haphazard thrusts. You choked around him, tears spilling over your lash line. “Fuck, you sound so pretty with my dick in your throat. Choking around me. So pretty.”

You hummed, content to let him fuck your mouth for as long as he pleased, but that was enough to push Mike over the edge. He let out a broken whimper, pressing your nose against the dark thatch of hair at his base, pumping cum into your eager mouth.

You swallowed, wiping your lips with the back of your hand, sitting back on your heels. “C’mere,” Mike mumbled, pulling you to your feet. You stood on shaky legs, falling into his embrace. Mike positioned you on your back and nudged his face into your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. “That was so hot, baby.”

“Did I do okay?” you wondered meekly, voice a little wrecked.

“Yes. God, yes. You’re so good to me,” he soothed, his hands sliding between your legs. “My pretty girl. You’re so wet for me, just from sucking me off.”

“Mike,” you urged.

He chuckled. “Always so needy.”

“Says you,” you pouted, reaching for his wrist to press his fingers inside you.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he asked, pulling his hand just out of reach.

“You, Mike. Please.”

Mike, clearly too aroused to tease, stroked his quickly hardening cock slowly. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth as he rubbed the head of his cock against your clit in small circles. His other hand reached out to grope and squeeze at one of your tits, entranced by the sight of your pussy clenching around nothing. Slowly, he began to push inside you, cock twitching at how tight you are.

You grit your teeth, gasping at the stretch.

With the hand on your tit, he slid it around to the back of your head and tilted you forward to look down between your thighs, right where the two of you were connected. “Watch, baby,” he cooed, pulling out with agonizing slowness before pushing back in. “Look how I fill you up.”

“So full,” you agreed, nodding your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. “Feels so good.” Your head dropped back down onto the pillow, unable to hold yourself up anymore.

Mike tenderly began to kiss the tear tracks on your cheeks, licking at the saltiness of your tears down to where they dripped off your chin. With each fresh teardrop that escaped from your eye, he was quick to drink it up. He then pressed his chest against yours and buried his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel his breath against your skin. 

For the first time, the sex was less rabid. Mike shallowly thrusted into you, alternating between sweet kisses and reaching deeper inside you than you thought possible. Despite the minimal movement, you could already feel a tingling in your limbs. You held tightly to his shoulders, digging your nails into his freckled skin.

“M’gonna come,” you sniffled.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you,” Mike gasped out, reaching down to rub tight circles against your clit. “I got you.”

The affection in his words was enough to have you clenching around him, vision going blurry for a second as you arched up into his touch. When you came to, the first thing you noticed was the feeling of his cum dripping down your thighs and him pulling out of you.

Without lifting his face too much from your neck, Mike reached over and grabbed a tissue from the box next to his bed, using one to wipe carefully between your legs. When you brushed lightly over your pussy, you whimpered a bit, still sensitive.

The two of you stayed there for a minute, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, both of you panting slightly. You could feel your baby hairs sticking to your forehead.

Finally, when Mike rolled off you, you expected the usual - him subtly asking you to leave. You prepared yourself, already moving to slide off the bed as Mike pulled his boxers back on. You hesitated, arms wrapped around your body, waiting to ask permission to use Mike’s bathroom. He walked over to his closet and pulled out a clean shirt, tossing it in your direction.

It landed right next to you, and you just stared at it for a moment. If it had been for him, why hadn’t he just put it on? Did he need to throw it on the bed?

“What’s that?” you asked.

“A shirt.”

“Okay, obviously. I mean-”

“It’s for you,” he interrupted, looking over his shoulder. “That little lacy top you wore over here doesn’t look too comfortable.”

“I wore it for you,” you grumbled.

“I know, baby, and you looked so pretty in it before I took it off.” He grinned, his previously cocky demeanor having returned. “But I figured you’d want something else to wear while we smoked.”

“While we smoked?” you repeated, cautiously pulling the shirt over your head. It was huge on your - probably would’ve been huge on Mike, too, that’s how big it was - and it smelled like his detergent, the cologne he wore on occasion. It was comforting, somehow, to be swathed in something so uniquely him.

“You’ve done it before, yeah?” Mike inquired, grabbing his lighter and a joint out of his bedside table before sitting back on the bed and propping himself on the headboard. His legs looked especially longer as he stretched himself out, his tattoos darker than ever. “Here, c’mere.”

You crawled over to him and settled on his lap. The feeling of his boxers against your bare inner thighs was a little odd, but you liked being this close to him. You were still a little put off by this differing behavior, however. You figured it was only a matter of time before he kicked you out again - maybe right after he got high enough to realize the mistake he was making.

Mike, seemingly acting on impulse, leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before lighting the joint. He tossed the lighter across the bed and brought the end of it to his mouth, his other hand settling gently on your thigh, tracing softly against your skin in tiny movements.

Per usual, you were entranced by the sight of him. He took a slow drag, the cherry glowing briefly before dimming again. His cheeks hollowed slightly as he inhaled, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones. A faint cloud drifted from his lips as he exhaled, curling upward in uneven ribbons before dissolving into the air.

You watched the tension in his shoulders soften before your eyes. He kept the joint balanced between his fingers while wisps of smoke rose lazily toward the ceiling. Even just watching him made you feel heavy-eyed and drowsy, the tender touches on your thighs soothing you even further. You wanted to lean your head against his chest and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

“Will you tell me about your tattoos?” you asked quietly as Mike took another drag.

Mike tilted his head slightly. “My tattoos?” he repeated through the exhale.

You nodded, fiddling with the hem of the shirt just to give your hands something to do.

“You like them or something?” His mouth quirked slightly. You just chewed on the inside of your bottom lip, looking at him with expectant eyes. Mike sighed. “Okay, sure, yeah.”

He placed the joint in the ashtray on his bedside table and turned his arm, pointing to the little spaceship tattoo you’d noticed on your first hookup.

“My friend Dustin drew this for me,” Mike began. “It looks like shit on purpose, trust me. He’s not a very good artist.” He leaned back, stretching his arm out more fully toward you, and pointed toward a constellation on his bicep. “But this one, this one my friend Will drew. It’s. . . not a real constellation. We made it up when we were like, shit, thirteen? It looks real, though, right?”

You smiled and reached out to trace the thin lines connecting the small star-like dots. “Yeah, it does,” you agreed. “What about this one?”

You poked a tattoo on his ribcage, the one you’d been most curious about since you noticed it. It was a slightly faded line of thin lettering.

“Grace to be born and live as vicariously as possible,” Mike recited without looking to where you were pointing. “It’s Frank O’Hara. I got it right when I moved here, out of my parents’ house. Sentimental teenager bullshit.”

You shifted slightly closer without thinking. “Okay, then what about this one?” You tapped the tiny black key near his collarbone.

“My childhood house key. A perfect replica,” he said proudly.

The two of you continued like this for a while, the conversation drifting wherever your curiosity took it. You would point at a tattoo, and Mike would give you an answer, sometimes only a sentence or two, other times a long-winded story.

“What’s that one?”

“A moth.”

“Why a moth?”

Mike shrugged. “Thought it looked cool.”

The cassette tape on the back of his upper arm earned an unexpectedly heartfelt story about his sisters and the old stereo in the basement when he was growing up. The crow feather on his shoulder blade led to an even longer tangent about collecting feathers in the woods with the aforementioned Dustin, Will, and a new addition, Lucas.

He laughed at the “This Machine Kills Fascists” tattoo he’d gotten above his knee, the one his mother nearly screamed over when he showed it to her. He told you about the smiley face stick-and-poke on his ankle that was terribly blown out, but he stubbornly defended it. He even showed you the cigarette burn on his wrist, the one he’d gotten at fifteen the first time he’d tried to smoke. 

By the time you stopped pointing, your hand had settled between the two of you, absentmindedly messing with a thread of his boxers. “You’re gonna run out of tattoos,” Mike muttered, shifting a little beneath you.

“You have a lot.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, reaching for the joint again, just rolling it between his fingers. “Yeah,” he agreed.

“I like the Frank O’Hara quiet,” you said. “I can’t even find a pond small enough to drown in without being ostentatious.”

Mike smiled. “God, where have you been all my life?”

Your heart fluttered at his words, so you ignored him. “What’s your next one gonna be?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Well, what’s your favorite thing right now?”

Mike considered it for a moment. “Lemon bars,” he decided finally.

You laughed. “What?”

“Yeah, lemon bars. Specifically, the ones from the coffee shop on campus.”

“I’ve never tried one.”

“Fuck, they’re so good,” he said. “You’re missing out.”

“Maybe I’ll get one next time I go.”

Mike scoffed. “Good luck. They’re always sold out when I go. Or maybe they just stopped making them. Either way, I can never get one anymore.”

You frowned. “Well, maybe if you show them your lemon bar tattoo, then they’ll start making them just for you.”

Mike laughed, a sweet, unexpected sound. It was the first time you felt like you weren’t performing around him, trying to be some sexy girl from his creative writing class, mysterious enough that he continued to invite you back. But this conversation - the entire night, actually - had felt comfortably mundane.

“What do you think?” he asked, pinching your thigh lightly. “What should my next tattoo be?”

You pursed your lips, thinking. “I’m not sure. It wouldn’t really have much meaning if I chose it.”

“That’s not true.”

“I think. . .” you tapped your chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “You should get a belly button piercing.”

Mike laughed in disbelief. “What?”

“Yeah,” you said, poking him in the stomach. “It would be hot. You’d be, like, a total rockstar, or something.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’d be a real Robert Smith.”

“Oh! Do you like them? The Cure, I mean?”

“You could say that. I’ve got all of their albums on vinyl.” He motioned with his head toward his extensive collection of vinyl records.

“What’s your favorite?” you asked, climbing off Mike’s lap. His hands followed you, trying to maintain the contact for as long as possible. When you were out of his reach, Mike got to his feet and stood behind you.

“Disintegration,” revealed Mike.

You began to thumb through his collection, shaking your head. “So basic,” you muttered. Mike wrapped his arms around your middle, resting his chin on top of your head.

“Hey, it came out right before we graduated high school, and half the songs are about aging, can you blame me?”

“You really are sentimental.”

“What’s yours?’

“Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me,” you said, stumbling across the album you wanted to play. You pulled it out and turned around in Mike’s arms to face him.

“If you insist,” Mike murmured, leaning down to press his lips lightly to yours. You smiled against his mouth. “And you call me basic.”

“It’s popular for a reason!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just say you have bad taste.”

“Whatever. Here, I’m putting on your sad little album about turning thirty. Happy?”

Mike grinned, flashing his teeth at you as you shoved him gently in the chest. His hands tightened around your waist before finally letting you go, reaching around and taking the record from your hands.

“I didn’t expect you to be such a nerd,” you said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, the first notes of ‘Plainsong’ filling the room as Mike placed the needle on the vinyl. “What’s Hellfire Club, anyway?”

Mike glanced down at the faded logo stretched across his discarded shirt, lying in a heap on the floor. He returned to his previous spot, propping himself up against the headboard. “Come back here, and I’ll tell you.”

You scrunched up your nose but moved toward him anyway, taking your position atop his legs.

“It was a Dungeons & Dragons club. I was fourteen and just starting high school. I’d been playing D&D for years by then, but just with my friends - the ones I told you about.”

“Will, Dustin, and Lucas,” you recited.

“Yeah. Well, we played every week after school. I was the dungeon master, mostly. It’s sorta how I got into writing, I guess. Spending six hours writing stupid fantasy stories really has an impact on a kid.”

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder. Mike’s large palms came up to rub against your back. “That’s cute.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t tell anyone - it’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Don’t worry, tough guy, I won’t.” You paused. “Do you have a tattoo for it?”

“Of course, I do,” Mike said. You sat back up, eager to see how he’d commemorated his nerdy habit. Mike bounced one of his legs. “20-sided die on my ankle.”

“Really?” you shifted, trying to get a better look. “Show me.”

“You really wanna see every inch of me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The warmth of his palm returned, rubbing slowly between your shoulder blades, as you inspected the small 20-sided die, just above his ankle bone, outlined in black ink. “Cool,” you muttered, barely realizing what you were saying.

“You think so?”

You nodded earnestly. “Yeah. All your tattoos, I mean - the piercings too. Fourteen-year-old Mike would probably agree with me. You’re cool.”

Mike shook his head, a faint flush creeping up his neck. While you were gawking at his tattoo, he’d grabbed the joint and lit it again. He took a long drag and reached for you, gripping your chin with slender fingers and turning you to face him. There was still a trace of self-consciousness lingering as the hand came up to the back of your head, steadying you as he leaned closer.

Your lips parted instinctively as Mike exhaled the smoke into your waiting mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, the feeling of Mike’s lips feather-light against yours. The smoke curled down your throat and into your lungs, your head already swimming.

The world seemed pleasantly hazy around the edges now, the music drifting through the air and blending with the smell of weed. Mike’s gaze never left yours, the smoke curling between you before dissipating into the warmth of the room.

“You should go,” Mike said suddenly, his voice low and raspy.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“It’s getting late,” he added, now staring somewhere over your shoulder. “So, you should probably leave.”

“Did I. . . do something wrong?”

“No. No, of course not. It’s just getting late. So you should leave.”

You blinked in disbelief. The record was still spinning, the joint still burning between Mike’s fingers. “Why do you always tell me to leave?” you asked, voice cracking on the last word. All the confidence you’d built up over the course of the night was shattered with just one sentence.

Mike ignored your question.

“Fine,” you snapped, not in the mood to argue. You got to your feet and began to tug off the shirt he’d given you.

“You can keep it,” Mike grumbled.

“Huh?”

“The shirt. Just keep it?”

“Why?”

“Yeah. It looks good on you anyway,” he shrugged.

“It’s a fucking shirt, Mike.”

“Yeah, but it’s mine. I like seeing you in it.”

You suppressed the urge to scream. It was hard to believe his charming words when he was actively kicking you out, when the night had taken such an abrupt turn. “Right,” you said, pulling the oversized shirt back down. “Very romantic.”

Mike stood as well, pulling on a hoodie and watching you tug on your pants and shoes with more force than necessary and gather up your little lace top and bra. There was an awkward amount of space between the two of you, the glow of the moon painting one side of his face, catching on the sharp line of his nose.

“Well,” you said finally. “I’ll see you around.”

Mike just continued to stare at you.

“What?” you asked, frustrated.

“Nothing.”

You just glowered, incredulous, and turned around to leave.

“Will you call me when you get home?” he muttered.

“What?”

“Call me when you get home.”

“Call you?”

“Yeah. So, I know that. . . you got home okay.”

“Okay,” you lied. Mike was staring at the floor.

“And, uh, I’m sorry. Thanks for staying,” he added in a whisper.

“I’ll always stay,” you said. “You’re the one who doesn’t let me.”

****

The following Friday, you showed up at Mike’s an hour later than usual. You’d spent a long time debating whether or not to go that night - time spent pacing your room and sitting in your car, just outside his apartment. You were still mad at him for what happened the last time, but you also didn’t want another repeat incident of Mike calling you and leaving a voicemail.

Over the course of the last week, Mike had looked more exhausted than usual. He didn’t even comment on the fact that you never called him after getting home, didn’t acknowledge you at all, which wasn’t really new (even though you’d hoped something might change). Andersen had even called him out in class on Wednesday, publicly berating Mike for the ‘tonal shift’ his writing had taken.

Mike had stormed out angrily, of course, not even bothering to defend himself.

That was why you decided to show up. That and the pastry bag you had clutched in your hand.

When Mike opened the door, his curls were still damp from a shower, dark ringlets clinging to his temples. He wore a black t-shirt and green sweats that hung low on his hips. “What’s that?” he asked immediately.

“Nice to see you, too, Mike. My day was great,” you teased, stepping past him into the apartment and shrugging off your coat.

He shut the door behind you.

“It’s a gift,” you explained.

Mike stared at it suspiciously. “You bought me a gift? Is it dangerous?”

You shoved it into his hands. “Open it, dumbass.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he unfolded the top of the bag. Mike peered inside, and immediately his eyebrows lifted. You knew exactly what he was seeing - a lemon bar, wrapped neatly in wax paper and dusted with powdered sugar that had already begun to smudge against the sides of the bag.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then, in a small voice, “A lemon bar?”

“You mentioned you liked them,” you explained sheepishly. “I had an early meeting with a professor this morning, so I stopped by before they sold out.

Mike looked up.

Then back down at the lemon bar.

Then back at you again.

“It might be a little dry,” you added quickly, panic seeping into your voice. The expression on Mike’s face was so stunned that you couldn’t tell if he was happy about your surprise. Maybe you’d misread the situation, and he didn’t want you here. “I tried to keep it wrapped up, but it’s been almost a full day.”

Cautiously, Mike pulled the wax paper package from the bag. The powdered sugar dusted his fingertips. “You remembered.”

