hi everyone! welcome to my blog! my blog/writings are very much nsfw, so please exercise caution while traversing through the stacks.
i am currently writing for stranger things, but i may write for other things in the future if the inspiration comes to me.
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18+ characters or aged up only, no m/m, but f/m & f/f rock on
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most recent work: medicine (tomorrow p.2, agedup!mike wheeler x reader)
Stooooppp ur mike x reader was so good I’m dying! It has me wondering what mikes reaction would be if he saw reader get hurt after they’ve slept together 👀 like the team doesn’t know about it but then his reaction kinda makes them “???”
medicine | aged up!mike wheeler x reader
summary: Mike has been desperate to talk to you about the events of that night. Much to his dismay, you keep putting it off. However, you can't put up much of a fight when you're unable to leave the hospital due to yet another injury that Mike seems to be the cure for.
word count: 10.8k
warnings: cursing, allusions to sex, blood, discussions of death, angst, injuries, confessions of idiots in love, no l-word i find it cringe sometimes but basically a mutual confession, fluff, canon complaint-ish, protected p in v, quickie, mirror sex, f!masturbation, risk of getting caught (small)
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+! hi everyone! sorry this took forever, i was going through kind of a rough patch and had absolutely no inspiration to write. however, i will always keep my promises. i followed the request pretty loosely, but i did take inspo from it. side note: i'm thinking of expanding on the fandoms i write for, so although requests are closed, i'll take some ideas on who y'all would like me to write for. hope you enjoy:)
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos
[banner credit @i04rei]
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read part one here
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"Can you two maybe, like, focus?"
The dull clacking of hodgepodge wooden weapons came to an abrupt halt as Mike and Lucas paused their pretend battle to look at you.
The spiked baseball bat strapped to your back weighed you down slightly, a constant reminder of what was forthcoming.
The bunker of the WSQK was full of life, everyone bustling around in preparation for what would hopefully be the final battle. You’d been instructed to browse the stash of weapons towards the back of the bunker and pick your poison. Truthfully, it hadn’t been much of a difficult choice. Steve had unceremoniously left the bat in your care one day, and it hadn’t left your possession since.
Mike and Lucas, however, decided that exerting all their attention to solely picking weapons was an unfruitful approach to successfully killing whatever beast awaited you all. Instead, large wooden sticks were being used in a make-shift lightsaber battle- one which Mike was arguably losing.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, I’ll just go over there.”
They both grumbled, turning to put the sticks back against the wall. Rolling your eyes at their lack of consideration for the circumstances, you headed towards the medley of medical supplies stationed on the wall inside various bins. Given the track record of your group, you knew that injuries were inevitable. You also knew that the boys would be too caught up in the promise of a fight to think preemptively of any medical supplies.
A low thump sounded as you dropped your pack at your feet, your bat clunking heavily beside it. The Squawk’s collection of medical supplies wasn’t bountiful, but you took as many packets of rubbing alcohol and gauze as your hands could hold, dropping them on the table in front of you to store momentarily.
As you dug through the bins, each repetitive find of gauze and alcohol squares had your hopes of ameture nursing crumbling down to nothing. Containing nothing more than an aspirin and some dust bunnies, it seemed the bins at face-level had proven fruitless. Hoping for a miracle, you focused your attention to the two bins atop the rack that you had yet to scrounge.
They were up high, maybe too high for you to reach, but you weren’t going to give up so easily. You stood on your tip-toes with a huff, your arm slightly grazing the bottom of the bins. Infuriatingly, your fingertips couldn’t seem to graze the bin with enough momentum to make it fall. You tried the same with your left arm, frustrated that you suddenly hadn’t grown three inches in the process.
Just as you were about to settle for the prize of old alcohol squares and flimsy, sheer gauze, something, or rather someone, warm pressed against your back, shocking you back down onto your heels, hands bracing against the table.
“Need help?”
Mike. Right.
Your brain skipped slightly, caught off-guard by his brazen display. You nodded at first, unable to pull words from your mouth. Instinctively, you looked around to check if anyone had witnessed him press against you so casually. Realizing you were safe, you allowed yourself to settle against him slightly. After a couple seconds of awkward nodding, you were able to speak. “Y-yeah, please, thanks.”
