#crosspost

sings a chorus out of tune~🎶

your my one call

jail! nett, bsf! reader, slight angst, bailing out, nett is so rich oml, mostly fluff, no smut blah blah sorry if this is bad i’ve never been to jail.

“hey,” his voice rings. a random number. “nett, it’s two in the fucking morning…” you mumble, your eyes still closed from sleep. “i know, ma. i got a problem…”

you sigh. being the best friend of nettspend isn’t easy. drugs, alcohol, speeding, late nights. none of it is easy, but you do it for him. “what did you do, now?”

you hear his tears over the phone. “i really fucked up…” he swallows. “they got me in this cell, ma.” you groan. “come on, tell me your joking.” he sniffles. “i didn’t even do that much… i was just speeding, and they caught me without my license.”

you huff, growing more frustrated. “i told you, you should’ve gotten-“ “i know! okay?! i know i should’ve listened… but i need you to bail me out…” he pleads. “nett. you know i don’t got that kind of money…”

“i know- i’ll just give you my banking shit or something…” you smirk. “hmm, what do i get in return?”

“anything, ma. i’ll buy you a fuckin car if you really need it.” he pleads, getting more desperate. “fine…” you mutter.

gunner recalls the numbers, giving you them and anything you’d need. surprising that he’s actually remembering these things with the state he’s in.

“i’ll be there by 1.” you simply say, hanging up the phone.

—————————————————————————

after the call, gunner picks at his fingers, he tries to read, he tries to socialize. nothing. just the image of you, he imagines the power you’d have, you could leave him there if you really wanted.

you wouldn’t, would you? “gunner shepardson.” the intercom blares. he looks up, nervous already, is it time to take more of his things? “god, please let this misery be over…” he mutters before walking to the front of his cell.

a guard is unlocking the door, a pair of cuffs and a key in hand. “someone’s here. visitation.” the guard grunts. “is- is it her?” he looks up at the guard, towering over him. “can’t say.”

as they walk the long halls, the guard smiles at him. “i’m not really supposed to talk to you guys, but i know how it is, kid. it’s hard to not get wrapped up in this…” gunner nods, sniffling. “man- i really hope it’s her.”

they reach the front area and gunners face fucking lights up. for the first time since he’s been in there, he’s got some hope. “my jobs over, but you better try to stay out of this dump.”

you look at him through the glass, smiling. you really wished you hadn’t had to get him out, but your glad he called you.

“bail for shepardson!” the front desk lady shouts. he looks up as the door is unlocked.

“hey ma, i really- uh- thank you.” his voice cracks. “uh- can i hug you?” you chuckle. “of course, gunner…”

he sobs. he fucking sobs. to be honest with yourself, you’ve never seen gunner really cry. he’s teared up when talking about his dad, or his past, but never like this.

“i love you, ma.” he sniffles, whispering in your ear.

—————————————————————————

later that day:

you and gunner are sitting on your couch. you two ordered pizza, and decided to watch a movie. “so, why’d you call me?”

“your my one call. nobody ever picks up like you do…” he mumbles.

you pull him tighter into your arms, placing a kiss on his forehead. “maybe we should be more than friends…”

anyway guys, should i make this a series???

summary: the fortress of meropide isn't exactly open for business 24/7, and you certainly aren't going to be inconspicuous if you sneak out of your parents' estate whenever you feel like it. as such, wriothesley rarely gets to see you. when he does, he feels like he's meeting you for the first time all over again. themes: noble!reader, disapproving bourgeosie parents, flustered!wriothesley, porn with feelings, smut and fluff, riding dick, lap sex, gentle to rough, creampie, aftercare, they're in love your honor ♡ word count: 1.7k | ao3 ♡ (one of author's personal favorites)

It wasn’t often that Wriothesley had the immense pleasure of being in your company.

“I know it’s not much compared to the blends you drink on the surface, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

You gave him a smile as you shook your head. With your teacup held preciously between your palms, you sent his nervous heart beating again. Glancing down into his own cup, he hid from your sweet gaze.

“Don’t speak on it that way, Wriothesley,” you said, your voice light and airy. “I always enjoy the tea you brew for me while I’m here. It’s one of the things I look forward to most when I’m given the chance to visit you.”

He felt warmth pool in his cheeks, growing hotter the longer he stared. In an effort to appear nonchalant, he threw his gaze off towards the gilded walls of the fortress, drumming his fingers against his thigh in an attempt to calm himself.