You frowned. “Uh, yeah? Jeez, Mike, you’re acting like I brought you a bar of gold.”

“You practically did,” Mike replied in awe, his voice strained. He swallowed thickly and then said, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” you asked.

“Yeah, I will. Do you want to, though?”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Mike nodded. “Okay, good.”

Then, Mike spun in a circle, like he was disoriented, before heading for the kitchen. You followed, watching as he searched through his cabinet for a plate.

“We have to share,” he explained.

“You don’t have to. It’s for you.”

“I want to share,” Mike emphasized, placing the lemon bar on a cutting board and lining up a sharpened knife. He sank the knife into the pastry, attempting to split it in half, but he somehow miscalculated, and the two halves became more of a tiny sliver, plus the rest. “Oh, shit.”

You laughed loudly, covering your hand with your mouth when he glared at you.

“And to think I was going to offer you the big piece.”

“Well, good. You should have the bigger half.”

Mike transferred the microscopic sliver onto one plate with the precision of a surgeon, pushing it over to you. He stared at the plates for a moment before you could even reach for yours, and then swapped them.

“Mike, no,” you said, swapping them back. “I brought it for you.”

“I’m trying to apologize,” he whispered, eyes big. “For last time.”

The kitchen was small enough that the two of you were practically shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning against the counter. There was still powdered sugar dusted across Mike’s fingers, and you longed to lick it off.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“But, I do. I keep fucking things up. I don’t know how to. . .” his voice faltered, his eyes glassy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such an asshole.”

He glanced over at you. You didn’t know how to respond - you wanted to assure him that it was okay, that you accepted his apology, but it wasn’t okay.

“Let’s just watch a movie, okay?” you said instead.

Mike visibly deflated. “Okay, yeah.”

You picked up his plate and shoved it into his chest. “And try your lemon bar. Don’t let it go to waste.”

****

It was the last day of the quarter, the last day before winter break, and you were sitting in the campus coffee shop, discussing the logistics of your upcoming vacation with two of your friends - Stacey and Tara - when Mike walked in.

It was snowing outside, just enough to cast a filter of white on the world, and there was a thin layer of snowflakes on Mike’s hair when he entered the cafe. The highest points of his cheeks and his nose were flushed pink from the cold.

“Is that Wheeler?” asked Tara, looking up from where she was preemptively writing an itinerary for your week. “God, he looks gorgeous today,” she added as he walked by your table, closer than was probably necessary.

You hummed in noncommittal agreement.

“You knew, he invited me over the other day,” Tara said, lowering her voice to a stage-whisper. She didn’t mind if anyone knew her secrets - she shared them like people shared smiles. “I was surprised when he called me. It’s been months since he even talked to me last.”

Your hand froze on its way to pick up your coffee cup, a terrible, sinking feeling gnawing at your stomach. “Mike invited you over?”

Tara nodded. “Yeah. Super late at night, too. He just, like, called me out of nowhere and told me his address - not that I needed a reminder, I’ve been there before - and so I went, obviously. He called at such a good time. I’d just showered a few hours before. Anyway, we had like crazy good sex, and then I guess we fell asleep while talking or something, because I woke up in his apartment the next morning.

“Crazy good sex,” Stacey mocked. “Come on, how good can it really be?”

“You’re just jealous Mike hasn’t hooked up with you yet,” Tara snapped defensively. She looked at you. “You too, right? You haven’t slept with Wheeler?”

You shook your head, your mouth suddenly dry. You took a panicked sip of coffee before clearing your throat and saying, “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, the two of you are missing out. Not that I want to share-”

“When did you say this was?” you interrupted.

Tara pursed her lips. “What’s today? I’d say. . . probably two weeks ago? I think it was a Saturday night - no, it was a Friday. That’s right, I had class that morning. It was a Friday.”

“Oh,” you said. “And you said you spent the night?”

“Yeah, not on purpose, though. We just smoked a joint together and talked about life and shit. Real philosophical stuff. But, like I said, we must’ve just fallen asleep in the middle of our conversation. It’s not like he invited me over.”

You stood abruptly, knocking your knee on the table. “I have to go,” you said.

“What?” Stacey and Tara said at the same time.

“I, uh, forgot that I was going to meet Andersen for office hours. I’ve missed a lot of class recently, so I just need to make sure I’m not forgetting anything important before our final portfolio is due,” you rambled, gathering up your stuff. It felt like a mocking imitation of your first interaction with Mike.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” Stacey asked, getting to her feet as well. “Do you want me to come back to the apartment with you when you’re done?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m fine. You stay here.”

“We’re supposed to figure the schedule out,” Tara whined, motioning to the itinerary she’d been writing. “We leave in two days.”

“I know, and we can do that another time,” you promised.

“Come over tomorrow night,” Stacey proposed to Tara. “The two of us will be there, and I think all the girls will, too. We can figure it out then.”

Tara sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Fine, I’ll clear my schedule.”

“I’m really sorry. I just completely forgot I was supposed to meet with Andersen,” you said, eyes darting to where Mike was slouching over a book, his long fingers tapping at the table. “We can do tomorrow night.”

“Good luck,” said Stacey with a sympathetic smile. You hoped she hadn’t sensed your apprehension about Tara and Mike and was instead just sympathizing with Tara’s overbearing planning tendencies and having to meet with Andersen.

The cold air made your eyes sting as you stepped outside. The flurries had picked up slightly, coming down harder and sticking to the ground. You clutched your jacket tighter around yourself, already shivering.

You knew that all of this could be solved with a simple conversation with Mike, but was there really anything to be solved in the first place? If anything, this was just a reminder that Mike didn’t belong to you, that you were easily replaceable if you didn’t show up. Did you have any right to be upset at Mike for inviting a girl over in your place? Even if that girl did happen to be one of your friends?

Sure, Tara wasn’t your roommate anymore, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t constantly at the apartment. Which meant that now you, Tara, and your best friend had all slept with Mike at one point or another. Was that weird? You weren’t sure.

Throughout your secret little tryst with Mike, you’d almost forgotten who he really was. If Mike didn’t have a reputation for sleeping around, you doubted you’d be in this situation in the first place. He likely wouldn’t have slept with you at all.

You trudged through campus, keeping your head down as the snow pelted your face, blurring the clean contours of the buildings. You couldn’t really go back to your apartment now, just in case Stacey showed up. Or worse, Stacey and Tara. And you’d already submitted your portfolio for Andersen’s class, so there was no point in talking to him. Unless he had advice on the complicated situation you’d found yourself in.

You thought of that day, just a week ago, when Mike had stormed out of Andersen’s class after the broody professor had critiqued the vulnerability Mike had begun to show in his writing. You wished you could read his latest submission, know what he had been lamenting about, and why it had led Andersen to criticize his star student.

What would have happened if you’d gone after Mike? Would it have changed anything? Not that it could undo him sleeping with Tara, but would it give him a reason to go after you?

You looked behind you, wondering if you’d spot Mike’s silhouette in the snow.

He hadn’t followed you, of course. He likely never even noticed you left. Barely even acknowledged that you noticed you were in the coffee shop in the first place.

You ducked into one of the buildings on the edge of campus, needing a reprieve from the chill. It was delightfully warm inside, swathing you in a blanket of comfort as you sank into one of the plush chairs lining the hallway.

You knew that the right thing to do was to talk to Mike. It could all be solved with a simple conversation. You knew that. But part of you didn’t even want to solve anything in the first place. What was the point? Ask Mike to explain his behavior, completely justified behavior (you had bailed on him after all, and it’s not like the two of you were exclusive), just so you could have your accusations confirmed and your feelings hurt.

The idea didn’t exactly sound appealing.

The alternative, though, in your mind, was to distance yourself from Mike for good. You were about to enter the second half of your senior year - in approximately six months, you would be graduating, and would likely never see Mike Wheeler again. Unless the two of you ended up working with the same publisher. . . or speaking at the same book events. . . but that seemed extremely unlikely. 

After you received your degree, Mike would be a blip on the radar, a campfire story, the mythical legend he was always meant to be in your life. There was no logical reason why he’d ended up in your life in the first place.

Ending up in his bed had been a mistake. He was a mistake.

You shivered, despite the warm air pumping through the vents.

It seemed that your dilemma had been solved. The only answer was to stop talking to Mike, to stop answering his calls and showing up at his door. To stop letting him woo you just to break your heart afterward. To stop bringing him lemon bars just because he liked them so much.

What had he ever done for you?

****

The trip had done exactly what you had hoped it would.

For the first few days, your mind wandered to Mike constantly. Every time Tara opened her mouth, you couldn’t help but imagine her kissing Mike, a shared joint passing between them. You tried not to be heartbroken - Mike did technically have the right to sleep with her - but it was hard not to be upset.

By the end of the week, something had changed.

You laughed with your friends, stayed up too late talking about stupid things, and let yourself exist in a world where Mike Wheeler wasn’t the center of every thought.

By the time you packed your bags, you almost felt normal again.

Almost.

You decided to leave a day earlier than everyone else. You missed your own bed, your own shower, and the comfort of being alone for a little while. Frankly, you were burnt out on being energetic all the time and trying not to pretend that Tara’s face didn’t piss you off.

The sun had set by the time you pulled up to your apartment complex and lugged your suitcase up the stairs.

There was someone familiar sitting outside your door. Someone who unfolded himself the second he saw you coming down the hallway.

Mike.

His curls were longer than you remembered, a testament to the amount of time that had passed, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, stopping right outside your apartment.

Mike swallowed. “Your best friend, she, uh, told me you were coming home.”

“She called you?’

Mike nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, she did.”

Anger bubbled up inside you at the betrayal, and you pushed past Mike, unlocking the door with a shaky hand and shoving your suitcase inside. Mike didn’t follow immediately, just stayed in the hall like a vampire who needed permission to cross the threshold.

Maybe he was a vampire. All he’d done was suck all the joy from your life.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“No, Mike. Go home,” you seethed, flipping on the light switch. All you’d wanted was to come home to some peace and quiet. “I’m done talking to you.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve waited like a normal person.”

“I did wait,” he said. “For days. You didn’t come over on Friday, and so I kept calling you. You didn’t pick up.”

“I was busy,” you said flatly. Mike looked pathetic standing in the doorway. “Fuck, just come inside.”

Mike obeyed. You didn’t look at him; instead busying yourself with your suitcase, dragging it toward your bedroom. He followed behind like a lost puppy, hands shoved in his jeans pocket, a joint tucked behind his ear for later.

“What do you want?” you asked, exasperated, turning to face him. “Are you just here to annoy me until I sleep with you again? Because I’m not doing that anymore, okay? We’re done.”

Mike recoiled like he’d been hit. “No,” he said, his voice crackling at the edges. “That’s not. . . that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why, Mike?” you asked, crossing your arms tightly across your chest.

“I want to apologize.”

“Yeah, you want to.”

“I’m here to apologize,” he corrected. “I want to fix everything.”

“What is there to fix?” you cried. “We were hooking up, weren’t we? It’s not like we were exclusive or fucking dating!”

“I hurt you.”

“No, you made me sad, Mike.” The word sounded childish on your tongue, but it was the truest way you could convey your emotions. You’d spent your entire college career coming up with clever ways to say simple things, but in that moment, it all boiled down to the fact that you were sad.

It was almost as if Mike was the opposite, as if he didn’t know how to express real emotion outside of thickened metaphors. He bogged his own heart down with his inability to communicate, and it would be his ruin.

“I can’t even blame you,” you continued, tears welling in your eyes despite how badly you willed them not to. “You’re a fucking folk tale on campus, a fucking celebrity. I knew who you were long before I met you that day in the library, and I still chose to sleep with you. I knew that you’ve slept with every girl you can get your hands on, half my roommates included, and yet I still went to your apartment. I have tried so badly to blame you, Mike, for how disposable you made me feel, but it’s really my fault, isn’t it? So, I don’t need you to come here and mindlessly apologize for something that isn’t even technically your problem, just because it will make you feel better. Because it won’t make me feel better.”

Mike’s face crumbled at that, and he went very still. “I’m not here because it makes me feel better,” he said eventually. “I feel worse, actually.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose.

“I mean it. I didn’t come to apologize just so you’d sleep with me again. I came here to tell you. . . to tell you how I feel. About you.”

Mike tugged at his sleeves.

“I know what people think of me. That I’m someone who just takes and leaves, and maybe I am that person. But I don’t want to be. Not with you.”

You wiped at your face aggressively.

“I know you think I don’t care about you,” he continued.

“You kick me out every time we have sex,” you argued back.

“Because I don’t know how to do this,” he exclaimed, motioning between the two of you. “This is what I’m bad at - the emotions and the fucking feelings. It’s why I keep everyone at arm’s length, so I can’t fall in love with anyone. But you. God, you. How could I not fall in love with you?”

“Love?” you echoed.

“Yes. Love. That day in the library, I had been building up the courage to approach you for weeks. Years, actually. I mean, shit, yeah, we’ve slept together, but we’ve also read each other’s writing. Terrible rough drafts and vulnerable, poetic bullshit that means nothing. What’s more intimate than that? Of course, I fell in love with you.”

Mike looked like he regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth, but he didn’t take it back. He just stood there, breathing a little unevenly.

“You kicked me out,” you said quietly. “Every single time.”

“I know,” he said urgently. “I know how it looks-”

“It’s not how it looks,” you cut in. “It’s what it is.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel used. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“You slept with Tara.”

“What?” For the first time, Mike looked genuinely confused at your words. “No, I didn’t.”

“She told me, Mike.”

“No. No, I didn’t,” he assured. “Okay, yeah, I invited her over when you didn’t show up, but the second I even kissed her, it didn’t feel right. She wasn’t you. It’s only been you since the first time you came over, okay?”

“You’re lying,” you said automatically. “She said-”

You stopped yourself, jaw clenching as you replayed it.

“She said you let her stay the night.”

‘I didn’t sleep with her,” Mike promised, taking your hands in his. “I kissed her, yes, but then I stopped. And I felt like shit after. I was trying not to think about you. I was trying to be what everyone thinks I am instead of. . . whatever this is. It was easier to feed into it than to try to convince you that I’ve changed, but I don’t feel that way anymore. It will never be anyone but you.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not fair,” you said weakly. You tried to pull your hands back on instinct, and he didn’t resist when you did. The loss of contact made the air feel colder. “I have spent the last few months spiraling over you, trying to figure you out. One second, you were so sweet, and the next, you were acting like I was an inconvenience. How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But I need you to know. I don’t want to keep doing what I did before, even if you don’t choose me.” Mike paused and closed his eyes. “All I want is a room up there and you in it.”

You sniffled. “Frank O’Hara,” you whispered.

He smiled, just barely. “I’m not good at the part after,” he admitted. “I never have been. The hookup part is easy. You know what people want from you. You do the right thing, say the right thing, then everybody leaves, and it’s over. With you, it never felt over. I don’t know how to just. . . let people matter to me normally. I always screw things up - I did screw things up - so I convinced myself that if I kept it physical, I could control it. Like if we just hooked up, then I wouldn’t have to admit that I liked you so much it was actually making me miserable.”

“Mike-”

“I need you to know that I’m never going to ask you to leave again,” Mike finished. “I’m not going to leave, not even if you ask me to.”

****

There wasn’t a single person on campus who didn’t know the name ‘Mike Wheeler.’ He was like a mythical creature, an apparition who haunted pretty girls’ bedrooms without a trace. He was the person on the other end of the phone, whispering sweet nothings through the landline in a low, sleepy voice as the 20-something undergrad twirled the cord around her finger like it was a strand of hair, kicking her feet in the air and smiling until her cheeks hurt. He told them things nobody had ever said to them before.

His name was passed around in whispered conversations between dorm bathrooms and fraternity basements alike. One weekend, he was leaving a party with a girl from the bio department, his hand warm on the small of her back. The next week, he was seen outside another girl’s apartment, hair damp from the rain, while she screamed at him from the doorway, mascara streaked beneath her eyes. 

On a relatively small campus, where half the student body went to high school together, being a local legend might not be considered a feat. But nearly everyone had a Mike Wheeler story. A roommate’s older sister, who swore he’d almost asked her to be his girlfriend. A girl from Psych who claimed he stayed over three nights in a row and made her pancakes in the dorm kitchen. Somebody’s friend who cried in the bathroom at a frat party because Mike had shown up with somebody else.

Everyone knew a girl who swore Mike Wheeler had fallen in love with her. Everyone knew a girl who’d cried over him, too. And somehow, despite all the warnings traded between friends in crowded dining halls and outside lecture buildings, it never stopped anyone from answering when he called.

You wished you could say that you hadn’t fallen victim to the infamous ‘Wheeler Charm,’ but unfortunately, you had a pathetic taste in men and an even more pathetic crush on Mike Wheeler.