With ease, Mike reached up to grab the bins, gently placing them next to your pile of findings. You couldn’t help but stare at the way his fingers flexed around the rim, slightly ticked at how easy it all always seemed to be for him. Fuck you, Wheeler genetics. Nevertheless, your mood was slightly improved at the sight of the lime green first aid kit sticking out from the top of the bin. Bingo.
You peered your head back to look at him, a soft smile on your face, “thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem,” squeezing your hip slightly as he removed himself from behind you, he moved instead to lean against the table to your right.
“How do you feel?” he asked, watching you sort through the items in the first aid kit.
“Oh you know,” you sing-songed absentmindedly, flicking through the various packets, “the same as everyone does before facing impending doom.”
He huffed out a laugh, an uneasy smile planted on his face. “We got this, you know. We’ve been working towards this for years. We have a plan, a good plan. We’re the closest we’ve ever gotten, and this is it. I have faith in us. I think you should, too,” he offered earnestly.
You bit your lip as he spoke, thumbing a packet of Tylenol lighty while lost in thought. Mike was always so blindly optimistic- always quick to be the hero, triggerhappy, even. His consistent ability to disregard the potential consequences or failure of any given event made it hard for you to trust wholly in what he was saying.
You would love to have faith in your friends, in him, but Mike would never admit he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and you couldn’t help but wonder the size of the current mouthful. You were scared, a feeling you’ve found yourself having with increased frequency as of late, and you’d never been much of a fighter. For fear of being useless, and knowing that you wouldn’t be much use physically if your friends were to be caught in danger, you hoped you could provide some medical aid, hence your raid for supplies. You hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but anything could happen.
“I know, but don’t you think we’re going into this a bit blind? The crawls pretty much never amounted to anything of substance, and I know we have more information now, but we don’t-,” you bit your lip in slight worry, meeting his gaze.
“What if it’s a trap? I can’t- what if something happens? To you, to all of us? I can’t…,” you trailed off.
Lose you, you’d meant to say.
He looked at you with sympathy, swallowing roughly as he pondered your questions. “I know,” he said after some seconds, “I’ve thought the same, if I’m being honest.”
Your eyebrows raised slightly as his admission. It was rare of Mike to admit his unease, choosing instead to always be steadfast in his beliefs. His honesty did little to quell your worry, as hesitation in someone as confident as Mike was a useless form of reassurance.
“Y’know, I’m not really sure what we’re walking into up there. It could be anything. But what I am sure of,” he squeezed your arms lightly for emphasis, “is that I trust us to get rid of it. We’ve seen a lot of people die. We owe it to someone, to ourselves, to make sure no one gets hurt anymore.”
“But what if we get hurt? While trying to save everyone else?” You couldn’t help but be selfish. At the end of the day, you were a kid- barely twenty-something. There had to be others more qualified to kill an interdimensional being than a rag-tag group of young adults and the occasional parental figure. People who had hopefully lived more than a quarter of their lives.
“Tragic irony, I guess. Hey, maybe they’ll write a Greek tragedy about us, like uhhh…what was that one we learned about in Mr. Hauser’s class? Oh- Agamemnon.” He said, a classic grin plastered to his face.
You were not amused. You slapped his arm with a scowl, “How can you joke at a time like this Michael?”
“Hey, just tryin’ to lighten the mood. You rather I talk about us?” He crossed his arms again, oozing a quiet, daunting confidence that you immediately wanted to run away from.
You froze, ice replacing your blood and filling your veins. “W-what about us?” you choked out.
You and Mike had yet to speak of that night. Tomorrow turned into the day after, which turned into the day after that, which turned into all the days blurring together due to lack of sleep and constant action.
You don’t know how much time had passed since you’d both shared that night in the quiet of your parents home, but you’d been flustered ever since. Throughout the last few days, memories of a messy mop of black hair nestled into your shoulder, his body pressed tight against yours while you slept, would pop into your head at the most inopportune times, swiping your focus and leaving an uncomfortably cold spot in your panties.