“...Pardon me for asking, but I’m curious to hear what else you look forward to down here, Mademoiselle. All in the name of providing you with a better experience, of course.”

You laughed. He hoped you couldn’t see the fervent blush burning at his face.

“You’re sweet, Wri, but you don’t have to change a single thing about how you receive me. I’m satisfied just getting a chance to be by your side.”

He was forced to cover the bottom half of his face behind his sweaty palm, lest you bear witness to the Duke of Meropide falling into shambles over you. Your eyes widened at first, but they were quick to soften out when you let out a melodic giggle. Placing your tea cup onto the table, you slid the ceramic platter over to his side of it. He blinked when you stood.

You crossed the room, moving like a siren as your soft skirts flowed behind you. Wriothesley felt his throat tighten as the distance between you lessened, and when he felt your soft fingertips on the back of his hand, he immediately went slack.

“Why are you so nervous?” you asked, your eyes twinkling with mirth.

“You’re hot,” Wriothesley blurted, words flowing out of his mouth like water out of an overturned bucket. “I mean. You’re really pretty. And I missed you. I, uh…I always lose my composure around you because of that.”

You sat down beside him, gripping his hand in yours. Your eyelashes pressed together as you smiled, and with your eyes closed, you directed his palm to your cheek.

Wriothesley’s breath hitched. Your eyes slid open, and for the first time in a long time, he felt chills.

“You’re funny, Wri. I missed you too, but there’s no need for you to be so shy around me.”

A red blush spread across your cheeks. You slowly moved his hand down your cheek, across your neck, and right against your breast.

Wriothesley’s eyes widened sharply, his jaw snapping shut. He didn’t understand your intentions at first, but then he felt something hammering into his palm. It was your heart—racing a mile a minute in synchrony with his own.

You grinned with your bright white teeth. “It’s okay. I get nervous around you, too.”

You had to know what you did to him when you spoke like that.

It had been months since he last got the chance to touch you like this.

“Is this okay…?”

Your voice was a hushed whisper in the darkness. Wriothesley could scarcely hear it over the beating of his heart, hammering away at his eardrums as it robbed his lungs of breath. Nodding his head, which dizziness swam within, he squeezed your thighs harder.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, his voice hoarse. “Babe, this is perfect. You’re perfect.”

You closed your eyes, and the smile that graced your lips just about killed him. With a sensual rock of your hips, you continued to ride him, your hands placed to his chest to provide yourself a touch of leverage. With each meeting of your skin to his, Wriothesley felt himself pulsate inside you.

This was too much and yet—not enough. His hips ached with the desire to thrust, but you looked so pretty on top of him, so pleased. Digging his teeth into his lower lip, Wriothesley focused on restraint as his tender-eyed lover touched him like no one else could.

“Wri…can I kiss you?”

Wriothesley nodded eagerly. Tilting his head back, he offered you his lips, allowing you to close the distance as you saw fit. When your shy tongue flicked at his mouth, he immediately opened.

Your hot breath melted on his tongue. His hands stroked up your thighs, hungry to pin you in place, but remained respectful. He kissed you gentle—no biting, no force—and felt his dick continue to throb inside of you.

You pulled away first, panting through your semi-parted lips. With heady eyes, you watched him as you moved your hips in a deep, circular motion.

“Fuck,” he groaned instinctively. Then, ears burning, stammered, “Sorry.”

You only laughed. “Remember when I said you don’t have to be shy…?”

Wriothesley swallowed hard. Sliding his hands further across the length of your thighs, he meekly settled on your soft ass.

You laughed again. After pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth, you said, “You won’t hurt me, Wri.”

“I know, I just…” He stared longingly after your plush lips. “You’re precious to me. I don’t want to be rough.”

He watched your lips as they parted to release a shaky breath. Your teeth dug into your lower lip, and when he looked up to meet your gaze, he noticed the sloped arch of your brows.

“Sorry, Wri,” you half-said, half-whimpered. “I think I’m…already cumming.”

Fuck, were you sexy. Wriothesley’s face blazed hotter than a pyro catalyst as he watched you whine in his arms.

“It feels really good,” you said strainedly.

“Babe,” he stammered, his fingers groping harder at your ass. “Do you mind if I…?”

You shook your head. Hooking your arms around his neck, you leaned over his shoulder and let him support your body weight.