Well, not a real crush, exactly. It was more embarrassing than that somehow - a persistent classroom crush that had rooted itself inside you over the course of three years and refused to die, no matter how much common sense begged it to.

You and Mike were both creative writing majors, which meant your lives had been awkwardly orbiting each other since freshman year. And in that time, you were one of the only people who hadn’t managed to earn a spot on his roster. It seemed that all your closest friends had managed to slip between his sheets and leave with tales of earth-shattering orgasms and a dick so large it split them in half.

Casual hookups weren’t your thing, and would likely never be your thing, but there was a tiny part of you that wanted the shared thrill of just being another one of Mike Wheeler’s girls. It was practically campus tradition to sleep with him at this point, and you didn’t want to be the outlier.

You’d spent the last few years admiring him from afar - his thick, dark curls that hung into his eyes constantly, catching against the silver bar of his eyebrow piercing half the time until he shoved them back with an impatient hand. His lips, soft-looking and distractingly pink, pressed around the end of his pencil whenever he got lost in thought. The scattered, black tattoos on his arms multiplying slowly with every passing semester. And the tongue piercing hidden behind his teeth, the one you’d heard stories about oh so many times.

Maybe it was the writer in you (it definitely was), but you’d always found him so alluring. Outside of the reputation, he was unfairly cinematic.

So, yeah. If Mike Wheeler asked you to hook up, you’d probably say yes in a heartbeat.

Thankfully for you, on a rainy day in October, he did just that.

You were curled up in your favorite spot in the library, a worn-in chair on the third floor that bore the indentations of generations past. It was the perfect place to crack open a good book, do some homework, or frantically scribble out a draft due the next morning.

The third floor always smelled like old paper and a faintly warm tinge of coffee and bagels from the café downstairs. It was perfectly quiet, save for the patter of rain on the roof when the weather turned dour.

With no impending assignments or due dates, you decided ot treat yourself to a relaxing afternoon. You settled on a Toni Morrison book that day - one you’d been meaning to get around to - a coffee and a scone on the tiny table next to you.

Twenty minutes later, the warmth of the library and the sound of the rain were making you so drowsy that you’d barely made any progress, lingering on page 3 and rereading the same passage over and over again. So, when someone spoke, you were startled to see someone standing a few feet away.

Even more so to see that someone was Mike Wheeler.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, already kicking open one of the rusted windows, letting in a gust of autumn air.

You blinked. “Oh, um, I don’t think you’re allowed to,” you replied dumbly.

Mike just scoffed and sank to the floor next to the open window, pulling a joint out from behind his ear and lighting it wordlessly. He was dressed in all black, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his curls. His clothes looked slightly damp from the rain.

As he took a drag, you were entranced by the movement of his mouth, the curve of his lips as he exhaled the smoke into the cool, wet air. Mike sat only a few feet away, no further than the two of you sat in class, but it felt like he was invading your personal space.

“You’re in my writing seminar,” he said after a moment, his words dragging together lazily. You barely heard him, completely hypnotized by his eyes. God, his eyes were awful. Big and dark and heavy-lidded and so intense as he looked at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Oh, yeah. With Andersen,” you affirmed finally.

He nodded. “You have great prose.”

“No one’s ever told me that before. Thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of his piercing glinting in the horrible library light. “No? I swear Andersen’s told you the same thing.”

You scrunched up your nose. “I just meant from another writer without. . . the pretense of peer review, y’know? Sometimes those comments feel-”

“Artificial?” Mike finished.

“Yeah, artificial,” you repeated. “Andersen doesn’t mean it anyway - he doesn’t like me. He thinks my writing is too trite and my characters too introspective. That my narrative style isn’t straightforward enough.”

Mike scoffed again. “He’s just bitter that his biggest accomplishment is a self-published poetry collection. A shit poetry collection, at that.”

You laughed, shocked at how blunt Mike was. “I suppose,” you said before pausing. “My sophomore year, he, um, told me that I write like I’m the smartest person in the room. That I think I’m making observations no one’s ever made before.”

Mike frowned and took another drag, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth this time. The heady scent curled toward you, making his outline hazy.  “Andersen’s a shit guy,” Mike insisted. “Misogynistic, too. I could turn in my grocery list, and he’d act like I was Shakespeare reincarnate.”

“I didn’t know he favored you,” you said, finally shutting your book and placing it on the table. 

“You think I’d be on track to get my degree if the head of the department wasn’t kissing my ass?”

“Oh,” you said, curious but not willing to press for answers. “Um, your writing is good though.”

Mike’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that. Not smug exactly, but instead vaguely guilty, eyes flicking away from yours toward the rain-streaked window beside him.

“I know,” he said. 

He rested his head back against the wall, smoke curling upward around the sharp line of his jaw. The tilt of his posture allowed you to notice little things like the silver chain disappearing beneath the collar of his hoodie and the tiny mole on his jawline. You wanted to scoot closer to Mike, sit across from him, and look at all the finer details of his face that you’d never before been privy to.

 Mike Wheeler was the perfect muse.

“You’re good, too,” he added after a second. “Andersen doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” he said. You stared at him, wondering if he would elaborate, secretly hoping he wouldn’t. You hated critiques in workshops enough, and you didn’t want to sit here and listen to what Mike thought about your writing. He’d seen the development of your prose and characterization over the course of nearly four years - he probably knew your writing style better than any of your friends.

Finally, Mike broke the silence.

“Here. You want a hit?”

He held the joint out toward you between two ringed fingers.

Immediately, you shook your head. “Oh, that’s okay. I should probably get going anyway. I have homework to do,” you lied. Truthfully, you just wanted to get home and scream into a pillow over this whole interaction, replaying it in the hopes you hadn’t embarrassed yourself too badly.

Mike hummed, tapping the ash against the windowsill. “You’re breaking my heart, baby. I thought you were enjoying our little chat.”

“No! I mean, yes. I am! I just. . . I have to go,” you spluttered, already gathering your things. Your scone and coffee lay forgotten on the table beside you, a waste of money. Mike watched you shove your book into your bag with poorly concealed amusement.

“I don’t bite, y’know. Unless you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes. “What a line, Wheeler. Do you practice in the mirror?”

He chuckled. “You’re cute.”

“How profound.” You busied yourself with pretending to search for something in your bag just to avoid looking directly at him.

“You should come over sometime.”

You froze. “Why? For what?”

“You know what, baby,” he said.

You wrinkled your nose. “What, you think I want to hook up with you? Just because you complimented my writing?”

Mike shrugged, nothing in his face hinting that he was offended. “Didn’t say that.”

“That’s usually why you invite girls over, is it not?”

He started to get to his feet, flicking the joint out the window onto the library roof. “You’re not very subtle when you stare at me,” he said, ignoring your question. He took out a pen and an old receipt from his pocket and scribbled something down before handing it to you. “If you reconsider my offer, come over, pretty girl.”

You looked down at the words - an address. His address. Such coveted information. You felt your cheeks growing hot as you realized that he did want to hook up with you.

You looked up fast, almost like you might catch him changing his mind, taking it back, laughing it off the way people did when they were joking, and you were the only one who didn’t realize it yet. But Mike was already halfway down the hall.

Rain kept ticking softly against the glass. The library around you stayed suspended in its quiet, indifferent to the fact that your entire afternoon had just shifted.

****

The last thing you ever expected to be doing on a Friday afternoon was hooking up with Mike Wheeler.

You’d been picturing this moment for as long as you could remember. Still, now that the opportunity had finally presented itself, you were debating turning around and sprinting back to your car. And maybe burning the paper with his address.

For the entire week since that day in the library, you’d been suffering in silence. You were too ashamed to admit to your friends that Mike had alluded to having sex with you, and even more ashamed to admit that you were strongly considering it. Your mind was running in circles trying to justify a casual hook-up - you were the only person in your friend group who hadn’t slept with him. . . it would be a bonding experience! But also, your crush on him might complicate things. . . what if you get your feelings hurt? What if the knowledge that he’d slept with your best friends ruined everything?

You knocked on his apartment door. If he didn’t answer in ten seconds, you would leave and pretend that this had never happened.

Mike swung the door open before you lowered your fist.

Warm air spilled out from the apartment into the cold hallway, carrying the smell of weed and something burnt - maybe popcorn. Music played softly somewhere deep inside, a slow guitar muffled by blown-out speakers.

He looked unfairly good, all sleepy eyes and messy curls, slightly damp at the ends and hanging low over the silver bar through his eyebrow. The sleeves of his faded black shirt were pushed up enough to expose the blur of tattoos along his forearm, and the collar stretched wide enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone.

“You made it,” he said. His lips were pink and slightly chapped from smoking, parted just enough for you to catch the glint of metal against his tongue when he spoke.

You shifted your weight awkwardly. You were completely oblivious to the protocol of hookups. “Uh, yeah.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. “You wanna come in?”

“Oh, right. Okay, thanks.”

Mike’s apartment looked exactly like you imagined it would.

It was small, as studios usually were, but cozy. There were clothes draped over the arm of the couch and vinyls stacked precariously beside a cheap record player. There were several ashtrays placed strategically, each of them overflowing with ash and blunts smoked down to the roach. There were books everywhere, spines cracked and filled with sticky notes. You spotted Joan Didion underneath a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. A Raymond Carver collection face-down on the floor beside the couch was bent over some sort of comic book.

Mike wandered toward the kitchen, fiddling absentmindedly with his lighter. Just flicking it repeatedly. He seemed oddly restless, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt. “You want anything?” he asked, leaning against the counter. “Water? A beer? I have like, half a ginger ale, if you wanted.”

“I’m okay.” You swallowed. “Sorry, I’ve just never done this before.”

“Sex?”

“No, no. I’ve done that. “I meant. . . a hookup. One-night stand. Whatever you call this.” You motioned vaguely with your hands.

Mike’s jaw tightened slightly. “You can leave if you want, y’know.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “I know,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to.”

Mike took a slow step forward, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to. With a careful hand, he reached up and placed his thumb on the spot between your eyebrows and smoothed it over. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured, his other hand settling carefully against your waist. They were big and warm, and you could feel the heat of them through your clothes. There was a restraint in his grip, the tendons in his fingers flexing.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you whispered, settling your gaze on a tiny tattoo on his wrist. It was a little spaceship, lines shaky and poorly drawn. “I can take it.”

“I believe it, baby,” he said. “Don’t wanna scare you away though - need you to come back for more.” 

The words left you dazed, but before you could even process them, he was cupping your face and pressing your lips together. There was a brief, unexpected flicker of sensation - metallic tasting and so subtle that you wondered if you imagined it. You wanted to feel it again. There was something sickeningly erotic about the taste of his piercing on your own tongue.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you clawed at his shirt, untucking it from his sweatpants, eager and impatient. It had been a long time since you’d slept with anyone. You slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the smoothness of his abdomen and the way his muscles contracted at your touch.

Mike’s hands roamed from your face to your hips to the curve of your waist, before settling on your ass. His mouth was hot against yours and he kissed in a way that left you unable to catch your breath. You could barely do anything but keep your palms pressed flat against the flat expanse of his stomach and let him squeeze at the softest parts of you.

“Bed,” he finally asked into your mouth, and you nodded, aching for him.

The two of you didn’t disconnect the entire short distance from the kitchen to the bedroom. He pushed you unceremoniously onto the bed, the roughest treatment you’d received so far, before pulling his shirt over his head and crawling to you.

There was a visible outline in his sweatpants, and you felt a little thrill at the notion that you’d gotten him hard. You wanted to believe that you were special, the only one he treated like this, even if you knew it was likely a lie. When you looked away, it was only because Mike’s fingers were hooking under the hem of your sweater. He pulled it off with one swift motion.

Mike’s warm brown eyes were completely blown out, all pupil as they latched onto your tits. You’d purposefully not worn a bra, deciding that accidentally leaving it at his place was worse than feeling a bit uncomfortable on the drive over. His hands are immediately drawn to them, fitting around your tits perfectly. He pinched at your hardening nipples, watching your face for a reaction.

“Ah,” you breathed out, the combination of the cool air and his fingers unexpected.

“You should get these pierced,” he noted absentmindedly, still rolling and pinching at your nipples. You laughed slightly, shaking your head.

“No way,” you said, your voice wavering slightly as Mike started to trail his fingers down your stomach to the waistband of your pants.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “No? Not even for me?”

“Fuck me good enough and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Mike grinned boyishly at that before diving in for another sloppy kiss. His position over you blocked you from being able to cover your chest with your arms. You weren’t used to being naked in front of someone. You didn’t really like how you looked without any clothes on, truthfully.

As Mike slowly, teasingly, began to slide your pants and underwear down, you chewed on your bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to see his face. You heard the faint thud of your clothes landing on the floor.

“Can we, um, turn the light off?” you whispered meekly, still avoiding eye contact. “Just use the lamp or something.”

Mike grabbed your face softly, forcing you to look at him. “Are you shy, baby?” he teased. You nodded imperceptibly. “I thought you wanted a good fuck?”

“I do, but-”

“Don’t be shy,” he interrupted, leaning down to nudge his nose against your jaw, placing a tender kiss there. Lowering his voice, he said, “Don’t be shy. You’re pretty. Pretty face, pretty tits. Makes me wanna ruin you for everyone else. Don’t want you taking anyone’s dick but mine.”

You whimpered slightly. Even with these words, Mike is still reaching over to turn on his bedside lamp. And then, in a very college boy fashion, he grabbed a book and chucked it at the light switch, hitting it with perfect precision. The overhead light flicked off, leaving the two of you swathed in the soft, golden light.

He looked even better in that lighting. Unbearably attractive as he hovered over you, lips parted and eyes filled with desire. Instinctively, your thighs tightened where they’re bracketed low around his hips. “You like it when I talk like that?” he questioned. You nodded, and he chuckled. “Cute. Thought you were all sweet and innocent - guess I was wrong.”

“M’not innocent,” you insisted, digging your heel into his lower back, urging him on. Please, touch me.

“Okay, baby. Whatever you say. Open up.”

You obeyed immediately, and Mike pressed two of his fingers against your tongue, his knuckles pressing against the corners of your mouth. When Mike seemed to deem his fingers sufficiently wet, he pulled his hand back and started to slide his fingers along your cunt, prodding at your weeping hole with a long finger. Even the stretch of his index finger was enough to have your hips jerking slightly off the mattress.

Mike continued to fuck you with a tantalizingly slow speed, eventually adding a second finger and brushing your clit with his thumb. After a while, you can’t help but squirm, wanting more. Sure, the sight of Mike Wheeler looking entranced by his own fingers sliding in and out of your pussy was hot, but you wanted him inside you.

“Mike,” you whined. Mike looked up at you, amused. Something in your face must have given him a bright idea, because he suddenly retracted his fingers (cleaning them off by sucking them into his mouth) and knelt between your spread legs. Without a warning, he licked a long stripe up your pussy.

You gasped at the contact, fingers digging into his sheets. The metal of his tongue piercing was unlike anything you’d ever felt before; the contrast between that and his hot mouth is absolutely delicious. Mike forced your legs apart, palms splayed on your inner thighs, spreading you wider.

His tongue dove deep and messy into your cunt, his spit mixing with your wetness, pooling and dripping onto the bed. You let out a brazen moan, your own hands twitching across your stomach and up to squeeze at the curve of your breasts. Mike released your thigh to reach for your wrist, placing one of your hands in his hair.

“Good girl,” he cooed as you dug your fingers into his curls, nails scratching at his scalp.“Take what you want, baby.”

You ground against his nose, the strong bridge of it prodding at your clit and sending jolts of pleasure up your limbs. Mike continued to sloppily lick and suck, sliding a finger back inside you. Your eyes fluttered closed, completely lost in the feeling of Mike Wheeler’s mouth.

Eventually, and much quicker than you would’ve liked, the feeling became too much. Your legs trembled underneath his hands as you simultaneously tried to pull him closer and push him away using the grip on his hair. With your free hand, you covered your mouth, eyes rolling back in your head as your orgasm began to crash over you.

Suddenly, your hand was being pulled away from your mouth, and Mike was hovering over you again. His mouth and lower face were absolutely glistening, his lips swollen. “No,” he demanded in a low voice. “I get to hear you.”

You nodded feebly, gnawing so hard on the inside of your cheek that you drew blood. He looked intimidating, the Mike Wheeler you heard rumors about.

“As much as I love how sensitive you are,” he continued, brushing your hair back from your forehead with a reverence, “I think I’ve teased you enough, yeah?”

You nodded wildly. “Please, Mike,” you begged, barely aware of how desperate you sounded.

“Please, what, pretty girl?”

“Please fuck me.”