You thought of his lips on yours as the group sat in Squawk, formulating a plan.
You thought of the way his fingers felt inside as he spoke out orders at the MAC-Z.
Most thoughts didn’t have a trigger, showing themselves as subconscious reminders of your need.
The thoughts were inescapable. You’d forced yourself to avoid him as much as possible for fear of becoming weak in the knees and collapsing on the ground. Sure, he tried to bring it up multiple times in hopes of severing through the present tension, but you’d brushed him off every time.
The ‘what are we?’ conversation would require much more energy and focus than you currently had to spare.
“C’mon,” he breathed out your name. “We haven’t spoken about…it, yet, and whenever I try to, you push me away.”
A small jolt of frustration rushed through you. “Well, Mike, it seems like we’ve had bigger fish to fry these last couple days.” You raised your arms in front of you, gesturing obviously to the surrounding preparations. “Saving the world kind’a trumps the post-sex talk.”
He was taken aback by your snark, looking around with his eyes to see if anyone had picked up on your exclamation. Once he saw that you were in the clear, his head dropped slightly with a nod, “No, yeah, totally. You’re right…I just expected, I don’t know-.” Something quickly flashed through his face, some sort of internal dialogue he was having with himself. Whatever he felt, it made him ask, “you don’t regret it, do you?”
The look on his face softened your features, a low feeling of guilt humming in you as you registered your previous tone. “No, Mike, never. It’s just been hard to think about the future when we have so much going on.”
He nodded in understanding, relieved that you felt no remorse about what you’d both done.
“Seriously, though. I don’t regret a thing about that night. I, um, can’t stop thinking about it, honestly.” You mumbled, gaze focused on the much more interesting motion of zipping and unzipping the first aid kit.
If you had been able to look Mike in the eyes, you would’ve noticed the smirk that began to attach itself to his mouth. Self-righteous bastard.
He let your comment settle in the air for a bit, responding with a low “good to know.” And then he was gone, summoned to the other side of the basement by a call of his name.
By the time you realized that you’d been lost in sinful, nasty thoughts, you’d accidentally pulled the zipper off the first aid kit.
“Shit.”
The sky was red all around you, filling your vision with crimson clouds and tousling your hair with strong winds. The group was too far up the radio tower to go back down if someone got cold feet, and you were lodged on the ladder between Nancy and Mike, so you couldn't have turned back if you wanted to.
As you were stuck on the trek, you willed yourself not to look down. The height was daunting, and you hadn't even reached the first platform yet.
Your heart thumped tightly in your chest- from the altitude or the physical exertion, you were unsure. What you did know, however, was that you longed for this to all be over.
The metal rungs were slick with something dark and organic, threaded through with vines that had no business being on a radio tower, and the whole structure groaned under the collective weight of all of you like it was one meager gust of wind away from toppling.
You kept your eyes up.
The Abyss hung above you like a second sky- impossibly massive and impossibly close, its surface churning slow and red and alive. Every time you made the mistake of looking directly at it, your brain tried to reject what it was seeing.
A planet. There was a planet above you. The sheer wrongness of it pressed down like a physical thing, and you were climbing toward it on purpose, which meant you were either very brave or very stupid, and you weren't confident enough in the former to rule out the latter.
The ladder shook. A vine snapped somewhere below you. You tightened your grip until your knuckles ached.
"Hey."
Mike's voice, low, pitched just above the wind. He was two rungs below you, close enough that when you faltered mid-step- your boot slipping on a patch of something slick and dark- his hand came up and pressed flat to the small of your back, steadying you before you'd even registered losing your footing.
"I've got you," he said.
You exhaled through your nose. "I know."
You didn't say thank you. He didn't need it. His hand stayed there for a few extra seconds anyway, warm through the layers of jacket and flannel, and you were annoyed at how much better it made you feel. The Abyss was thirty feet closer than it had been five minutes ago. The world was potentially ending. And Mike Wheeler's hand on your back was, inexplicably, the most grounded you'd felt all day.