Wriothesley let out a hot pant. Gripping you firmly, he slowly but surely moved his hips upwards to meet yours.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, thrusting up into your wet hole with a soft squelch. “Babe, can I—?”

“Do it,” you said, interrupting him. Gripping his hair in your fist, you said, “I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

“Okay,” he said breathily, his hips moving a touch faster, a little harder. “Promise you’ll tell me.”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” he repeated, closing his eyes.

Fucking up into you with a newfound sense of vigor, he felt your arms tense, but you said nothing. He tried to be gradual, but when his tip kissed the tight lip of your cervix, he could no longer hold back. Stifling a groan, he started to pound into your cunt so hard, the sound of it echoed against the walls of his office. Pressing his mouth to your shoulder, he laved his tongue across your salty skin before giving you a gentle bite.

You quivered in his touch. Whimpering his name, you nuzzled into him.

“Fuck, babe,” he groaned, his voice coming out coarser than he had intended for it to. “You’re so good for me. So fuckin’ tight.”

“Wri,” you croaked.

“Nn, I—,” his breath hitched, “can I cum in you, babe?”

“Fuck,” you, the perfect Mademoiselle of your family’s estate, said with no reserve. “Wri, you don’t have to ask.”

Too good for him. You were too fucking good for him.

His teeth dug into your shoulder when he abandoned rationality. Fucking you hard, splitting you open on him again, and again, and again, Wriothesley wanted nothing more than for you to cry his name when he did it.

He thrust into you so hard, he flinched. A moan bubbled from the fiery depths of his gut, his dick spasming inside the confines of your perfect heat. He curled his arms around your waist, holding you as tight as he could, and pounded into you again.

“Babe,” he said breathlessly, feeling the sweet wash of release. “You take my cum so well.”

Your walls tightened around him, clenching hard as you did exactly what he had hoped—with your head leaned back, you cried Wriothesley.

His mouth crashed into yours. As you came on his dick for the second time, his teeth clashed against yours, biting you, choking you with his tongue as he wrangled it with yours. Your hand rose to his face, and with an encouraging tilt of your head, you devoured him right back.

He took a sharp breath in, then a sharper one out. Shoulders relaxing, he pulled away to catch your gaze.

You were smiling from ear-to-ear. He couldn’t help but smile back.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Laughing, you dove back down for another kiss.

In the dimness of his bedroom, a string of words were uttered.

“I wish you’d stay with me.”

He hadn’t intended to say it, yet the words came falling from his lips like gravity had possessed them. Surprising himself, Wriothesley grasped your hand as you laid curled against him. Your breathing, slow from sleep just moments prior, subtly quickened. He watched your eyes slide open, then a frown tug at your features.

“…I wish I could stay with you, too,” you said. “I spend more time missing you than actually being by your side, and I abhor it…but my parents…”

“I know, babe, I know.” He pressed a quick kiss to your neck, avoiding the fresh love bites. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put a damper on things. Not even sure why I said anything, really.”

“It’s okay, Wriothesley.” You smiled again, tilting your head to look at him. “There’s no damper to be put on anything when I’m still in your arms. Nothing can bother me here.”

“...Oh, yeah?” he asked, feeling a smirk curl his lips. “You’re real smooth, aren’t you, Mademoiselle?”

You blinked, your face glowing. “S-smooth? Ugh…clearly I’m anything but.”

With a chuckle, Wriothesley laid back to kiss the top of your head. Nestling further against the curve of your body, he murmured, “You’re incredibly smooth, babe. And super cute too.”

You giggled. Squeezing his hand, you said, “Laying it on thick, huh?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re adorable.” He kissed your head once more. “I treasure you, you know?”

You grinned.

“Yes, Wri. I do.”

ׂ╰┈➤ SUCKER PUNCH! ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

Chapter One: Knuckle Sandwich

MIKE WHEELER X NOBODY!READER.

↳ in which a loser boy meets an even bigger loser girl.

𖤓 ch.1 CONTENTS: reader is described as chubby, unfortunately I do use Y/n for simplicity sake I’m sorry, mentions of bullying, awkwardness, friendlessness, eventual yearning, shitty nerd x grumpy loner trope, silliness, 80’s, physical violence, mentions of blood and slight gore..? (Scrapes n’ stuff like that), verbal bullying, talking poorly about oneself, 

𖤓NOTE: This doesn’t focus on canon lore for the most part, I wanted a more domestic approach because it’s simpler and can be seen as some sort of filler. This can either take place before or after the events of season 5, honestly it’s up to you guys?