“There you go,” Mike purred, already freeing himself from the confines of his sweatpants. His dick slapped against his lower stomach as Mike began to pump himself slowly, eyes half-lidded as he stared down at you writhing beneath him. His dick was pretty, just as pretty as him. Long and achingly hard, your mouth fell open slightly at the sight of it.

Your pussy was still throbbing from your interrupted orgasm as Mike rolled on the condom and lined himself up, teasing at your clit with the head of his cock. He supported himself on his elbows, barely an inch of space between your chests, and began to push in.

The stretch burned slightly, but it still had your back arching sweetly. He wasted no time snapping his hips against yours, bottoming out in one quick movement. You gasped, hands reaching out for something to hold onto, steadying yourself with his broad shoulders.

“Fuck,” he grunted out, his pace unrelenting. “You feel so good. So fucking tight, baby. So perfect.”

You clenched around him, and Mike let out a beautiful moan. It only made him thrust into you harder, your nails surely leaving claw marks down his lean frame. You were already close, already on the precipice from his tongue alone.

“Come on, let me hear you, sweetheart,” Mike gritted out, his other hand going to your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. You blinked dazedly at him, practically drooling at the sight. Damp strands of hair clung desperately to his forehead, the highest points of his cheekbones flushed with exertion. It made his freckles all the more prominent, and, with what little energy you had left, you leaned up to kiss him.

It was sloppy, nothing like the delightfully curious kisses you’d received before. It was all teeth and tongue. You dug your hands into his hair again, tugging and pulling him closer than was probably physically possible. Mike shifted his position too, reaching down to pull your leg higher so he could hit even deeper inside you.

The new position punched a moan out of you, and Mike took the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.

“Mike, please,” you whimpered pitifully. “Please.”

“Please, what, baby?” he panted, his movements never faltering even for a second.

“Mike, I’m-”

“Use your words,” he insisted, almost mockingly. You could hear the waver in his voice, the way his brows pulled together, his thrusts growing sloppier. He reached between you and began to messily rub at your puffy clit, the pleasure curling in your lower stomach.

You can’t say anything as your eyes roll back, your nails surely jabbing painfully into Mike’s skull as you come with a vigor you’ve never experienced before. For a moment, your vision goes black, and all you can hear is static, the feeling of Mike continuing to pound into you too much.

When your vision returned, you were rewarded with the sight of Mike’s abs twitching and convulsing as he came. His breath was warm against your neck as he collapsed onto you, your sweaty bodies pressing together in a strangely intimate way. You couldn’t do much but just stare at the ceiling, catching your breath after the best sex of your life.

You grinned a little bit, reaching up to card your fingers through Mike’s curls, when he suddenly rolled off you, throwing the condom into the trash.

Mike grabbed a pre-rolled joint off his bedside table and placed it between his lips. “You can let yourself out?” he asked, a hint that he wanted you to leave. Your stomach dropped at the same moment Mike flicked on his lighter and touched it to the end of the joint.

“Oh. Yeah, I can,” you paused, covering your still-naked body with your arms. Mike pulled the sheets over his hips, but that seemed like a luxury you weren’t allowed yet - lying underneath his bedsheets - so you just submitted to the vulnerability.

Mike nodded wordlessly, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. You stared at him for a few more seconds, wondering if he would do. . . something. You weren’t quite sure what you wanted from him. Maybe just a bit more affection, like the kind he’d shown you during sex. But maybe this is what hookups were like, and Mike was just really good at pretending to care.

Finally, you stood and gathered your clothes from where they were scattered around his floor before slinking into the bathroom just down the hall. He didn’t spare you a glance.

You felt sick to your stomach, throat growing thick with tears, and your eyes burning. You’d never felt so humiliated in your life. So. . . discarded. Jesus, even a condom got more attention than you after a hookup.

After you used the bathroom, you tried not to look at the details of Mike’s bathroom. If there were a spare toothbrush or extra hair tie on the counter, you probably would’ve thrown up. Slowly, you began to dress, limbs numb as you did so. It was only when you caught a glance of yourself in the mirror, hair messy, and a post-sex glow on your skin, that you broke down in quiet sobs.

You covered your mouth with your hand (something you would now always associate with Mike. Fuck) and sank to the floor, wrapping your other arm around your middle as you cried silently. The tears were hot as they streamed down your face and dripped off your chin onto Mike’s bathroom rug.

This was why you didn’t do casual hookups. You get your feelings hurt too easily.

How stupid you were to believe that Mike was treating you any differently. How stupid to forget why you were here. For his pleasure, at his request. You were just another hole to stick his dick in, and when it was over, you were just another unimportant girl he’d lured to his apartment with meaningless compliments and empty promises.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, getting to your feet. You needed to leave - you could cry in your car on the way home.

After splashing your face with cold water and ensuring your eyes weren’t puffy - not that Mike would notice - you exited the bathroom. Mike was still propped against his headboard, smoking absentmindedly and staring off into nothing.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna. . . go,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. Your voice cracked on the last word. Mike, thankfully, had the decency to look at you.

“See you in class?” he asked.

“Yeah. Of course.”

****

Monday arrived despite your repeated hopes that it somehow wouldn’t.

You spent the entire weekend trying not to think about Mike, which only resulted in thinking about him constantly. You cleaned the apartment with borderline concerning intensity, vacuuming under furniture no one had touched in months and reorganizing kitchen cabinets that didn’t belong to you. Your roommates seemed thrilled by this sudden burst of domestic responsibility and didn’t question what had spurred it on.

Anything was better than sitting still long enough to remember Friday night.

Every time your thoughts drifted toward Mike’s apartment - the intoxicating smell of smoke clinging to his sheets, the softness in his voice that had turned out to mean absolutely nothing, the tenderness of his kisses - you immediately found another pointless task to occupy yourself with.

By Monday morning, you were exhausted.

When your alarm went off, you stared at the ceiling for a full minute while the awful chirping sound drilled directly into your skull. Briefly, genuinely, you considered skipping class altogether. Perhaps you could give Andersen some vague excuse about a migraine. Food poisoning. Sudden death, maybe.

How were you supposed to survive two hours sitting in the same room as Mike? How were you supposed to workshop stories together like he hadn’t worshipped your body only to look through you afterward? Worse, how were you supposed to read your draft aloud knowing he’d be listening?

The thought made your stomach ache. Still, you dragged yourself out of bed. And then, humiliatingly, you spent far too long getting ready.

You told yourself you only wanted to look put together because seeing him again would already be mortifying enough. You wanted to come across as unaffected, indifferent. You told yourself that the extra swipe of mascara had nothing to do with the possibility of Mike looking at you for longer than a second. That the tiny sparkly earrings were just because they matched your sweater.

None of this stopped the voice in your head from cutting through every justification.

He does this all the time.

To girls prettier than you. To girls cooler than you.

You’re not special.

The thoughts settled ugly and heavy in your chest while you applied lip gloss with shaky hands.

By the time you reached Andersen’s class, your stomach hurt so bad that you briefly wondered if your appendix had burst.

You took your usual seat - third row from the front at the edge nearest the windows - and methodically arranged your notebooks and pens into neat lines just to give your hands something to do.

Mike wasn’t there yet. Of course, he wasn’t. He always arrived late, drifting into class with careless ease. Now that you knew Andersen believed him to be Steinbeck reincarnate, it made more sense how he got away with acting like punctuality was optional.

Students trickled in slowly around you, jackets rustling as they were shed, annoyed voices complaining about midterms. The noise of the room settled around you, the warm scent of coffee calming your nerves.

When Mike finally walked in, your body recognized him before your mind did. You almost hoped that someone would gasp or something ridiculous like that, physical proof that Mike had made an impact on someone other than you.

Nothing like that happened. Mike just slunk toward the back of the room, headphones around his neck beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. Andersen made an amused comment, looking brighter than before. Well, at least someone was delighted at the arrival of Mike Wheeler.

God, it was like he was some misunderstood literary prodigy. As far as you knew, no one else in the room knew what Mike’s mouth tasted like. It made sitting three rows ahead of him feel impossible, so you forced your attention downward and pretended to reread your draft, your pulse throbbing in your throat.

This was exactly why you shouldn’t have slept with him. Before, you could at least pretend your interest in Mike was intellectual, that you were just intrigued by his writing or fascinated by the strange contradiction of someone so arrogant producing prose so painfully sincere. Now, here you were, curating yourself for a man who probably forgot girls’ names by the next morning.

Humiliation crawled hotly up your neck.

What were you doing?

At the front of the room, Andersen shuffled through workshop submissions while rambling distractedly about narrative voice. Usually, you loved hearing him lecture, even when he irritated you. Usually, you’d already be scribbling down fragments of sentences inspired by something he said. Today, your notebook remained mostly blank except for the imprint of your thumbnail digging repeatedly into the edge of the paper.

Andersen wrapped up workshop with a few final notes, the room loosening immediately as chairs scraped back and conversations broke out into overlapping clusters.

You stayed still for a second too long, momentarily too lost in your thoughts to realize that everyone was packing up and leaving.

And then, something slid onto your desk.

Paper.

A folded piece of notebook paper.

You didn’t even look up. You already knew it was him.

Slowly, you unfolded the paper. Just one word in his endearingly messy scrawl.

Friday?

****

The second time you showed up at Mike’s door, you convinced yourself the first time had been a fluke. The third time you showed up at his door, you told yourself this would be the last time. The fourth time you showed up at his door, you hated yourself more than ever before.

It was never any different. No matter how many times you tried to will it into existence, telepathically convince him to give you something after he rolled off you, chest still heaving, it was always the same. He’d light up and ensure that you’d be able to find your own way out.

And you never fought back. You just got dressed and left his apartment, tears already brimming.

You told yourself you were being dramatic. Nothing was being taken from you. You were an adult making choices, and therefore, whatever consequences existed were self-inflicted and not allowed to hurt this much. This is what casual hookups were; you just weren’t familiar with the intricacies and unspoken rules.

You were the one who kept going back, the one who kept allowing him to hurt you like this. How was Mike supposed to know how you felt if you never told him? It wasn’t his fault - he was fluent in a language that you weren’t.

All you wanted - all you needed - was to feel his devotion, even if only for a night. Even if it ended as abruptly as it started. You understood how girls got so attached to Mike; he made it hard not to, whenever he spoke in his honeyed-dulcet tones about how beautiful you were, how good you were to him.

It was a torturous cycle you couldn’t break yourself out of. Mike would ignore you in class, and then you’d show up at his door, and he’d ravage you like you’d been apart for years. Then, he’d wave you off like a mild irritation. Like a gnat.

It was after this fourth time, the one-month mark, that your roommates started to notice something was wrong. That night, after returning home from Mike’s, you were faced with an intervention from your best friend.

“Come on, babe, spill,” she said, standing in the entryway as you snuck through the door. “Where have you been sneaking off to?”

“Nowhere,” you insisted, kicking your shoes off into the shared pile.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “Every Friday for the last month, you’ve been coming home looking like a kicked puppy with hickeys all over your thighs.”

You winced, dropping your purse onto the counter. You were bone-tired, muscles jelly-like, and lips swollen. You wanted nothing more than to curl up in your bed and fall asleep. “You saw those?”

“I’m your best friend. I notice everything. Especially when I’m convinced something is up with you. We’re all worried about you, babe. So, spill.”

You sat down at the table with a sigh and placed your forehead against the wood. “You can’t be mad at me,” you whispered. “I’ve been so stupid.”

She sat down next to you, placing a soothing hand on your arm. “Come on, what is it? Did someone hurt you?”

“You could say that.”

“Do I know him?”

“Very well, unfortunately.”

She went very still beside you. “Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

You groaned. “I know.”

“Who is it?”

Your answer came out muffled. “Mike Wheeler.”

There was a moment of silence and then, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

You let out a little sob. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighed, pulling you into a hug, kneeling before your chair. “You’re not an idiot, okay? Just start from the beginning.”

So you did. You told her about the library. About how Mike had invited you over, and you’d believed that you were special. And then, when it was over, he’d rolled over and kicked you out. How you kept going back, because the notes that he slipped you gave you such a rush that you just couldn’t say no.

“Did he do the same thing to you?” you asked.

Your best friend shook her head, smoothing your hair down with a maternal touch. “Oh, no, I only slept with him once. Last year, at that Halloween party, remember? We were both drunk, and he looked ridiculously good in eyeliner. But it was a one-time thing. We both needed a good fuck, and that was that.”

You pulled back. “That’s it?”

She snorted softly. “What, were you expecting more?”

“No,” you muttered. “I don’t know. I just thought. . . well, I’ve slept with him more than once.”

“How many times?”

“. . . four.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Four?”

You nodded. “Once a week for the last month.”

Your best friend leaned back on her heels. “Okay, that’s. . . interesting.”

You laughed weakly. “You think?”

“No, I mean. . . Mike doesn’t do repeats.”

“Wow, somehow that makes me feel worse.”

“I’m not saying it to be mean,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying that everyone I know - everyone that you know - has only slept with Mike once. Maybe twice if they’re lucky. But four times? Fuck, that’s like, unheard of.”

You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “So, he thinks I’m easy? He gets off on how pathetic I am?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and her face softened immediately. “Oh, honey.”

“I just don’t understand why he keeps asking me over,” you said, voice now thick with tears. “If he doesn’t even seem to like me afterward. I feel insane. In class, he acts like I barely exist, and then I-” you cut yourself off with a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. Every time I think it will be different.”

“And it never does.”

You swallowed hard. “No. It never does. It just keeps getting more and more impersonal. He doesn’t even go down on me anymore. I mean, fuck, that was like the best part.”

She laughed softly, rubbing her hand up and down your arm soothingly. “Listen to me. Mike’s good at making people feel chosen. I don’t know if he was dropped on his head as a baby, but he just can’t do commitment. And I know you’ve been crushing on him from afar-”

“Don’t remind me.”

“-but you have to stop going over there.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“If he called right now, would you go?”

You paused. “. . . no?”

Your best friend gave you a look so deeply unconvinced that you almost laughed. You turned your attention back to the table, tracing the wood grain with your fingertip.

There were worse things a person could be than pathetic. At least pathetic people wanted things. At least they felt things deeply enough to humiliate themselves over them.

The alternative - becoming detached and unreachable and impossible to embarrass - somehow felt lonelier than whatever this was. Mike made you feel wanted in a way that bypassed your self-respect entirely.

And you knew that was bad. You knew it was fucked up and twisted. But you didn’t know how to fix it, how to overcome the satisfaction of being chosen when you’d experienced it, even briefly. And maybe that made you shallow and weak and narcissistic, even, but you spent so much of your life feeling merely tolerated by people. You were smart, funny enough, and easy to keep around.

Mike made you feel devastatingly wanted for one night, and maybe that was enough to survive off of.

But you couldn’t go back.

“I’m not going to tell you who to sleep with,” your best friend said, getting to her feet, “but please, for the love of God, don’t let Mike Wheeler of all people do this to you.”

You nodded, giving her a small smile. A smile that said, no, I would never let Mike Wheeler do that to me.

So, next Friday, you didn’t show up at Mike’s door at the usual time. You stayed in with your roommates and rewatched Pretty Woman and The Princess Bride and laughed about high school incidents you’d recounted dozens of times. You stuffed your face with popcorn and candy and lounged around in your pajamas, face bare of makeup.

And so, when Mike Wheeler called you, you didn’t even hear the phone ring.

Mike checked his watch again, the time read 4:45 PM. He huffed impatiently, scuffing his dirty converses on the linoleum floors. The Hellfire club meeting ended fifteen minutes ago, and naturally Mike would hightail his ass out of this school, desperate not to spend any longer than he had to here. But there was one thing holding him back.

You.

You in your stupid green and white Hawkins High cheerleader uniform, with your stupid hair curled into a ponytail at the back of your stupid head.

Without fail, every Tuesday and Thursday, Mike found himself at the same spot he always was. Leaning his back against the white-painted brick walls, standing outside the gym doors waiting for you and your stupid, impossibly beautiful smile to stroll out after cheer practice.

Mike snapped back into reality at the sounds of squeaks against the floors. For a second, he perked up thinking it was you, but he quickly realized he didn’t recognize the footsteps.

It was three guys from the basketball team, their names Mike never cared to remember. He’d seen them loitering around Jason, the captain of the cult that is the Hawkins High basketball team. He’s certain Lucas said these guys weren’t exactly the nicest, but they were tolerable.

Mike zoned back out, wishing you’d just leave practice early so he could kiss your lip gloss off while you sat in his room rambling about whatever comic book you were currently obsessing over.

“It’s a shame none of the new cheerleaders are hot this year.” An agitating, grating voice sounded in Mike’s ears, cutting through his daydream about you.

“Not true,” Another one spoke, “What about Hannah Silvers?”

The three players were crowded around one of the door windows, gazing into the gym and trying not to drool over each other. They obviously hadn’t paid any mind to Mike, who was subjected to hearing their extremely primitive conversation.