He withdrew it eventually. You kept climbing.
"So," he said, after a beat, "I wanted to finish what I was saying. Back at the Squawk."
"Mike."
"I know. Bad timing."
"Genuinely the worst timing in human history."
"Which is why I'm not asking for a whole conversation." His voice was carefully even. "I just want to say one thing, and then you can tell me to shut up and I will, I swear."
Above you, Nancy had reached the first platform and was pulling herself up over the edge. Steve was close behind her, and you could hear Dustin below, muttering something breathless and complaint-adjacent that carried on the red-tinged wind. The tower swayed, a slow, sickening pendulum arc. You pressed your cheek briefly to the rung in front of you and breathed.
"One thing," you said.
"One thing," Mike confirmed.
Another rung. Another rung. The metal bit cold into your palms even through your gloves, and the vines brushed against your arms.
"Then say it," you told him. "Before I lose my nerve and fall off this thing."
"Don't, " A sharp exhale from below. "Don't even joke about that."
"Sorry." You meant it. "Say it."
A pause. Long enough that you thought he'd changed his mind.
"I don't want to do this without you knowing,” he finally spoke. His voice was quiet enough that you had to focus to catch it over the creak and groan of the tower. "However this goes today. I don't want to go up there without you knowing how I feel. Because I think- I'm pretty sure you already know, actually, I think you've known for a while, but I haven't said it, and if something happens to either of us and I never said it out loud, I'm going to be pissed at myself for the rest of however long I've got."
Your chest did something complicated. You focused on the next rung. Then the one after that.
"Michael," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you deserved credit for.
"You don't have to say anything." Quickly, preemptively. "I'm not asking you to. I know you're scared, and I know the timing is garbage, and I know this isn't exactly-" he broke off. Tried again. "I just needed you to know. That's it. That's the one thing."
You made the mistake of looking down at him. Your stomach turned at the height. As you thought the overwhelming sensation of dizziness might take you down, you caught Mike’s eyes.
That was always the problem with Mike- the looking. He was watching you with that expression he sometimes forgot to hide, the one that made him look younger and older all at once, like he was seventeen and also forty and deeply, privately terrified. His hair was a disaster. There was a smear of something dark on his jaw. He was two rungs below you, backlit by a sky the color of an open wound, and the absolutely troubling thing, the thing you hadn't quite let yourself sit with until this exact moment three hundred feet up a haunted radio tower in an alternate dimension, was that you were completely enamored by him..
You'd been for a while. You'd just been hoping if you didn't look directly at it, it might go away.
It hadn't.
"I know," you said. "I know you do. And I-, " you pressed your lips together, steadied your grip. "Me too. Okay? Me too. That's all I'm saying right now."
The look that crossed his face nearly undid you. Relieved. Like he'd been holding his breath for weeks and you'd finally told him he was allowed to stop.
"Okay," he said softly.
"Okay," you echoed.
You kept climbing. He kept pace below you, and for a while neither of you spoke, but it was a different kind of silence than before- less like something unfinished, more like something settling into its right shape. You were still terrified. Your arms were burning. The Abyss was close enough now that you could hear it, a low harmonic vibration that sat in your back teeth and wouldn't leave.
But Mike was below you, and you knew, and he knew, and that was going to have to be enough.
You reached the first platform and Nancy's hand appeared, gripping your forearm, helping you haul yourself up over the edge. The metal grating dug into your knees as you scrambled up. You shuffled sideways to make room, turned back, watched Mike pull himself up after you. He stood, brushed his hands on his jeans, looked at you.
Something small and private passed between you. Not a smile, exactly, but an acknowledgment. A collective understanding that things would be alright between you if you both miraculously managed to survive.
Then Steve said, from above, "second platform, let's go, daylight's burning," which was a deranged thing to say given there was no daylight, only the horrible churning red, but it got everyone moving, and you grabbed the next ladder and kept going.
The second platform was narrower. The wind was worse up here, a constant low moan that pressed against you from all sides, and the tower had begun to sway more intently.
It was responding, you realized, to the fact that the Abyss was close enough now to exert its own gravitational pull.