I do want to turn this into some sort of actual fanfic, so I’m writing the ‘pilot’ chapter as some sort of test, just to see if you guys are interested! Anyways, I’ve always been a Mike girl, and I haven’t seen much for him here on tumblr OR anywhere else, so here goes nothing.

I WILL BE UPLOADING THIS TO WATTPAD AS WELL! I like wattpads formatting :)

CH.2

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

THE bell rang louder than hell, its shrill cry rattling against the white brick walls like it was echoing through a prison block. The sound bounced endlessly down the hallway, drilling straight into your skull and leaving a dull ache behind your eyes.

You snapped out of your bored trance in the back of Calc, blinking like you’d just woken up. Groggily, you reached for your bag, shoving folders and your pencil pouch inside without even looking. Loose papers bent and slid crookedly into the leather satchel, corners sticking out at awkward angles. You didn’t bother fixing them. You flipped the top closed, the worn clasp clicking softly, and stood as the rest of the class filed out.

The room emptied in single file, chairs scraping against linoleum and the teacher’s voice already lost to the noise outside. You followed, lingering behind just enough to avoid the rush, slipping into the hallway last.

The corridors were already packed—waves of denim jackets, varsity sweaters, and teased hair moving as one mass toward the cafeteria.

 Giggles, loud laughter, and half-yelled conversations bounced around you, the sound thick and overwhelming. Someone brushed past your shoulder, another nearly clipped your arm, but no one apologized.

Your face stayed flat, unreadable. One hand tightened around the strap of your old cross-body bag, the leather cracked and soft from years of use, as you shuffled through the crowd like a walking corpse. Step by step, you drifted toward your locker, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of floor cleaner and cafeteria food mixing in the air.

Lunch. Just another stretch of time to get through.

The clicking as you entered the locker code was drowned out by all the commotion behind you—friends gathering with friends, girlfriends gathering with boyfriends. What was different about the painful high school experience for your senior year? Absolutely butt fuck nothing. Everything was still the same, and unfortunately, that went for you too.

You swung the door open at the same time you opened your bag again, taking out irrelevant folders and a binder, those classes now over for the day. You replaced them with your English supplies, sighing as you slammed the door shut. God, you just wanted to go home. There was nothing you hated more than high school—this school, specifically.

It was a sudden slam against the metal lockers that made you want to daydream about moving far away, about getting a clean slate. What would be a nice state to live in? You debated California, maybe South Carolina. You looked at the perpetrator—the one responsible for thundercunting you into your poor locker.

Veronica… fucking Veronica Steel.

Her obnoxiously permed brunette curls and loud purple eyeshadow matched her bangles and comically large earrings. She let out a snide giggle, clutching her books to her chest while her posse behind her shared the same laugh.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself!” she started. You rolled your eyes. Not again. (Of course again.)

While you waited for her to continue, you picked up on a group of geeks walking around you and Veronica—one with a curly mullet muttering something to the likes of, “Jesus… lucky it isn’t us, huh?” with a slight lisp to his friends, an old Hellfire shirt on. Whatever. Yeah, you should be fucking ecstatic that the meanest bitch you’ve ever met doesn’t make your life a living hell.

Veronica’s grating voice snapped you out of your bitter jealousy—wishing you were able to just walk by like those randos were. You knew they got their fair share of bullying, but Veronica was just unmatched.

“You know how shitty these lockers are… it needed something heavy enough to keep it shut!” She laughed. She gave you a shrug, and suddenly you felt your blood boil over.

“Yeah, tell me about it. You must get it, though, right?” You faked a genuine reply.

She and her friends gave you a confused look, mixed with disgust, as if they were appalled you spoke back to them today.

“Yeah, might wanna lay off the protein bars, Steel… catching up to me there.” You shrugged, voice flat. She scoffed, looking to their friends as they immediately started to pamper her.

“She’s crazy, Ronnie!” “And you’re fit—don’t even trip.”

You rolled your eyes again, shaking your head. Can they just fucking move? You just wanted to eat lunch.

“Whatever, watch your back, lardass,” she spat. With a quick spin on her heels, her friends followed as she sauntered to her Spanish class. It was like a weight lifted off your shoulders. You couldn’t help but cringe at the pain in your jaw where it had collided with your locker door. 