“Been there, did that.” The third said, “She hasn’t been hot since sophomore year. Plus, the entire soccer team has had a piece of that.”

The other two boys laughed along, Mike tried not to hurl his lunch up. You’d spoken about Hannah Silvers before, a nice girl, albeit a bit standoffish, but nice enough to you.

“What about Chrissy?” Meathead one asked. They kept pushing each other over to see the twirls and routines the team was doing inside the gym.

“No way, she’s crazy. Y’know what Jason said about her.” Meathead third answered, sticking his pointer finger in his mouth, mimicking making himself throw up.

Mike’s stomach bubbled, not because of the imagery of Chrissy forcing herself to vomit, but because of the things these guys were saying. He tapped his foot rapidly, running his hands up and down his Hellfire shirt. He checked his watch again, just a few more minutes until—

“Nah, y’know who’s really crazy? That freshman girl, [Name] [Last Name].”

Suddenly, the words coming out of Meathead one, two, and three were the most interesting things Mike had ever heard. He doesn’t think he paid attention to campaigns this closely.

“Oh yeah, she’s a full fucking freak.” One of them scoffed a laugh, “She’s in that weird satanic cult with Munson and I heard she was friends with that kid who came back to life after they found him in the lake.”

“Holy shit! I remember that. She’s weird as hell, man. Her clothes don’t match at all,” Meathead one started.

Mike actually thinks your inability to pair complimenting patterns with each other is cute. He likes your choice of clothes, the plaid maxi skirts you wore with offensively bright shirts and sweaters. It made you easy to find in a crowd.

“She goes around spouting random ass facts about World War II, like who the fuck knows the casualties of the Battle of Kursk off the top of their head? It’s creepy.” Meathead two added on.

Mike thought your history facts were endearing. He liked that you knew obscure stuff about events that happened sixty years ago. He didn’t think it was creepy at all, in fact, your ability to retain random information was a positive trait to him.

“And her face isn’t really all that nice either. It’s like she doesn’t make an effort in how she looks. Her hair is never combed out and she always smells like outside.” Meathead three finished.

That was probably the point Mike disagreed with most of all. To him, it wasn’t like you didn’t make an effort, you just didn’t care to make an effort for people like the Hawkins basketball team. You didn’t care that you were technically in with the popular crowd, you were true to yourself. Your weird mismatched clothes, history nerd self.

One of the boys, Mike couldn’t remember who after the fact because he was so blinded by rage, started laughing hysterically.

“She doesn’t have to make an effort because she gives it out to the entire freak show. Especially the tall one with the girly haircut.” He continued to laugh, his amusement sounded like sirens in Mike’s ears.

Contrary to popular belief, Mike didn’t consider himself an angry person. Sure, he was incredibly irritable and very quick to express his agitation at any and everyone, but it was uncommon for him to be explicitly angry.

The one thing that always managed to tick him off beyond belief was anyone daring to utter something about his girlfriend.

He didn’t care about them thinking your clothes were ugly or you were weird for being a part of Hellfire. He knew you wouldn't have cared, you’d been hearing the same whispers from the mouths of douchebags for your entire life.

But what Mike drew the line was when someone defiled your name. White, hot rage filled his eyes. His chest and cheeks grew hot like a furnace, he was convinced you could cook an egg right on his forehead.

Clearly, the other boys heard Mike’s heavy panting because they finally acknowledged him.

“Can we help you, freak?” Meathead three asked, his two friends behind him nudged each other and nodded towards the logo on his shirt.

“He’s the long one with the bitchy haircut,” The two snickered behind him, “You gonna cry because your girlfriend’s a slut to a bunch of wall-kissing virgins?”

Mike swears to you he couldn’t be held accountable for what happened next. He promises something took over his body, maybe the spirit of a chivalrous knight. Regardless of whatever it was, Mike couldn’t find it in himself to regret any of his actions after he heard that sentence leave Meathead ???’s mouth.

Mike didn’t waste any time arguing with the meatheads. He shoved the one in the front into the other two behind him.

“What the fuck—“ The guy started, but his sentence was cut off with a punch to the mouth.

Mike had thrown a total of two punches in his life. The first one was a weak attempt to fight off his sister when he was seven and they were arguing over whose turn it was with the remote.

The second punch was right now.

As Mike’s fist hit the boy’s teeth, he reeled his hand back and whined in pain. The movies made it look a lot more effortless. Luckily, adrenaline, rage, and a desire to defend your tainted name was pumping through his entire body.

Mike charged at him, uncaring of the other two guys who were trying to back their friend up and pull him off. He continued to wham into his jaw, hoping he’d at least knock a few teeth out. Just to make it harder for him to shit talk you in the future.

Unfortunately, Mike wasn’t a fighter by any means. While he has the advantage of being freakishly tall and towering over everyone else in his grade, his arms and legs were too skinny and long for his body. There wasn’t enough meat on his bones to cushion the punches from the meatheads.

Gurgling the blood that filled his mouth, Meathead one shoved Mike off of him (with ease) and flipped him on his back. Mike’s head hit the same ground he was just tapping his feet impatiently on. He let out a whimper in pain, the adrenaline already starting to wear off.

“Yeah, beat his scrawny ass—“ Mike heard the muffled jeers of the other two in his ears. His vision was like a greasy camera, his eyes filled up with tears (mostly out of pain, but a little from the humiliation).

Suddenly, the gym doors burst open and Mike was met with a chorus of sounds, all concerned and some angry. At him? He didn’t really care as long as it wasn’t you who was upset.

“Mikey?!” He heard the voice of an angel call out to him. “Oh my god, Mike!”

The basketball player was pulled off of him and out of his vision and replaced with something Mike could only describe as the most beautiful, bright light he’d ever seen. He wondered for a second if he was dying, having heard people talk about “the light at the end of the tunnel” before. He just hoped you’d be somewhere in the light, waiting to find him.

“Mike! Look at me, please,” Mike, being delirious from getting the ass whooping of his life, hadn’t realized that the light was you. You were crouched over his limp, mangled body, snapping your fingers in his face.

“Oh my god, look what they did to your beautiful face!” You cried, bringing your hands to gently cup the sides of his swollen jaw.

“An angel…” Mike mumbled, taking in the way your hair tickled his face as it hung down. The way your teeth pulled your pretty lips in between them in worry. How your eyebrows met in the middle of your forehead and your cheeks puffed out in distress.

“He’s delirious, too!” You screamed, you tried very hard not to throw yourself onto Mike and hug him.

“He’s probably concussed, [Name].” Another figure popped up beside you, Hannah. How ironic.

“Stop it! Don’t say that!” You screamed, pulling Mike’s head into your lap, “Are you concussed, Mikey?”

“I’m not concussed.” He murmured. His limbs no longer felt numb, he brought his hand up to feel a gash on his forehead.

“If it’s a concussion, you have to keep him conscious.” Hannah spoke, trying to think logically. Clearly something you nor Mike knew anything about. “Ask him questions!”

You panicked, trying to wrack your brain for something to say. All Mike could think was that you looked really, really good after cheer practice. You were sweaty and out of breath, either from running out of the gym to his rescue or jumping around for two hours, Mike didn’t know or care.

“Erm—“ You pouted in thought, “Where was the first post World War II military base built?”

Hannah shoved you, ignoring Mike’s mewls in pain at the abrupt movement, “Shit he’d know, [Name]!”

“When’s the first time we met?” You blurted out, not really thinking about it.

Mike slow blinked, a dopey smile came to his bloody lips, “August 30th, 1976. First day of kindergarten. You were wearing a rainbow polo shirt with cats all over it and I said I loved cats, then you started rapid fire listening off each cat breed and their likelihood of taking over the world.”

A bright smile overtook the distressed pout of your face, “He isn’t concussed! He’s okay!”

In your excitement, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning over and kissing Mike smack on his busted open lips. He groaned into your mouth, from pain or pleasure, he couldn’t really tell.

You didn’t care if his blood mixed in with your chapstick, as gross as it was. You were just happy he could form a coherent sentence.

“What the…” Hannah grimaced, “Maybe you’re both concussed.” She grabbed the ice pack from one of the other girls and handed it to you.

“Shut up, just help me get him on my bike.” You ushered her to lift Mike’s arm around her shoulder, you doing the same. You both shuffled towards the exit of the school.

You nearly missed the cries from one of the basketball players, the one who was letting Mike have it. You glared at him, his friends and your teammates who crowded around them.

Eventually, you and Hannah hauled Mike onto the back of your bike. You reminded yourself to get his bike tomorrow morning since you couldn’t bring it home with you.

You went to give Hannah a goodbye kiss on the cheek, but she stopped you with a disgusted look on her face.

“Don’t come near me, you have his blood on your lips.” She scowled, pressing her hand against your puckered lips.

You blinked, licking your lips instinctively. Hannah screamed in disgust.

You just shrugged nonchalantly, “No matter. Talk to ya later!” You smiled, moved Mike’s arms to wrap around your body and kicked off your bike.

Hannah stood in your wake, her face pulled in an indescribable expression, “They’re definitely weird, I’ll give them that.”

You made it to your street and awkwardly dragged your bloody pile of boyfriend into your house. Mike’s body leaned into yours, you both bumped into walls and the decorative plants in your foyer. You tried your best not to make any noise to alert your parents. They already didn’t like Mike, thinking he was too sarcastic and a little odd.

“Do y’know how pretty you are?” Mike randomly blumbered, “Like… So, so pretty.”

Your eyes snapped to him, bringing your free hand up to cover his mouth, which he whimpered into.

“Shh, Mike! My parents will hear!” You tried to move him down the hallway, but he planted his feet in stubbornness.

Mike frowned, a bloody pout pulled his lips downward. He looked like a kicked puppy, “Why? ‘Cause you’re ashamed of me?” He slurred.

Your face skewed in confusion, “Huh? No, Mike, it’s because you're bleeding out all over my shirt and if my parents see they’ll think I’m the one who beat your ass.”

Mike giggled, a foreign but not unwelcome sound, “I’d let you beat my ass.”

“I said hush!” You shoved Mike and yourself up the stairs and into the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

You pushed him back against the sink, tugging at his soiled Hellfire shirt. You frowned, you loved this shirt, especially on Mike. Time to start thinking of discreet ways to ask your mom how well did blood and tear stains wash out of clothes.

“Put your arms up,” You commanded, Mike did as you said, hanging his head on your shoulder for support. You pulled his shirt off his head, staring at his bare, pale chest littered with freckles.

Your face heated up. Obviously this wasn’t the time. A bunch of two brain cells having jocks beat your boyfriend to a pulp and you were foaming at the mouth like some rabid dog off his bruised up chest.

Mike lifted his head and tried to kiss you, “Take your shirt off, too.” He tried to get you out of your cheer shirt, but you gently smacked his hand away.

Your eyes widened, “That is not what this is, Michael! I need to dress your ass whoopings. Now be good and get on the sink.”

Mike whined, throwing his head back in annoyance, he got on the table like you asked, but not without his protest.

“I have been good, I’ll be so good, I swear.” He kept trying to lean in closer to kiss you, but you just continued to dodge his lips. You were busy pulling the cotton swabs out of your makeup bag.

“C’mon, please. I’m dying and my final wish is to kiss my beautiful girlfriend.” Mike’s bruised lips kissed up and down your neck, not caring about how much it hurt to even move.

“You aren’t dying, Mike!” You whisper-yelled, aware of how your mother was most likely taking her midday nap in the other room.

You pushed Mike back again, your clothed chest flushed against his. You moved his overgrown bangs away from his eyes and forehead. His face was glistened with sweat in a way that made him look like he was the angel. His eyes were watery and red, his permanently furrowed brows weren’t irritated as they usually were, they were pained.

“This’ll hurt a little, okay?” You asked, holding the side of his face and the cotton swab in the other, Mike nodded silently, biting his lip in anticipation.

You dabbed the alcohol on one of his cuts, Mike instinctively hissed at the contact. He nuzzled into your hand as some semblance of comfort.

“Sorry, sorry. The hard parts over now,” You tried to smile, tossing the bloodied swab into your trashcan.

Mike just knocked his head against your shoulder again, resting it there as he let out shallow breaths that tickled your neck. You brought your hand to play with the curls growing from the back of his head. He whimpered again, this time in pleasure and relief.

“Wanna explain why I had to end practice early because my boyfriend was being beaten into a stain on the ground?” You asked while placing cat bandaids all over Mike’s face.

Mike huffed, the delirium weared off a bit now and he seemed quiet. He was still as clingy as ever, if not more. You could see now, with all the blood washed off, that his face was a blushing red.

He mumbled something incoherently into the skin of your neck. You tugged a little rougher on his long hair which made him whine and relent.

“Those assholes were saying dumb shit about you, ‘s all.” He said quietly, staring at your lips instead of the eyes that were trained on him.

“Like what, Mikey?” You laughed, having been used to ridicule your whole life, “Did they call me ugly or something?”

No amusement showed on Mike’s face. He was dead serious, his lips pulled into his natural frown.

“They called you a slut and a creep because you’re in Hellfire, and you dress differently, and you’re smart in a way that’s different from everyone else—“

Although you would’ve never wanted your boyfriend to get beat up in your honor, you couldn’t help the pride that swelled in your chest. People in Hawkins were mean, and as much as you pretended it didn’t hurt, it did sometimes.

You interrupted Mike’s rambling with the kiss he so desperately wanted. His hands immediately trailed up your waist and found home under your skirt, kneading your bare skin.

You tried to pull away, but Mike’s lips chased yours. You laughed again, grabbing another alcohol drenched cotton swab and dabbing it on his jawline.

“Ouch, shit!” He hissed, backing his face up from yours finally.

You shrugged in mock innocence, “You were physically attacking my lips and I couldn’t breath. I had to call in the reinforcements, like when the French had to call in the Americans during D-Day.”

“Uh huh,” Mike nodded mindlessly, his eyes trailing your moving lips like a dog with a bone.

Looking at you two, they’d probably assume Mike was the one talking your ear off about nerdy stuff until the trumpets blew, which is correct technically. Mike had a knack for turning a single question about a campaign flaw into a three hour long DnD information session.

But Mike liked how you were able to match his nerdiness with your own genre of geek. In his dreams, he pictures a pretty girl who looks exactly like you, droning on and on for hours about the difference between rifles used by Belgium and Russia during the war.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” You sassed, letting Mike get away with touching you like this, “I only kissed you because I think punching douchebags is noble.”

Maybe Mike was possessed by a knight. The thought of him as a knight and you as a princess he was honored to defend made him smile.

“But I’m still pissed at you.” You stomped your foot, poking Mike in one of the bruises on his chest just to watch him squirm.

“Pissed? But I was good. How could I let them sit there and talk about you like that?” He asked earnestly.

You sighed, unable to resist his big, wet brown eyes. Damn you, Bambi.

“It was incredibly chivalrous, yes,” You started, Mike smiled at your words. You tried not to cringe at the blood on his front teeth.

“But getting put on your ass over insults a middle schooler could think of is not really ideal, Mikey.” Mike’s smile dropped, realizing you weren’t going to stand there in between his legs telling him how great of a boyfriend he was.

He rolled his eyes, knowing you were right, “It’s just… I don’t know. No one should say something like that about you. About anyone. He deserved that punch to the mouth.”

You gasped, “You got him in the mouth?”

Mike perked up immediately, he puffed out his purple and yellow chest and grinned, “Yeah, a couple times. No biggie or whatever.”

“What a man.” You hummed dreamily, leaning in to pepper kisses on Mike’s face.

You guess he deserved it some, even if he definitely did not win that fight.

AN - I just want everyone to know I miss Joe Keery more than life

Thank you for the prompt, anon! I have received a seperate double-date Jancy request asking specifically for Dom!Nancy and Sub!Jonathan fucking next to Reader so that’s also here. I let Nancy get touchy with Reader because she would most certainly want a taste of you, no matter what Steve had to say about it + obligatory Jonathan spit kink.

I write a lot. I just love these characters loving on you. Feel free to send in more stuff, please! Bien à toi ~ Claire

divider credits to @pixopix - header photos from Pinterest.

There was something special about the way Nancy’s gaze was always glued to your body, studying every movement in a way that was unwavering, yet never truly unnerving. 

“Your eyes… you look like one of my Great Aunt Betty’s haunted dolls,” you teased, catching her stare. “Do you ever spook Jonathan?”

“Only late at night,” Nancy chuckled, continuing to adjust the strap on your bra. 

You simply nodded, allowing her to work.

To others, intimacy like this would be odd. In conservative Indiana, it was nearly blasphemous.

Still, you’d grown comfortable with the notion that ‘weird’ wasn’t always wrong, especially when ‘weird’ was happening in Hawkins on a daily.