Dustin reached the platform and immediately gripped the railing with both hands, looking straight ahead at the middle distance with the expression of someone actively refusing to acknowledge how high up they were.
"If I die," he announced to no one in particular, "tell my mom I loved her and that she was right about the helmet."
"You're not dying," Steve said.
"You don't know that."
"Nobody's dying."
The Abyss shifted. It wasn't a sound, more like a change in pressure, a deep subsonic lurch that you felt in your sternum before you registered it anywhere else. The platform shuddered beneath your feet. You caught the railing. Lucas, who had been looking up, went very still.
"It's moving," he said. "It's actually moving."
"That's the plan," Jonathan said, but he didn't sound like he thought the plan was particularly fun.
"I know it's the plan, I'm just saying it's actually moving," Lucas said, "and there's a difference between hearing about the plan and being directly underneath the plan-"
The tower lurched, a violent, decisive jolt, like something had connected with the structure from outside. Metal screamed above you. You grabbed the railing with both hands as the platform tilted and righted itself and tilted again. Somewhere below, vines snapped loose in rapid succession. There was a sound like the sky tearing, high and wrong, and then a crack of metal so loud it rang in your ears and left a clean silver pain behind your right eye.
"The top!" Nancy shouted. "The top is going-"
The tower's apex caught the webbed floor of the Abyss, the tower piercing through, just like Steve had said it would, just like the plan demanded, and the collision sent a shockwave down through the entire structure, metal twisting and screaming and fragmenting, and above you something broke apart in a shower of steel and sparks and-
You didn't feel it at first.
That was the thing no one told you about adrenaline: you didn't feel the impact at first. There was a sound, sharp, bright, close, and then a sensation of impact above your right temple, there and gone in an instant, and for a moment everything was simply loud and red and tilting.
Then the platform came up to meet your knees.
Then your hands weren't holding the railing anymore.
Then there was nothing.
You don’t fall far.
That is the first thing Mike Wheeler registers, and he will hold onto it for the rest of his life as the only good thing about the next forty-five seconds. You don't fall far. The shrapnel clips you at the temple and your grip goes slack and you drop, but you drop inward, onto the platform, not outward into the void, and that is the only mercy available and he takes it with both hands.
He's at your side before he's decided to move.
"Hey-" His voice comes out wrong. Too high. He hates it. He gets both hands on your shoulders, your face, and takes in the dark slick already matting your hair above your ear, noting the way your eyes are closed and your body has gone entirely, terrifyingly still.
"Hey." He tries again. More even this time, less even in his chest. "Come on. Look at me."
You don’t.
Above them, Steve is shouting something. The tower is still screaming, still twisting, the metal still venting in percussive bursts. Lucas is saying is she okay, is she okay, and Nancy has already dropped to her other side and is pressing fingers to your neck, checking your pulse with practiced, deliberate calm, and Mike watches Nancy's face the way one would watch a verdict being read.
Nancy's shoulders drop half an inch. Relief, in the only size it comes right now. "Pulse is strong," she says. "She's breathing. It's a head wound- they bleed a lot, but don't panic at the blood."
"I'm not panicking," Mike says.
He is, absolutely, panicking.
He gets one hand flat on your sternum- steady. He needs to feel that you're steady, that your chest is rising and falling, and keeps his hand there as a point of contact, like the warmth of his palm might reach you wherever you’ve gone. He is vaguely aware that the tower has stopped convulsing. He is vaguely aware that Dustin is now talking at high speed about the structural integrity of the platform and what it means that the apex made contact. He is vaguely aware of all of it, but registers nothing but the puddle of blood slowly dripping down your face and getting lost in your scalp.
Then, above them all, a sound- the brief, wrenching sound of someone losing their grip.
And Steve's voice, cut off.
Mike's head snaps up. For one suspended, terrible second, he sees Steve's hands scrabbling at the edge of the upper railing, his body half-over, the abyss beneath him offering nothing. Lucas makes a sound that isn't language. Dustin shouts Steve's name.