Your fingers brushed the tender spot, brows knitting as the pain finally caught up with you. Your other hand dropped to your side. You didn’t look at anyone. You didn’t need to.

—

PURPLE and red bloomed in the reflective glass.

You leaned back in the chair behind the record shop counter, jaw tilted toward the reflection on the display shelf, the bruise splotched across your skin like it had been waiting for you to notice it. What a bitch. 

Blondie echoed throughout Afterglow Records. Your pen scratching at the crossword puzzle on today’s newspaper that the owner lazily tossed onto the counter that morning and hadn’t bothered to throw away. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, reflecting off the glass display cases that housed cassettes, tapes, and a few rare vinyl singles behind a counter cluttered with stickers and faded posters. The walls were a riot of color: band posters plastered from floor to ceiling—Metallica, The Cure, Madonna, Prince—some peeling at the edges, others layered over older promotions so thick the old paper sometimes cracked under your fingers. 

A rack of new releases spun lazily near the door, while deeper inside, the “used vinyl” bins were carefully organized but smelled faintly of dust and coffee, a testament to the shop’s age and character.

The vinyl on the record player at the counter scratched gently as ‘Call Me’ played throughout the shop. One thing you loved about working at Afterglow was that when you were clocked in, you got to play whatever you wanted. Your foot kicked to the beat as you propped your legs up on a clear space on the counter, pondering about who the Rolling Stones Frontman was… Six letter word…

You chewed your gum quizzically: mind blanking on the name. Before you could dig yourself farther into the hole that was a brain fart, you heard the bells above the entrance door jingle. You peeled your eyes off the back of the paper, clocking the familiar faces that walked in. 

It was the guys from earlier, the ones that thanked whoever was listening that they weren’t you. 

The door jingled as Lucas and Dustin stepped into Afterglow Records. “I still don’t get why you think Spider-Man’s better than Batman,” Lucas said, grabbing a comic off the display. “Because Spider-Man’s relatable! He’s funny, he messes up, and he actually has a life outside fighting bad guys,” Dustin shot back, holding up a copy of Amazing Spider-Man like it was sacred. Lucas rolled his eyes. 

“Relatable? Please. Batman has gadgets, style, and actual villains who aren’t just giant green lizards or random henchmen.”

Dustin waved his hands dramatically. “Style doesn’t mean anything if your life sucks all the time! Peter Parker actually matters to people!”

Their petty argument faded out as Mike looked automatically at who was behind the register—and to his surprise, it was you. The girl everyone had see around school but never spoke to. What was your name again? 

He swallowed as your eyes were already on his. Not in a strange way, no. He was a little taken aback at your expression. Your eyes were half-lidded, sharp and unimpressed, like you’d  seen too much and wasn’t interested in seeing more. He looked away, directing his focus to the posters on the wall.  You did the same, looking back at the paper you held in your hands. “Welcome in.” You yell out above the music with a flat tone. 

“Duuude, they have Megadeth cassettes!” Dustin exclaimed, running over to look through the displayed options. Lucas joined him, intrigued. Meanwhile, Mike just looked around, taking in the scenery. 

He wandered further into the shop, letting his fingers ghost over the edges of vinyl sleeves. Posters and stacks of records towered around him, each corner smelling faintly of dust and coffee, a mixture that somehow felt comforting. He picked up a few random albums, flipping them over to check the liner notes, occasionally glancing at the little display crates for anything that caught his eye.

Then he spotted it. A pristine copy of The Cure. He lifted it carefully, tracing the letters on the cover with his fingertips, appreciating the moody, dark artwork. A small smile tugged at his lips—this was exactly the kind of record he’d been hoping to find.

And then he noticed you. Behind the counter, you glanced up, eyes dry, cool and detached, but somehow…unflinchingly aware of him. Mike blinked. He hadn’t known you worked here. It didn’t even occur to him that someone like you could have a day job at a place like this—you seemed almost entirely removed from the world around you. That realization made him think: you were even farther down the loner tier than he had ever been. You weren’t paying them any mind, didn’t even glance at the argument Lucas and Dustin were having in the background. You existed in your own orbit, and Mike, holding The Cure like a treasure, stood there with his eyes glued to the bruise on your jaw. 

The next song on the record started to play as you went back to minding your business. 