Your closeness to Nancy was nothing new, only blossoming since you’d met each other back in 6th-grade gym class (when both of you refused to run the mile). Since then, you happily accepted Nancy’s need for proximity as an act of devotion - a love language.

After all, there was nothing as comforting as having Nancy ‘Knock ‘Em Down’ Wheeler always by your side. The best ‘Best Friends Forever’. 

“Done. Let me fix the other one,” Nancy offered, already moving to adjust the tightness on your other bra strap.

Tonight certainly felt no different than the many prior nights you’d spent gossiping in Nancy’s room as a child, except you two were no longer in middle school. Time rolls forward, delivering a plethora of gifts. With womanhood came responsibilities; jobs and boyfriends and bills and a keen sense of confidence in knowing what you wanted- and tonight, you wanted to fuck Steve. 

Nancy, of course, was more than happy to help with your endeavors. 

You turned around fully to face her, feeling rather exposed in Nancy’s childhood bedroom in such risqué attire. 

“I feel stupid,” you muttered shyly, your body adorned in cheap, black lingerie. “I had to drive all the way to that sex shop downtown for this, and I don’t even think it fits right.”

“Stop it, you’re fine.” Nancy shook her head. “And by fine, I mean you look really hot.” 

You responded with a soft huff of annoyance, still unsure. “Even my ass? Maybe I should’ve grabbed a medium instead of a small.”

“Turn to the side real quick,” Nancy demanded, sitting on her bed.

You did as told, allowing her large eyes to do what they had always done best - observe you. You looked at yourself over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of your profile in the vanity mirror. Nancy poked and prodded your lingerie into place. 

“At least it makes my boobs look nice?” you tried convincing yourself, impressed with the sudden cleavage the bra provided.

Even you could admit to a certain confidence that came with the way the black lace hugged your curves so tightly. Your soft skin was only exaggerated by the barely-there coverage of sheer fabric, leaving little to the imagination.

Nancy gave a soft ‘hmmm’, gently running her hand up the back of your silky thigh. You were surprised as her path made its way inward, her cool fingertips tracing up past your garter belt, unexpectedly ghosting over your center.

Your breath caught in your throat, unsure of what was happening. Nancy’s touch retreated, now firmly placing both hands on your hips. 

“Now face forward, please,” she spoke, using her hands to position your hips to turn you from your side to your back.

You complied, of course, hoping Nancy wouldn’t notice the slick spot on your panties that most certainly wasn’t there before.

Your new pose gave Nancy a proper view of your (almost) bare ass, albeit for the smallest thong string holding everything together. Her fingers were back at work, adjusting the waistband lace so it lay nice and flat against your skin. 

You were shocked at the sudden feeling of your thong being pulled back before immediately snapping against your skin with a sharp sting. 

“Ouch! Quit it, Nance! I don’t want any red marks for Steve,” you lectured, no hint of genuine upset in your tone. 

Nancy shrugged, standing up and facing you with an innocent expression.

“What? Just checking the quality! Even if it’s a bit trashy, you two have been together for almost a year. Steve would still want you even if you were wearing literal trash bags.”

You couldn’t help but smile. You knew Nancy was right. 

It had been nearly two months since you and Steve had the opportunity to be intimate. Your schedules had been so conflicted lately between your night shifts at Hawkins Memorial and his morning ones at the radio station.

The last time you and Steve had both planned a night off, Steve was knuckles-deep in your pussy, cramped in the backseat of his BMW, when he received the dreaded comm from Dustin to help ‘save the world’… again. 

But you were his world, and tonight you hoped the added lace details would ensure that.

“Thanks again for coming over. I know you and Steve don’t get that much time together, so it means a lot,” Nancy smiled.

You nodded, as if you truly had a choice if you’d be here tonight.

You and Steve had both been reluctantly roped into what Jonathan liked to call ‘Fun Film Friday’, which was really only fun for him. It usually involved meeting at the Byers or Wheeler house, watching a movie, then Jonathan asking a million questions about the cinematography or acting style that went way over all of your heads.

Still, she had promised you only one movie. ‘I promise we will be quick; just one movie. We haven’t had a double-date in weeks! You can wear your new lingerie over here, then devour Steve the moment credits roll. Just please come.’

She even pinky promised, and Nancy Wheeler always kept her promises. 

Your train of thought disappeared at the sudden assault of a loud knock on Nancy’s bedroom door. You immediately reached for the silk robe you’d brought along, throwing it on in an attempt to make yourself decent.

Nancy groaned. “FUCK OFF, MIKE! WE’RE BUSY!”

“It’s just us!” you heard Jonathan’s muffled voice through the door. 

Nancy made her way over, unlocking the door. “There you guys are! I thought I told you seven o’clock?.”

Jonathan walked in first, hands overflowing with chips and candy for tonight’s moive plans.

“Yeah, our bad,” he mumbled, placing a soft kiss on Nancy’s lips before giving a polite nod to you.

Right behind him came Steve, all bravado and charm, as always.

Steve beamed, rushing to you immediately.

“And there she is! My sweet, sexy, amazing, god damn angel-of-a-woman,” he chuckled loudly, pulling you tightly against his chest in a compressing hug. “God, baby. It’s only been a week. I was goin’ through withdraws, ya know?”

“I missed you more,” was all you could manage, speaking into his chest.

Steve’s comforting scent of Old Spice aftershave, mixed with his unique musk, immediately enveloped you, making you feel right at home. He placed big kisses against every inch of your face before capturing your lips in the most tender kiss.

Time always slowed in moments like these. Even if absent from your life momentarily, Steve always returned to you as if home from war - desperate, loving, and usually very horny.

Steve pulled back. “Now, would ya look at that? What do we have going on here, babygirl?” he smirked, shaking off his denim jacket.

“What? We’ve just been waiting for you two to come back with a movie.”

It was true, after all.

He snorted. “Yeah, but why is my girlfriend all wrapped up in a silky robe in Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom, huh?” 

Steve looked down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes, studying your face briefly for any hints.

“Do you like showing off your nice legs, or are you two just playin’ dress up, again?” Steve joked, letting out a laugh too short to properly fool you. He loved to fake nonchalance, but the not-so-subtle possessive undertones were always present in Steve’s voice when it came to you. 

You hate to admit it, you truly do, but damn it. Jealousy always looks so fucking good on Steve Harrington.  

Jonathan chimed in, locking the bedroom door.

“Erm, sorry we took so long. Stevie here wasn’t interested in any of my nice arthouse films back at my place.”

“Not my fault, Byers. We ended up making a quick stop at the store for some snacks, and I ended up buying something wayyyy better.” Steve started digging into his denim jacket pocket, fishing out a video cassette tape.

“Look what I found at Big Buy - Killer Klowns from Outer Space! It just came out on VHS, we’re all gonna hate it!”

You could hear Nancy groan loudly, followed by a ‘told you’ from under Jonathan’s breath. 

“Steve, honey? I’m hoping we could watch an actually good movie for once,” you chuckled.

You never truly knew whether Steve’s bad taste in movies was ironic, genuinely terrible, or if he was simply trying to be excused from any future Fun Film Friday double-date invites.

You were almost certain it was the latter. 

“Sure, sure. I gotcha,” Steve sighed. “But if you want to make a quick run to Family Video, we have to dress you in somethin’ a little more modest, Princess. As much as I’d hate to put more clothes on you, we don’t need Hopper arresting your cute ass for indecent exposure.”

“Actually,” Nancy interrupted, rolling over to the side of her bed to brush through a pile of junk on her nightstand. Eventually, she pulled out her own VCR tape. “I was thinking we could try watching this indie flick Robin recommended.” 

“Oh, c’mon. You’re gonna take Robin’s recommendations over mine?” Steve waved his movie dramatically. “Clowns… and they’re in space!”

Jonathan plucked the tape from Nancy’s hand, turning the box over. “ ‘Passions of the Undone - Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark. Follow along as Elizabeth navigates the dangers of falling in love with the nightlife, unleashing her taboo desires before entering her arranged betrothal. Can identity be found even in the darkest of places?’ ”

Steve frowned. “A romance? Nah- Boring. I still vote Killer Klowns.”

“This movie is NC-17,” Jonathan added, raising a knowing eyebrow at Steve. 

A slight pause followed as Steve immediately conceded, suddenly keen on the idea.

“Okay, so it’s basically porn. Now that I can get behind. What do you say, baby?”

“I’m always down for some ‘romance’,” you shrugged. 

Steve smirked proudly. “That’s my girl.”

He pushed a warm kiss to your temple before pulling you onto Nancy’s bed with him, getting in a comfortable position to endure the next 90-or-so minutes. He was now holding you close to his chest, wrapping his strong arms around you securely.

“Don’t think I’m going to let the robe thing slip, baby girl. Whatever the reason, I don’t like you showing off what’s mine,” he whispered into your ear, before retreating back against the pillow.

Jonathan made his way across the room, slipping the tape into Nancy’s tv set that sat snug in the corner, the static screen buzzing to life.

Nancy handed you some M&M’s that the boys had picked up for you both, knowing your affinity for sweets.

This double date couldn’t be too bad. One quick movie for Nancy, a few of Jonathan’s relentless questions, then you’d be whisked away into Steve’s Beamer to have him tear off your lingerie with his teeth, all before midnight.

You allowed yourself to relax, taking some of the M&M’s to munch on as the film finally began.

⋆｡°✩

You had always enjoyed foreign films.

Hell, you were the one to introduce Jonathan to international directors like Hayao Miyazaki and Jean-Luc Godard, often priding yourself on your open-mindedness - on being cultured.

Right now, not even thirty minutes into Passions of the Undone, and you were at the breaking point of nearly becoming undone yourself.

Robin’s tastes had always been eccentric, but this choice was simply odd.

The English captions were not aligned with the fast-paced Dutch dialogue, leaving you clueless about which character said what. Scenes were spliced together in a bizarre way that leaned more amateur than artistic. Every available inch of the screen was being utilized as a way to fill it with at least one naked woman; sometimes many, many more.

Maybe that was the real draw of the film all along.

You had no idea whether Steve had fallen asleep or was simply bored with reading the captions, having said not a word since the movie had started. He simply held you, resting peacefully against Nancy’s headboard.

“Honey? Are you awake?” you asked.

Steve gave you a soft squeeze, nuzzling into your neck. “Yep. Wide awake.”

“You’re really quiet. Is this movie turning you on, or turning you off?” you teased.

“Hmm. Honestly, I stopped paying attention a while ago. I’m watching somethin’ much more interesting.” Steve whispered.

His comment puzzled you. Steve must have been able to pick up on your confusion, gently nudging his shoulder to the left of the bed where the couple beside you had been cuddling.

Their gazes were fixed on the tv screen, but Jonathan and Nancy were most certainly not watching the movie.

Nancy was cuddled up beside Jonathan, head of bouncy curls resting innocently on his shoulder. Her hand, however, could be found in Jonathan’s jeans, which had surprisingly been unzipped.

Her hand was moving rhythmically inside of Jonathan’s pants, stroking her boyfriend's cock quietly through his underwear. They weren’t being too discreet, as you could clearly see the outline of Jonathan’s length attempting to break free of his black briefs.

You watched, almost transfixed, as Jonathan bit his lip in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. Nancy’s fingers disappeared further, now slipping into the front flap of his underwear to allow herself full access to him. The softest whimper could be heard escaping from deep within Jonathan. He closed his eyes in pleasure, tilting his hips towards Nancy for more.

“They’re really gettin’ at it over there, huh, babe? You think they get off to us watching them have fun?” Steve whispered against your neck.

“Shush!” You playfully elbowed him behind you.  

You couldn’t help the warmth that flooded your lower extremities as you witnessed your best friend and her boyfriend touching beside you. They really were in their own little world, Jonathan looking to Nancy for any sort of reaction while Nancy simply focused on the film.

Steve was right, this was way more interesting than Robin’s stupid Dutch movie.

Steve planted a few more kisses up your neck, making his way back to the spot that drove you crazy behind your ear.

“Oh, so you want to not focus on them, huh? Fine, let’s talk about you, baby. Like what the hell you’re hiding under that robe of yours, hmm? Have you been showing off your pretty little body to Nancy again?”

“Steve, knock it off!” you groaned, hoping he’d drop it. You didn’t drag your ass downtown and drop $50 on shitty lingerie just to have his surprise spoiled before you even got the chance to have your boyfriend all to yourself.

“What was that!?” Steve grabbed your jaw roughly, turning your face towards him. “You know Daddy doesn’t take attitude. Knock it off, or I’ll take care of your back-talk issue myself. Got it?” he growled.

You nodded sheepishly.

“Good girl…” he spoke lowly, eyes darkened. “Now, tell me why you’re half naked in Nancy’s home, all alone, just the two of you, or I’ll inspect your body myself. Want me to do that? Right here in front of our friends, huh? I bet they’d love that, actually.” Steve snorted, releasing his firm grip on your jaw.

God, you loathed when he became so possessive. What you hated more was that his jealousy did, in fact, turn you on immensely. 

His fingers simply slipped the robe off your shoulders without asking, causing the silk to fall to your waist instead. You were now left almost completely exposed, the lingerie doing little to hide your perky nipples poking through the lace. 

Steve stilled, for a moment, not expecting the attire. His calloused hands began moving immediately to squeeze your tits from behind.

“God damn, babe. Is this just for me? You know how much I always wanted to dress you up in some black lace just like this.”

You nodded, a brief surge of relief coursing through you at the thought of Steve enjoying your lingerie choice. A quick glance over to the busy couple beside you brought a bit of relief. They were far too preoccupied with each other.

“You always said I look best in black. I was trying to save it for later. Nancy was just helping me adjust it earlier.”

“Mmm hmm.” He nodded, pulling the robe off your waist to reveal the sheer lace thong. “Black is your best color, but this is downright delicious. I hope it wasn’t too expensive, because as soon as we get out of here I’m gonna-” 

Jonathan suddenly let out a loud whimper beside you.

“Yes… ‘m being so good for you, Nance. Please?” He whined. The need in his voice is almost tearing at your heartstrings.

You blinked. Steve paused, fixated on your friends once more.

“Sorry. He gets a bit vocal sometimes,” Nancy smiled, though her hand was still well within the confines of Jonathan’s pants and into his briefs, her movement now slower than before.

Nancy noticed Steve’s hands gripping your breasts, now nearly naked and sprawled across his lap, with no robe anywhere on the bed.

“Looks like Steve likes the lingerie?” Nancy asked.

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle, tentatively massaging your breasts again.

“Hell yeah, I do. And don’t worry too much about Byers over there. This one can get whiny, too,” he teased, one of his hands leaving your breast to instead graze your inner thigh.

He gave it a big squeeze, ‘mine’, before his fingers eventually found the slickness that had already been accumulating on your skin.

“Oh? And apparently, someone can’t help herself. Already makin’ a mess in her brand new panties and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“STEVEN!” You cried, face blushing profusely with embarrassment.

Why the hell was he feeling you up like this in front of people? This was weird. No, this was completely inappropriate.

Steve simply did not seem to care. He was a man of little shame when it came to sex. Few worries, big ego, and an even bigger cock.

Nancy pulled the pillows that had pilled up between you two during the movie, allowing her full access to view your body being groped and grabbed by Steve.

“She was already turned on just by me touching her earlier. Don’t give yourself too much credit.” Nancy shot at Steve.

“Is that right?” Steve looked down at you, his nostrils flaring. “You let her touch you? Did you get all wet from her, babe?”

Nancy’s eyes were now glued to you, as always, waiting for confirmation. 

“Maybe? I can’t help it,” you offered.

Nancy smirked, quickening her pace of striking Jonathan’s lank within his pants, obviously pleased with your confession.

Jonathan whimpered again as he pawed at Nancy to keep going.

“You two wouldn’t mind if I just take care of Jonathan real quick, would you? I would usually wait until you leave, but we’re past any weirdness, right?” Nancy smiled innocently.

You desperately wanted to argue ‘no, you weren’t passed anything!’… but you couldn’t find it in your heart to care. Not truly. Not in a time like this.

You’d seen Nancy naked more times than you could count over the past 10+ years of your friendship. She’d see you naked, and you’d both certainly seen Steve naked.

As for Jonathan, you’d heard enough about Nancy’s sex life that it honestly didn’t really matter.

Now here you were, almost completely nude, in your best friend's bed, who was currently attempting to jerk off her boyfriend while yours was tracing the outlines of your pussy through your lace panties. All of this is happening against the background noise of some shitty erotica film. This was honestly one of the more pleasant ‘weird’ situations you’ve ended up in.

It would be weirder not take the opportunity that is being presented to you.

Steve’s finally broke the silence. “No, no, go ahead and take care of Byers. In fact, the way Princess is dripping tells me I should probably do the same.”

“STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THATTTT!” you begged, not knowing why Steve was insisting on embarrassing you.

“Relax…” Nancy cooed, gently reaching out to touch your thigh with her free hand.

She thought for a moment. “It’s Fun Film Friday, remember? Just…pretend you’re Princess Elizabeth indulging in her fantasies for a bit. You know, for ‘fun’?”

Nancy’s big eyes searched your face for every micro-expression that crossed your features that might elude to your feelings you hopelessly attempted to hold back - Fear, lust, shame, love. 

Her long fingers caressed up your thigh to your hip bone. Steve’s breathing seemed to quicken, watching Nancy’s movements cautiously.

Nancy’s hand seemed to then dip into your inner thigh before briefly applying pressure against your soaked thong, immediately pulling back.

“Steve? Is she always this responsive?” Nancy asked.

It was a redundant question asked only for Steve’s sake. Nancy knew very well how you secretly yearned to be under someone else's touch at all times. Perhaps you accidentally confessed it to her at one of your many tipsy sleepovers.

But something told you that Nancy Wheeler naturally attracted those who yearned to be controlled.

“Yeah, she’s pretty vocal,” Steve shrugged. “Other times, she gets too quiet. In her head, ya know? I wish Princess could just quiet her little mind sometimes.”

Nancy nodded, moving herself down from the head of the bed near you. She was now positioning her face near Jonathan’s exposed hips, his band t-shirt having come off to reveal his slim torso during the time you’d been distracted. She started shimmying off Jonathan’s jeans down his hips and thighs and off to her bedroom floor.

“This is good. Maybe ‘Princess’ will feel less shy seeing me suck my baby’s leaking cock. Watch into a weeping mess.”

Jonathan whined, cheeks flushed with sweaty arousal (and perhaps his own shame). “‘m not a mess…j-just…”

“Just what, babyboy?” Nancy mocked, yanking Jonathan’s briefs down in a swift motion to reveal his hardened cock springing free, pink tip bouncing against his abdomen. 

The technique Nancy was using was devilishly slow. Her thumb teased up and down a visible vein under Jonathan’s arched shaft, somewhere he so obviously wanted her to touch if the mewls of ‘please’ and ‘thank you, Miss’ were any indication.

Steve placed a forceful kiss on your lips as he adjusted himself, moving out from behind you and down towards the lower half of the bed, similar to where Nancy was lying. 

“Ridiculous,” he shook his head, eyebrows knitted in concentration. Steve began kneeling at the end of Nancy’s bed, pulling your ankles towards him. 

Two things made Steve Harrington unquestionably jealous to the point of breaking. Men who claimed to have better hair than him, and those who continuously happened to catch your wandering eyes, in that exact order. 

“No way in hell I’m gonna let my girl gawk at Jonathan fuckin’ Byers and Nancy goddamn Wheeler when I’m right here.”

Steve pried open your legs. It was hard to make out his exact expression with just the glow of the tv illuminating the room, but the shadows cascading across Steve’s face suggested something primal had awoken within him.

“Yeah, you want Daddy like this? Right here, huh?” Steve cooed, hair tickling your skin. “Let me take good care of you.” 

He admired your legs for a moment, taking his time as he began kissing, biting, and licking up into your inner thigh.

As he finally made his way to your center, Steve’s tongue darted out, lapping up the wetness that had seeped through the lace of your panties with an appreciative ‘hmm’.

His skillful tongue helped maneuver the string of your thong to the side of your crotch with practiced ease.

“You love when I suck your clit, huh, babe,” he mumbled into your folds, teeth immediately seeming to find your clit. Steve suckled softly, brown eyes looking up at you, hoping his talents would elicit the praise of your moans.

Your eyes rolled back, encouraging him to keep going.

Steve eagerly started working his warm mouth from your clit, down your slick folds until he was at your core, throbbing eagerly with need for him. He spread your thighs even further apart to allow himself deeper access to your cunt.

Similar to Nancy’s technique, Steve preferred to start hot and heavy, getting you worked up into a needy mess before slowing the pace down to a painful tease.

Steve’s feverish lapping melted into a gentle massage, taking your pink folds between his lips softly, allowing his tongue the time to trace through every inch of your, no, his pretty pussy, making sure to drink any of your sweet arousal he could. 

There was nothing Steve loved more than to worship your cunt. He always let you know every time he did, making sure to leave you absolutely breathless, a symphony of moans and a body slicked in sweat; still famished for more. 

“Keep going, Nance. Please. A-almost there. I’ve been s’good i-i promise,” Jonathan whined beside you, grabbing for your hand through the layers of sheets, seemingly experiencing his own oral revelations.

Nancy was in her element, sucking Jonathan’s length to the back of her throat with ease. You watched as your best friend bobbed her head back and forth, one hand jerking the base of his cock where her swollen lips simply couldn’t reach.

Her devotion to Jonathan was also just as impressive, making sure to give every inch of his cock undivided attention. Jonathan seemed quite sensitive to begin with, and her technique only heightened the tension within him.

Every pretty moan or whimper Jonathan let out incited the lustful gaze of Nancy, her eyes peering up at him through her spot kneeling on the floor. She was clearly ravished by the fact that her man had become undone while he was deep within the walls of her throat.

Your own partner had become impatient himself, as Steve began to pick up his pace. No longer a tease, but a man in search of glory. His tongue was now circling the rim of your hole, your cunt pulsating in need to have something to fill it.

“Ah… AHH!” You couldn’t help the loud moans Steve was releasing from your body.

“Shhhh,” Jonathan gave you a shy smile, adjusting his torso to be closer to you while Nancy continued her work. “We can’t be t-too loud. What if someone comes home? ‘Sposed to be watching a movie, remember?” He stuttered out, his soft eyes fixated on your lips.

Unexpectedly, Jonathan leaned over, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. You suppose that's an effective way to shut you up.

His tongue began immediately darting out to taste your lips, so gently and lovingly as your mouth opened to allow him in. The kiss was tender, forbidden in a way that was somehow more intimate than just fucking.

It sent an instant shock of arousal straight to your clit, a nearly overwhelming mix of shame and excitement.

You pulled away, unsure of how an overprotective Steve and your best friend would react to you kissing Jonathan.

To your surprise, Nancy was all smiles as she continued working on Jonathan’s cock. She always did share everything with you. Food, clothes, jewelry, and now her boyfriend.

Your eyes quickly shifted to Steve between your legs, who looked somewhat bemused at his girl making out with the other submissive within the group.

You knew Steve had little respect for Jonathan to begin with, referring to him as weak or sensitive almost daily. It was always Nancy he’d been more cautious of when it came to you.

“Good job, Princess.” Steve pulled back, placating your hole by inserting one of his large fingers within you while he talked. “Are you having fun with Byers?”

Nancy leaned back from Jonathan’s thighs, her hand still jerking his cock.

“Okay, they’re kind of adorable? Our two sluts can’t even go ten minutes without touching each other.”

“Maybe our mouths aren’t enough, huh?” Steve suggested, immediately sending you and Jonathan into a fit of denial. ‘No, no, no’.

“What does Jonathan taste like, hun?” Nancy asked you, a smirk on her lips.

“I…” you were lost for words, unable to focus on the present. Everything felt like a dream, hazy around the edges.

“Nancy asked you a question, baby. What does her boytoy taste like?” Steve prodded, removing his fingers from your pussy entirely as punishment for your lack of answers. 

“Here,” Jonathan offered. His cold hand softly squeezes your cheeks, causing your lips to part open. His touch was surprisingly warm, and (unsurprisingly) much softer than Steve’s had been.

He paused, inhaling, then leaning forward and spitting into your mouth. You both let out soft moans as you watched his saliva trail from his lips and onto your tongue.

You felt degraded, but God, it was perfect. You swallowed without being asked, surprisingly desperate for Jonathan in a way that was previously dormant within your desires.

“Cinnamon,” you answered, unsure how to describe the sweet-spiciness of Jonathan that lingered on your taste buds.

“Well, yeah, only ‘cause Byers was eating Hot Tamale candies when we started the movie,” Steve smirked, attempting to find any excuse that would belittle Jonathan.

“That’s true. He does love those things,” Nancy affirmed, leaning back in to lick a long strip up the side length of Jonathan’s cock. The man groaned, immediately wrapping his thighs around her face in need. “But he kinda tastes like that all over, too.”

Steve rolled his eyes, running a finger through your folds again to keep you nice and wet. “Yeah, but Byers has nothing on Princess.”

Nancy sighed. Steve is always trying to make everything a competition. 

“Really? What’s she taste like?”

Steve paused for a second, conflicted between the jealousy that would undoubtedly come with sharing you, and the pride that comes with showing off your perfect body. His perfect body. 

With that, Steve scooched (reluctantly) from his current position, offering your glistening cunt to Nancy. 

You propped yourself up from the pillow and onto your arm, watching as Nancy removed herself from Jonathan’s legs and toward your center.

This was very new territory for you. Steve had been the only one who had been lucky enough to have the opportunity to eat you out - until now.

Unsure of what to do, Steve gently caressed your outer thigh for reassurance.

“Be a good girl for Daddy and let Nancy taste you, yeah? I just wanna show you off a bit.”

You managed to nod, watching as Nancy kneels into your swollen, pink folds. She kept her eyes focused on you through her long lashes.

You knew you were supposed to be freaking out given the circumstances, but all you felt were flutters within your stomach. You almost couldn’t look Nancy in the eyes, hoping she couldn’t see the pink hue that settled into your cheeks.

You averted your gaze, fear starting to settle in. Sure, you were open-minded; this whole night had dissolved into a mess of newness. But this? This could ruin more than a decade of friendship. Your best friend and someone with whom you were closer than some family members. You wanted to stop, but not nearly as much as you wanted to push forward.

A glance at the tv showed the Princess character being fucked by a horde of people in some medieval brothel room; very much not helping your nerves.

Jonathan adjusted himself, pulling you against his chest similar to how Steve held earlier. He could sense your anxiety, wanting to give support.

“Watch it, Byers,” Steve warned. “I’m already whoring her out too much as it is.”

Jonathan said nothing, placing sweet kisses up and down your neck. One of his hands reached around you to palm your tits that had long escaped the confines of your lingerie, finally unclamping the bra and tossing it aside.

The warmth of Nancy’s breath hitting the cool slick of your folds made you feel dizzy. Any words of hesitation caught in your throat as you and Jonathan watched his girlfriend give kitten licks to your dripping pussy. 

You hummed, surprised at the soft pleasure of her affection soothing the previous sting left by Steve’s stubble that had harshly rubbed against your sensitive folds. It was the same, but it was different. A good kind.

Nancy took your vocalization as approval, continuing to move her tongue further into you with each lick. The warmth of her tongue almost suffocates your clit as you let out a whiny moan that Jonathan attempts to cover up once more by kissing you passionately once again.

Steve grumbled in dissatisfaction, upset that the scene in front of him was also awakening new feelings, turning him on drastically. His cock was now painfully hard within his jeans. Steve palmed at his bulge, itching for any sort of relief, but held his tongue. He had bigger priorities right now, including your comfort. Your pleasure. Your safety.

“Put two fingers in her. My Princess loves riding Daddy’s fingers.”

Nancy did as told, inserting two slender fingers into your pussy with ease. You moaned into Jonathan’s mouth, as he barely allowed you time to catch your breath.

While Steve’s fingers were warm and thick inside of you, Nancy’s were cold, and much longer, able to reach further than you were expecting. You swore she could feel the knot-like tension building in your stomach. Nancy began fucking her fingers into you as they curled around your velvet walls in search of that spot you oh-so needed for her to push.

After a gentle push on the head from Steve, Nancy leaned down, now lapping at your cunt. She continued, eyes staring directly up at you and Jonathan before her pouty lips pulled back, glistening with your arousal.

“She does taste good. You’re right for once, Steve.”

Steve smirked, satisfied. “Yeah, it’s addicting. If I’m not fucking her, I want babygirl to be riding my face at all times.”

Jonathan groaned into your shoulder, hands now holding your hips. He desperately pushed his hard member against your thigh, hoping for any sort of friction that could provide relief for the constant teasing Nancy had shown him earlier.

“Would you like that, Jonathan? To let me ride your face while you touch yourself?” Nancy offered, already knowing the answer.

Jonathan nodded eagerly, letting you go and moving back to lie down on the bed.

“For once, Byers and I want the same thing,” Steve said, pushing Nancy out of your thighs and back to the side of the bed she’d been previously occupying.

Steve had been very good and very patient while Nancy and Jonathan had some fun with you. But that was enough. He was done sharing for now and needed you back with him immediately. 

Steve stood from the floor, making his way back to the top of Nancy’s bed. He flopped down onto the pastel pillows, rather excited for what was to come.

All you could do was smile at the silliness that was Steve’s constant jealousy, giving him a tender kiss as the essence of your arousal still lingered on his lips.

⋆｡°✩

Nancy began to strip.

First to come off was her blouse, which she pulled off so quickly that one of the buttons caught in her hair. Next was her simple bra, revealing her small breasts, which you’d seen many times before.

What was surprising was when her shorts fell to her ankles, revealing that she was wearing no panties underneath. Just her naked cunt.

“What?” She asked you.

You scoffed playfully, “You planned this whole damn thing. The movie choice, suggesting the lingerie, no underwear…”

Nancy only shrugged, giving no direct answer. You stripped off the useless garter belt and thong that you still had on before climbing up on the bed.

Steve smiled, still happy as ever. You couldn’t help but relax a bit more, seeing how sweet and eager he always was to please you. You swung your leg over Steve, now gently sitting on his chest.

“You think Steve will let you me ride your face?” Nancy asked lowly, her eyes big and hopeful as she positioned herself over Jonathan’s face.

“NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Steve snapped. “Babygirl is a pillow princess. You both only have the privilege of givin’ her pleasure. I am the only one who she can please, capeche?” 

Nancy rolled her eyes at Steve before turning her focus back to Jonathan, who already had his tongue out, almost panting in anticipation.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the usual possessiveness Steve had over you before following suit, wrapping your thighs around Steve’s head, hovering your pussy over his face.

“Nuh uh, pretty girl. Turn around.”

“What?” you paused. “Do you want me to watch the movie while we do this or something?”

Steve frowned, unamused. “I want to eat you out, baby. Dear god I really, really want to. Just… my dick will fall clean off my body soon from lack of attention.”

“Jesus,” you laughed, reaching back to feel Steve’s obvious bulge desperately trying to escape through the front of his jeans. You obliged, turning around so that your pussy and ass were now in Steve’s face.

You quickly unzipped Steve’s jeans, slim fingers pulling down his boxers to reveal the massive length within his pants. Always intimidating, but you supposed it was a blessing and a curse to have a boyfriend so well endowed.

Nancy was already one step ahead of you both, wasting no time for herself.

“Open your mouth,” Nancy commanded Jonathan, whose mouth was now open wide. “Good job,” she purred, leaning down and spitting into his mouth. 

At least you now know where he got the spit kink from.

Jonathan’s soft ‘thank you’ was barely heard as Nancy immediately pushed her soaking cunt onto Jonathan’s face. She moved back and forth, grinding into Jonathan.

Steve took it upon himself to start as well, pushing his own face into your pussy. 

“Oh fuckkk, Steve!” You gasped, trying your best to focus as Steve greedily pushed his nose up against your ass. His tongue was already buried deep inside you, rough hands on your hips in an attempt to have you rock back into his face before pushing your mouth forward onto his cock. 

You started licking up and down Steve’s shaft in an attempt to lubricate it enough to fit in your mouth. You truly loved nothing more than feeling Steve fucking his cock deep into your throat; you really did. However, it wasn’t just the length that always made such attempts rather tricky, but also the sheer power he held over you in positions like this, even when you were on top. Steve was always in control.

Steve continued, using his tongue to finally fuck your hole that he so nicely teased earlier. His palms were resting on your asscheeks, spreading them open greedily so he could have a better view of every single part of you. 

Steve’s, “keep going, babygirl. You’re doing so well,” seemed to sync up perfectly with Nancy’s “such a whore, Jonathan. Being so good,” creating a symphony of encouragement you didn’t know you needed.

You could feel Steve growl into your pussy when you stroked him in a circular motion, your mouth sucking softly on his balls as he was desperately pushing himself up and into your throat. You began to lick around his swollen head, being mindful to apply some pressure over the slit, where precum was already greeting you. 

Steve moaned into your cunt, vocalizing his pleasure as he swirled your pussy around his face, practically smashing your body back into him. The way he’d maneuver your hips so he could see your asscheeks bounce above him made you feel silly for even worrying about lingerie earlier.

You peeked over to see Nancy having the time of her life, bouncing herself as Jonathan kept his tongue sticking out, flattened for her to ride and use to her own pussy's pleasure. Jonathan’s arms were being held over his head by Nancy, his cock still hard. 