And then Jonathan's hand closes around Steve's wrist, hauls back, and Steve is up, gasping, Jonathan dragging him bodily against the railing, both of them hitting the platform floor and staying there, breathing hard.
"Shit," Dustin says, with profound feeling.
Mike looks back down at you. He hadn't looked away for long, ten seconds, maybe, maybe less, but his heart is doing something he doesn't have a word for, caught between the two of them, between the boy he just watched almost fall and the girl whose temple is still bleeding slowly onto the grating and who hasn't opened her eyes.
"What do we do," Mike says. It isn't quite a question. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember to grab the first aid kit that you’d packed just for this reason. He just froze, uselessly looking for someone to save you.
Nancy was already pulling gauze from somewhere and pressing it gently to the wound. "We keep moving," Nancy says. "She's stable. Someone should stay with her until she wakes up, but we need to keep moving. We can't do anything for her here that we can't do while we're climbing."
"She's unconscious, Nancy."
"I know," Nancy meets his eyes. Her expression is steady, determined, but she holds understanding in her gaze. "I know. But no one here is strong enough to carry her down. Even if someone was, we have no way of safely attaching her to them. The best plan is to keep moving and wait until she wakes up. Then we’ll see if she’s strong enough to climb back down on her own.”
He looks at her, really looks at her, for a long moment.
“What if she can’t? She’ll be stuck up here.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling roughly at the strands to stimulate any development of a plan.
Nancy reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll get her down, I promise.”
He was grateful for his sister at that moment. Years had passed since they had last felt close, and he was still getting used to emotional vulnerability around her, unsure if she would use it against him as older sisters sometimes do.
The soft touch of her hand on his shoulder helped ground him.
Then he looked back down at you. The stillness of you. The way your hair had come loose from where it was tucked. The blood at your temple that Nancy is pressing gauze to with careful, methodical hands. You would hate this, he thinks with sudden, clear-eyed certainty. You would hate being still while everyone moved around you.
"Okay," he says, to Nancy. To the group. To himself.
He stands. He adjusts the strap of his bag. He looks up at where the Abyss is pressing through in slow, cataclysmic increments, and he breathes once, deep and deliberate, and shoves every other thing into a box in the center of his chest that he is absolutely going to deal with later.
"You go," he says. "I’ll stay with her."
Everyone stood still for a while, watching Mike as he addressed the group.. "Go," he says. "We're good. Go."
They wait for El to play her part, and as he watches them all climb into the Abyss, he does not let himself worry. It is, without question, the hardest thing he's done today- and today has included climbing into another planet on purpose- but he doesn't worry, because if he does, he's not going to be able to do what needs to be done next, and you deserve for him to keep you safe, and to develop a plan to get you out.
You’d said me too.
Barely a confession, barely a crack in the door, but you’d said it, three hundred feet up a haunted tower, into the end of the world, and he is going to make sure you have somewhere to come back to when you open your eyes.
The first thing you were aware of was the ceiling.
It was drop-tile and off-white and completely, blessedly boring, and you stared at it for a long moment while your brain sorted through its filing system and tried to locate the relevant context. Drop-tile ceiling. Fluorescent lights, the humming kind. A smell like antiseptic and old coffee and something faintly diesel underneath both. The mattress beneath you was too firm, the blanket too scratchy, the whole room carrying that particular energy of a space that was built for function and had never once considered comfort.
You turned your head, slowly, because your skull introduced itself to you in that moment with a sharp, insistent throb that started above your right ear and radiated outward in all directions like a dropped stone in still water. You had white gauze wrapped snug around your head, the edge of it visible at the top of your peripheral vision. You raised your hand to touch it and stopped yourself, mostly because the effort of raising your hand was already more than you'd anticipated and you had a feeling that prodding a head wound was the kind of thing that would immediately make a nurse appear from nowhere to scold you.
You looked to your left instead.
Mike was asleep in the chair beside your bed.