Mike wheeler… One of Hawkins’ notorious nerds. You had remembered him from your freshman year science class, but the two of you never interacted. Both of you, including his friends, were treated like shit by  the Hawkins Hot-Shots: and yet, you weren’t even on his level. Not that you minded, but you knew realistically that it was pathetic. Whatever, you respected it: it was nice to know that even losers could find a group of people that they’d be close with. You were just waiting—watching the clock as if at a fixed point in time you’d be blessed with a nice group of friends. Bull.

His tall, lanky form walking up to the counter snapped you out of your thoughts. Looking up once more, and I mean really looking up—cuz damn this kid had gotten tall as the years went by—you swung and planted your feet on the floor, setting the paper down and sitting up straight. “So, The Cure?” You asked, offering out your hand to take the record. His brain stalls for a moment before he nodded. “Uh—yeah- yeah.” 

You gave him a look before putting the vinyl carefully into a paper bag. “It’ll be 10 bones.” You nod your head at his stupid Fanny pack. He gave you a confused look. “Uhm.. huh?” 

“…ten dollars?” You reply slowly giving him an expecting look, and you can see the way he mentally face palms at how he didn’t clock that. God, what was getting into him? Were you really that intimidating that he couldn’t focus, or what? Your voice snapped him out of it. “It’s a standard LP, new release. Since it isn’t used, it’s more.”

Mike couldn’t quite clock it, so he just shook his head and rushed to grab the ten from the pack. “Right—yeah, of course. Sorry..” he awkwardly stammered. He handed you the crumpled up cash and you gave him a look, judgey simply based on habit. You take it and give him change back, breaking the twenty. After you put the cash in the register, you slide the bag to him with a sigh. “S’all yours.” 

He nodded, eyes locked on you for a second too long as he took the bag. He looked over at his friends, now arguing about music instead of comics. He shook his head and looked back at you. “Uhm, I didn’t know you worked here.” He started, trying to make conversation.

He hated to admit it, but he kind of felt bad for you. He knew he shouldn’t: partially because he knew that being classified as a ‘loser’ wasn’t always a bad thing, and partially because he had a sneaking feeling that if you found out about the pity, you’d beat him up or something. 

That was kind of just the vibe you gave off. No one spoke to you, both because of your established social status and because of the intimidating, unapproachable energy that radiated off of you. Ever since kids started making fun of you for your weight or your lack of friends, you became colder and colder to the world. You weren’t sure why you were so put off all the time, but it had just grown to be normal. After so long, you didn’t even want friends anymore—so when freshman year came around, you sort of just gave in. If the rest of the world wants to label you as some tubby loner, then so be it. You were content.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You nodded slowly. “Yep..” you drawled out. “I’ve been working here since the middle of junior year… not too long I guess. Never see you come in, that’s probably why.” You point out. Mike knew you had a point: he never came in here, maybe once or twice because Nancy dragged him inside, but those were times where you weren’t working. 

A thick silence fell over the both you as he felt himself grow more and more awkward. Gosh, why was it hard to talk to you? Loser or not, he felt like you just were not interested in small talk… probably because you weren’t. 

He looked out the tall windows at the front of the shop, watching as people walked by in groups of at least three, holding shopping bags. A group of kids rode past on bikes down the road, getting in peoples ways. If it weren’t for the music, he’d be able to hear the way the older man with the brief case outside swore at them.

“Anyway… you ever do crosswords?”

Mike blinked. “Uh… yeah, I guess?”

You nudged the newspaper toward him, pointing at a question near the top of the page. “Frontman of the Rolling Stones. Six letters.”

He squinted at the puzzle, lips twitching as he thought. You leaned back again, arms crossed, watching him struggle without saying a word, the faint hum of Blondie in the background.

“…Jagger,” he said finally, almost like a whisper, as if afraid to be wrong.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with a subtle smirk, and the corner of your mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Correct,” you said dryly, almost as if it were an afterthought, before returning to your crossword and the soft scratch of the record spinning behind you. “Thanks, dweeb.”

The bell above the door jingled faintly somewhere in the distance, but you didn’t look up. Everything else—the world, the chaos, the noise—could wait. It was just you and your precious crossword puzzle. 

-

You went home that night like you always did, bomber jacket zipped up tight as the air crept colder. When you stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapped around you. From the kitchen, your mom called out over the sound of running water, finishing up the dinner dishes.

“There’s a plate in the fridge for you—meatloaf and carrots.”