He apparently hadn’t earned the pleasure of touching himself yet; poor thing.

Jonathan’s voice cracked as he looked up at Nancy, almost on the verge of tears. “Keep going. Ride my face harder, please.”

You felt a strong sensation flip-flop within your stomach as Steve pulled his tongue out from between your folds, quickly running it over your pink asshole, something he frequently did to draw your attention back to him during sex. 

And it always works.

You immediately went back to stroking and sucking as much as you could handle of his cock, moans becoming louder, the vibrations pleasing Steve’s length stuffed down your throat.

He responded with his own grunt, pulling you back onto him, shaking his face into your pulsing clit once more. 

A surprising, sharp slap was felt on your right asscheek.

A quick glance to the other side of the bed revealed Nancy, still bucking into Jonathan’s face, but her hand now gripping onto ass. 

“You have to be…” she paused to catch her breath between waves of pleasure. “You have to be quiet for us, okay?” she lectured softly, that same tone she always said so lovingly to you. 

All you could do was nod, muffling any remaining noises with Steve’s cock in your mouth. You could feel Nancy’s delicate fingers still on your ass, helping to guide you onto Steve’s face.

“That’s it… good girl,” Nancy praised with a smile.

Her words must have annoyed Steve, causing a gentle bite to your clit in protest. 

Nancy continued. “You and Jonathan are being such good little whore’s, letting us use you both how we please.”

You and Jonathan let out muffled whimpers of agreement, both of your mouths preoccupied with pleasing your lovers.

Steve pulled his tongue back, just enough to mumble words into your pussy. His warm breath came out in huffs as he tried to steady it.

“Such a pretty little pink pussy, all for Daddy. I feel you tightening on my tongue, yeah? Gonna come for me, Princess? Wanna taste more of you. This cunt belongs to me, yeah? Mmmm. God, I love you so much. My hole to use however I like…Come for Daddy; it’s the least you can. Come for me. Now!”

Steve’s words always did you in, sending you over the edge. Your pussy quivered, becoming slick with cum as Steve continued licking, and grotesque noises filled the room.

Your orgasm caused Nancy to reach her own, slowing herself down as she continued to slide across Jonathan’s face. “Good job, yesss. Feels sooo good,”  she chuckled, riding the high of elation on his face.

She finally released Jonathan’s hands from above, who immediately started jerking himself while Nancy remained seated.

After a moment to catch his breath, Steve playfully tossed your leg off of his chest, causing your body to fall towards the center of the bed. 

Nancy reluctantly dismounted Jonathan, who stopped touching himself with a soft sigh. You turned towards him, trying not to laugh at the hazy bliss that seemed haunt his features.

“Your eyes are all big and dilated,” Jonathan spoke, his voice hoarse.

“So are yours.” You smiled at him. 

You two broke into a small fit of giggles, a seemingly innocent moment shared, before Jonathan leaned in for another kiss. You could taste cinnamon once again, now combined with the slick of Nancy still on his lips. 

You were only torn away when Steve roughly grabbed your ankles, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed. 

“You’re lucky I’m even lettin’ you kiss the bastard, babe. Byers doesn’t deserve it. You’re mine, remember?” Steve snarked, his words low and steady in a way that signified he was not happy.

“No one can use this-” He pushed his finger into your mouth, hooking your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. “-or this-” he continued, pulling the finger out of your mouth and pushing it into your already aching hole, your pussy wrapping around him. “-but me. Got it, Princess?”

You nodded as Steve pulled his finger back. “Yes.”

Steve placed a kiss on your lips, a soft reward for your submission.

Nancy tsked, lying down on the bed beside you, legs hanging over the edge. “There goes Steve, again. Always greedy with his toys.”

“Damn right I am, Wheeler.” 

You couldn’t help but get lost in Nancy’s blue eyes again as she smiled at you. The weirdness and confusion from earlier are now a distant memory.

Nancy offered you a soft smile of assurance before her expression changed into one of immense pleasure. The grunts and whimpers from Jonathan telling you he was finally allowed to slide his cock into her.

Steve followed, flipping your legs up onto his shoulders. He eagerly began to press the head of his cock into your wetness, letting out a soft moan at your warmth.

Just like earlier, Steve loved nothing more than to make you a desperate mess beneath him. The way his cock stretched you open was a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, the sting always addicting. He let out rough grunts as he would pull back, the hot air of the room touching your swollen cunt before he’d plunge deep into you once more.

You couldn’t help the whine that would escape your lips as he patiently filled you up, making you take his cock one inch at a time.

“There you are, Princess. You’re still so tight for me even after all that stretchin’. Your pussy must just love my cock, yeah? Don’t worry, shhh. Just let me keep…” He pulled back out before pushing back in deeper. “-just let me take my time. I know… I know...”

Eventually, Steve had achieved his aim, bottoming out within you. You didn’t even attempt to muffle the loud moan that escaped, basking in the feeling of having your love so far inside of you. So warm, so filled.

He stilled his length for a moment more, allowing you the much-needed time to adjust, the weight of his cock always making a bit of your cervix bulge from your abdomen. 

“There we go. See? First comes a bit of pain, now you get all the pleasure your pretty pussy can take, babygirl. Always doing such a good job for me.” He praised, brown eyes full of nothing but adoration. 

The way Steve paid attention to your body and your needs made you feel like the only woman in the world. You were brought into a completely different headspace, only being drawn back to Earth from the intense sounds of your best friend getting railed next to you. 

The contrast was like night and day. Where Steve was eager to make the moment last, Jonathan was just… eager.

Steve began his slow movements again, the burning pain dissolving into a dull pleasure as your bodies responded to one another. 

Pull out. Your pussy squeezed desperately around his length, tempting Steve’s cock back inside. Push in. 

The feeling of Steve twitching inside you always sent a shiver down your spine. The intimacy between you two intensified as Steve now stood on his toes, his balls slamming greedily against your pussy in an effort to get every inch of himself inside of you.

“Oh, Steveee!” you leaned back against the bed, closing your eyes in pleasure. 

For Steve, that simply wouldn’t do, the attention whore he is.

Steve’s fingers brush through your locks, gripping your hair. He angled your head up so you could better see his length disappear into your dripping core.

“Look at me. Watch how good your pussy takes me, baby. S-so tight. It needs me, yeah? Needs me to fill it and use it and taste it-... and…” He trailed off, beginning to lose his focus. “God, you’re mine. Mine, mine, fucking mine.”

You rolled your head back again as Steve let your hair go.

“Bad girl, what did I say about lookin’ at Daddy?” he growled. Steve instantly grabbed your wrists, stretching your arms over your head, holding your wrists captive in his grip. 

Your gaze fell back to Nancy, who had been watching you this whole time. She continued being fucked in missionary by Jonathan while Steve fucked into you.

“Having fun?” Nancy mouthed.

“So much fun,” you mouthed back.

Steve picked up the pace once more, his hair sticking to his forehead as he planted sloppy kisses on your inner thighs. Your legs began to tremble, your second orgasm nearing.

“Not yet, babygirl. Daddy’s almost there,” Steve growled, picking up the pace to the point he was panting.

You whined softly in annoyance, trying your best to remain patient.

Cold fingers softly made their way over your hips, down your cunt, and onto your clit, as Nancy started rubbing gentle circles. One hand in your pussy, the other rubbing her own clit.

Steve grunted, “Hands to yourself, N-Nance. That’s my job.”

“I’m just helping. If you’re busy holding her wrists, what else is a girl to do?” Nancy said.

You started pushing yourself further onto Steve’s cock in an effort to have the head of his length continue to pound against your cervix. The feeling of Nancy continuing to massage circles in your clit, combined with the pressure that was building in your stomach from Steve, was threatening to have you done for.

“Mmph…Now?” You whined to Steve, glassy eyes begging for any sort of relief.

Steve sighed, clearly agitated. “Ask correctly,” he snapped, barely holding it together himself.

“May I come now, pretty please?”

“Yeah. Of course you can. You’ve been so good. Come for Daddy, Princess.” He groaned, running out of breath.

With the help of Steve’s magic words once again, you both finished together, riding your orgasms until the high melted reality around you.

Steve rutted into you.

“Fuckkkk. Fillin’ you up nice and pretty, yeah - my babies. My pussy. You’re stuck with Daddy. Oh Jesus-… mmmm,” he groaned, almost collapsing as he pressed his weight down and on top of your body. 

He began pressing messy kisses to your salty skin, continuing to rut his cock as far as possible up into your cervix. You closed your eyes as Steve’s hot seed filled you up completely, cum sticking to your thighs. You couldn’t help but bask in the warm satisfaction that had settled into your aching, used core. 

Steve stalled, pushing in only a few more half-hearted pumps before finally pulling out.

He immediately went into boyfriend mode, scrambling to lie beside you on Nancy’s bed, pulling you up into his chest. You grabbed onto the shirt he was still wearing.

“Love you so much, baby. You doin’ okay? No worries, you’re safe,” he whispered into your hair. The sweet nothings mixed with his soothing voice began to calm your soul, slowing your pulsing clit.

It seemed Nancy had found her way into her own world of pleasure, riding out her orgasm with Jonathan beside you.

“Holy fucking shit, so hot. Yes, keep going, Jonathan. Don’t-don’t stop.”

Jonathan didn’t have to be told twice, continuing the same pace, clearly exhausted. His whole body was trembling, and the beautiful sounds he was making only hinted at the absolute whining mess he always was. 

Once Nancy seemed to settle under the same dissipating euphoria after her orgasm, she finally said the magic words Jonathan had been wanting to hear all damn night.

“Mkay, baby boy. Come for me-”

Jonathan pushed himself quickly into Nancy’s cunt, coming almost instantly at the command. His loudest whines yet fell from his lips, so vulnerable. Jonathan’s pace began to slow, his face full of relief as he finally pulled out.

Glassy-eyed and absolutely spent, Jonathan immediately crawled onto Nancy, seeking warmth and undoubtedly words of affection.

The four of you relished in the moment, coming down from your orgasms in the peace of Nancy’s room.

The movie you had previously started finished long ago, leaving only the azul glow of the tv default screen to show the contentment that settled on your faces.

The moment was immediately ruined by the extremely aggressive slamming on Nancy’s door, causing the four of you jump in fear.

“TURN DOWN YOUR GODDAMN MOVIE, NANCY!! I HAVE FRIENDS OVER!!” 

Mike Wheeler was not happy, the doorknob shaking violently as he tried to enter. Thank god Jonathan was thoughtful enough to lock the door behind him earlier tonight.

Nancy pushed out a half-shout, yelling back in what her strained voice could manage.

“shIT! SoRRY, MikEY!”

You could hear Mike's heavy footsteps retreat down the stairs, leaving you shocked at what had just happened.

The surprise visitor, the sex, the horrible movie. It would take at least a few days for your brain to recover.

“Well, I wasn’t really expecting a second dose of adrenaline so quickly,” you teased. 

Steve grumbled in agreement, pressing kisses into your hair.

“I thought you said the house was empty, Nance.”

“It was empty. I can’t control Mike and his stupid friends. They always end up back here,” Nancy sighed, scratching Jonathan’s back as he remained happily sprawled out on top of her.

Steve’s hand reached towards the night’s stand, grabbing a handful of Milk Duds he’d been snacking on earlier. He brought them to your lips, feeding you one at a time.

“Hey, looks like movie night was a success! What was that movie supposed be about, again?” Steve asked.

“A princess who lives a double life as a prostitute,” Jonathan mumbled into Nancy’s skin.

“Oh yeah,” Steve nodded, his finger hooking into your jaw gently to have you look at him. “Dumb movie. You’re the only princess I care about.”

You leaned in to kiss him, feeling the bed dip as Nancy began moving Jonathan’s tangle of slim limbs off of her in an attempt to stand.

“Anyone hungry? I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

“You’re always hungry,” Jonathan smiled.

“It’s 10 pm. Mel’s Diner on Main should still be open,” you suggested, a common spot you and the Party frequented after many late-night crawls.

Nancy nodded, standing up to stretch before searching for her clothes.

The rest of you followed. Steve was first to find your bra, which had been half-hazardously tossed onto one of Nancy’s lampshades in the middle of your… events.

“It did look nice on you, ya know? I was more than surprised.” Steve smiled, helping you put the bra on.

You began venturing around the room for your thong, as the others were now fully dressed. Unable to find it, you shimmied your way into your jeans and the t-shirt you’d worn upon arriving at Nancy’s this afternoon.

You’d find them eventually. Right now, salty fries and a gluttonous milkshake were very much your priority.

⋆｡°✩

The floaty feeling in your head didn’t really go away.

This made it rather difficult for the four of you to give your best efforts to remain quiet. You tiptoed through the hallway and down the stairs. The front door wasn’t far. A few steps to freedom.

You could hear the kids chatting in the kitchen, allowing you a quick getaway if all went well.

It was somewhat expected that Steve’s weight would cause one of the steps to groan loudly, immediately summoning Mike and Dustin to gather at the landing.

“Hey, what the hell? You all were up there watching a movie?!” Mike asked, clearly confused.

As far as Mike could remember, Nancy never held movie nights in her room, always in the living room with the larger tv and always with many failed attempts at shushing the campaign night he held in the basement.

Mike’s eyes met each of yours, assessing the pink flush that still lingered on your faces. You had no doubt your mascara had smeared a bit during your physical activity.

Nancy scoffed. “So, having people in my room is a crime, now? I wasn’t aware you owned the damn house.”

Mike’s expression soured, sensing unusually high tension.

“What were you watching up there that sounded so…” Mike trailed off.

“Sexually explicit,” Dustin offered. “We could totally hear, like, muffled moaning through the ceiling vents.” 

Steve had planned for such accusations, having the foresight to grab the movie from Nancy’s tv before leaving. He shoved the tape into Mike’s hand.

“It’s called Passions of the Undone, if you want to be so nosy. It’s a romance story that isn’t made to be viewed by innocent eyes like yours,” he smirked.

“You could’ve just watched it down here,” Mike snapped back, refusing to let the moment go, much to your dismay. “We can watch R-rated movies now. Robin used to rent them to us all the time at Family Video.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Robin. This shit here is NC-17, kid, which means ‘No Children’. And you two, as far as I’m  concerned, are children, now and forever, whether you like it or not.” Steve huffed victoriously, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Was the moaning because of zombies? Is there lots of gore?” Dustin asked. 

“What? No, Hernderson. What romance movie has ‘lots of gore’? Sometimes, adults just want to enjoy things in private, in the comfort of a bed. Okay?”

Mike flipped the tape over and read the film description aloud. 

“‘ Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark'…okay yeah. Gross. That explains the weird-ass moaning noises.”

Mike shoved the tape back towards Steve, clearly satisfied with the explanation.

“WAIT WAIT! Does this Elizabeth chick go topless?” Dustin asked eagerly. “Cause I totally have a homework assignment due Monday that requires watching a European erotica film right nowwwwww.”

“You’ll never know,” Nancy added, ushering the three of you out the door. “We’re off to Mel’s. Don’t burn the house down,” Nancy warned Mike, slamming the front door shut.

The mood seemed to instantly shift again, lighter now without the aggressive questioning. The cool air felt nice against your warm skin. The stars were out, and Hawkins felt even more peaceful during quiet hours like this.

Jonathan gestured towards his sedan, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.

“You know, one of us is going to have to actually watch Passions of the Undone. The boys will talk to Robin, and Robin will bombard us with scene-by-scene questions because we finally took one of her film recommendations,” you chuckled softly.

“God fuckin’ damnit, you’re right,” Steve shook his head fondly, sliding the movie securely into his denim jacket. “Now I am the one with the homework assignment of watching a European erotica before my next Squawk shift. Could be worse, I guess.”

Steve’s hand rested on your ass, giving it a brief squeeze before helping you into the backseat of Jonathan’s car - the gentleman he was.

“No panties, babe? I know Mel’s ain’t fancy, but they probably still require decency,” Steve teased, giving you a playful swat before sitting beside you, buckling your seatbelt.

With a soft smile, you leaned back into the seat.

You hadn’t been too worried about the whereabouts of your cheap lingerie until now, when you spotted the thin line of a familiar black lace waistband peaking out of Nancy’s shorts.

The lace was clearly on display for you while she bent down to sit in the front passenger seat beside Jonathan. Your used panties. What you’d just soaked through maybe less than half an hour ago. What Steve had maneuvered off of you with his tongue, now being worn so casually as if normal for best friends.

It was sick -weird. So incredibly Nancy to pull such a power move right under your nose. You knew if you ever wanted them back, it’d be up to you to pry them off, Steve and Jonathan be damned.

Nancy turned to face you, seeing your bewildered gaze exactly where she was hoping it’d be.

For the first time in a long time, you were the one finally gawking at her.