She set a plate onto the drying rack beside the sink. You nodded out of habit, even though she couldn’t see you.

You dropped your bag onto the sofa and headed for the cramped kitchen, brushing past your mother as you opened the fridge. That’s when you noticed her freeze. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way she did a double take.

“For Christ’s sake—what happened to your face?” she gasped.

Before you could react, cold, damp hands were at your jaw and neck, tilting your head toward the light. She stared at the bruise like it had personally insulted her. You winced at the touch, pulling away with a grimace.

“Jeez, Mom, relax,” you muttered.

“I lost grip of a box at work today,” you lied quickly, peeling the plastic wrap from your plate and shoving it into the microwave. It’s fine. You could practically hear her calling bullshit in her head, and you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the slow rotation of the plate as the microwave hummed. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for the timer.

“What happened to whose face?” your dad’s voice cut in as he wandered into the kitchen.

“Your daughter’s,” your mom said, already turning back to the sink. “She dropped a box on herself.”

Your dad chuckled, reaching out to ruffle your hair. You clenched your jaw. God, you hated that. “Clumsy ass,” he teased, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Language,” your mom warned.

He cracked the bottle open and took a swig. “How was your day, kid?” You shrugged, exhaling through your nose. “It was okay. Got a good grade on the test I was freaking out about.” He patted your shoulder in approval before heading toward the living room. A moment later, you heard something thump against the floor.

Right. Your bag. You’d put it in his spot.

After you finished eating, you got ready for bed, letting the heat of the shower soak into your bones. The steam filled the bathroom as you stood there, shampoo worked deep into your scalp, scrubbing like you could wash the day away.

Your thoughts drifted back to earlier—to the Afterglow.

You’d seen him there. Mike. Yeah—Mike Wheeler. He and his friends from the D&D club. You sighed, letting your hands fall to your sides as you just stood there and let the water rain down on you, rinsing away the shampoo. You hadn't ever spoken to him, not that you could recall-- well, besides today. He was weird, you thought. Not necessarily in a bad way, just... Strange. Even with that in your head, you couldn't help but wish you had a group of friends like he did. It would be nice... And with that, you started to imagine what it would be like if you were, well... not you. You conjured up fake friends, put yourself in already existing friend groups. You hated that you did that, but sometimes that's the only way you could find comfort in your day to day life. You told yourself you didn't need friends, but deep down you yearned for connection.

You rinsed the soap from your hair, eyes closed, trying to push the memory down with the rest of the day’s garbage.

You had no idea then that tomorrow would be so much worse.

THE next day at your lunch period, you slide into your designated table at lunch, shoved against the wall like it’s been reserved for permanent solitude. Tray clatters softly against the scratched plastic surface, but you barely notice. Alone.

Peace..

--Until Veronica Steel spots you. Her posse follows like shadows, heels clicking on linoleum, laughter trailing behind her.

“Hey, loser,” Veronica sneers, leaning on your table. “What are you doing all alone? Waiting for someone to notice you?” her voice is filled with faux pity.

You shrug, calm and unflinching. “Just enjoying some peace and quiet until your lame ass showed up.”

Veronica smirks, folding her arms. “At least I don’t sit around pretending to be better than everyone else,” she snaps, voice sharp, trying to land a blow in return. You meet her glare evenly. “Yeah? At least I don’t sleep with my friends’ boyfriends.” You flick a glance at Kathy, letting it land.

Time freezes. Veronica’s smirk disappears, replaced with a flash of shock. Kathy gasps, eyes wide, mouth opening slightly.

“What—?” Veronica hisses, stunned.

“What?” Kathy blurts at the exact same moment, voice small, confused, eyes darting between the two of you. “Yep, I was at that party last weekend, Steel. Saw you and Kathy’s boy toy goin’ at it in his Mercedes..” you cringed.

You knew that saying that was a mistake the second you saw Veronica's expression settle in. You also knew you weren't even supposed to be at that party--you snuck in uninvited cuz' you wanted free booze. It was worth it, but you did have to pay the price of witnessing that shit show.

Veronica’s shock quickly twists into rage. Her fingers clamp onto your collar, yanking you up slightly as her jaw tightens. Before you can react further, her fist connects with your jaw, the impact sharp and immediate. Your head snaps sideways; pain blooms hot and bright. Gasps ripple through the cafeteria. The blow on the same spot you had a gnarly bruise sending you backwards against the bench seat, hardly keeping yourself from falling over.

“You think it’s funny stating rumors, bitch?” Veronica snarls through clenched teeth, every word trembling with fury.

You touch your jaw, grimace tugging faintly at your expression despite the sting. Veronica finally releases your collar, breathing hard, but then her eyes soften slightly as she turns toward Kathy, brushing a hand down her friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Kathy… you know I’d never do anything like that, you're my best friend.” she says, voice carefully sweet, consoling, the performance of innocence perfect. Kathy swallows, nodding slowly, still unsure but reassured—or at least distracted from your comment.

From across the cafeteria, Mike Wheeler and his friends freeze mid bite, eyes wide along everyone else.. Mike’s fists twitch as he watches the scene unfold, caught between instinct and caution, while Dustin whispers frantically to Lucas, and Max frowns, shaking her head. All they can do is watch.

“Isn’t that the girl from the record shop yesterday?” Dustin whispers to Mike. Lucas nods along as Michael just watches. He felt a familiar pang of guilt rack over his body as he watch the brutal scene unfold. He could practically feel the embarrassment you must have felt, with everyone’s eyes on you like that..?

“Veronica is such a bitch.” Max mumbles.

The cafeteria hums with whispers and murmurs, but here, at your corner table, all you can feel is the heat of Veronica’s glare and threats. 

“Hey!” A staff member yelled through gritted teeth. The woman grabbed Veronica by the sweater and yanked her away from you. “That’s enough! Steel, are you crazy?!” She scolded, mentioning something about the cheer team and how this could get in the way of some scholarship. Veronica whined about how ‘cruel’ and ‘mean’ you had been, starting rumors about her and her private life. It was all bullshit. 

Your ears rung as the panic set in, palms sweating. You could feel everyone's eyes on you... you could hear the laughing, the whispers. The sound of Veronica complaining and defending herself faded away as all you could do was look around: back at everyone looking at you. This was a mess.

Well, eventually the staff member dragged Veronica to the principles office, and you were taken to the nurses office by a lunch lady that the woman called over. Turns out that staff lady was actually her Aunt, and long story short Veronica got let off with a warning and you both got detention. Her, for physically assaulting you: You, for telling the truth. (but apparently it was a rumor now, since little miss Veronica Steel always got her way.)

You sat outside the nurses office on a broken chair, the back snapped in half because some jock tried to crack his back over it. You have an ice pack pressed against your jaw, now twice more painful and bruising worse by the minute. Your bag was next to you as you waited for the lunch bell to be over. God, why does time go so slow at times like this? You debated leaving, sneaking out of school and running off literally anywhere but here. You knew you couldn't... That you shouldn't, because not only would you most likely get suspended but your parents would also blow a gasket.

“Are you good?”

The voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. You look up to see a girl standing a few steps away, red hair catching the fluorescent hallway lights as well as the sunlight that shined in through the glass doors down the hall that lead to the courtyard. Headphones rest loosely around her neck, and she’s holding a juice box in one hand, the straw still still taped to the side.

You don’t answer right away.

Do you look good? The question almost makes you scoff, but you keep it to yourself. As stupid as it sounds, you can tell she’s not trying to pry—just trying to be kind.

“Uh,” you mumble finally, eyes dropping to the table. “Could be better.” She nods, awkward but understanding. “Right…”

There’s a pause. Then she shifts her weight and holds out the juice box, offering it like an olive branch.

“My name’s Max,” she says. “Um, I noticed you didn’t really have time to finish your lunch, so… I saved you mine.” You glance back up at her, really looking this time. Max. The name settles somewhere in your memory, fuzzy but familiar. You hesitate, then take the juice box anyway.

“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers curling around the cool cardboard.

Before either of you can say anything else, the bell rings—loud and sharp, slicing through the cafeteria noise. Chairs scrape back, voices rise, and suddenly everyone is moving at once.

Max winces. “Guess that’s it,” she says, slipping her headphones back around her neck.

“Yeah,” you reply, already standing. You sling your bag over your shoulder, the knot in your stomach tightening. The thought of walking into class with everyone—feeling their eyes, their whispers—makes your chest feel too tight. Max looks a bit confused as to why you're heading towards the doors that lead outside. "Where- Where are you going?"

"literally anywhere else. "

As the bell’s echo fades behind you, you let out a slow breath. Anything was better than facing a room full of people right now.

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