He was all elbows and too-long legs and one knee kicked out sideways to make room for himself that the chair hadn't offered. His chin was dropped to his chest. His hair was flattened on one side and wild on the other. He was still wearing the same clothes from the tower- flannel shirt, dark jacket, the jeans with the tear at the left knee from where he'd caught it on the ladder- and there was a smear of something along his jaw that he hadn't washed off, or hadn't gotten the chance to, or hadn't thought to.
He looked terrible.
He looked terrible and young and completely exhausted, and your chest did that thing again- the complicated thing, the thing you'd been trying not to do for days now- and you looked at him for a long moment before you made any attempt at sound.
"Hey," you tried.
It came out rough, scraped-raw, like your voice had taken the shrapnel too and was only now pulling itself back together. But it was enough.
Mike's head came up.
He hadn't been deeply asleep, just hovering at the surface, waiting. His eyes found yours immediately and something moved through his face too fast to name, quick as weather, and then he was straightening in the chair and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and visibly, deliberately composing himself.
"Hey," he said back. His voice was rough too. "Hi."
"Hi."
A beat.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Like something hit me in the head."
"Something did hit you in the head."
"Then accurate." You shifted against the pillow, which rewarded you with another wave of throbbing. You made a face. "How long was I out?"
"Eleven hours, give or take." He said it like it was a fact he'd been keeping close, checking on regularly. "You woke up briefly in the transport. You don't remember that?"
You didn't. You said so.
He nodded, once, like that confirmed something he'd already suspected. "You told Lucas to stop hovering and then went back under."
You breathed out a small laugh that sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. "That sounds like me."
"It really does."
You looked at him more carefully. The exhaustion went deeper than the surface- it was not from one bad night's sleep but from weeks of accumulated not-enough, and underneath it something else, something tighter, that he was currently doing a very controlled job of not showing. You'd seen that look before.
"I'm okay," you said.
"I know." He looked at his hands. "The doctor said the shrapnel didn't- it was the impact, not a penetrating injury. No fracture. Mild concussion, significant laceration." He gestured vaguely at his own temple in demonstration. "They said you'd wake up with a headache."
"That's one word for it."
"They also said you'd probably be irritated about being in bed."
You paused, nodding slightly at Mike’s attempt to tell a joke. "How is everyone else?"
Mike exhaled, leaning back. It was a deliberate shift- he was changing gears, getting onto steadier ground. "Steve's fine. Jonathan's got some burns on his forearm from the electrical discharge, they're treating it. Nancy had a dislocated shoulder that she apparently didn't mention to anyone for three hours. Robin is fine."
You felt the smile pulling at your mouth despite everything. "Dustin? Lucas?"
"Dustin's fine. Lucas's fine." He paused. "Will's- he's okay. He's with Joyce. It was a lot, for him. But he's here, he's talking."
"And Eleven?"
The shift was immediate. His whole face changed, and for a second he looked so young and so wrecked that you wished you could take the question back.
He looked down at his hands. A long moment passed.
"I-I don't know," he said. His voice was flat, carefully emptied of everything it was trying not to carry. "She- there was an explosion. When the Upside Down collapsed. She was inside, and then the blast went off and-" he stopped. Pressed his lips together. Started again. "She's not- nobody has found her. They don't know if she-"
He stopped again. Didn't finish.
“I think I saw her,” he whispered, small and frail. You wanted for nothing more than to reach out and touch him.
You didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say that would have been the right thing, and you knew better than to reach for the wrong thing. You just looked at him- the set of his jaw, the rigid stillness of his shoulders, the way he was staring at his hands like he was picturing himself somewhere else, somewhere far away from there.
"Mike," you said quietly.
"I'm fine." He said it immediately, reflexively, in the tone of someone who had been saying it to people all day and had worn the words down to nothing. "I'm- yeah. We don't know yet. That's all. We just don't know."
You reached over and put your hand over his. He didn't move for a second. Then he turned his hand over the same way he'd turned yours, and held it, and you felt the grip of it. Grounding himself on something real.
You sat with that for a moment, and then spoke, remembering the purpose of the mission.
"Operation Beanstalk," you said, eventually. Gentle.
He exhaled. "Operation Beanstalk," he confirmed.
"So? How’d it go?"
"He’s gone." Something firmer came into his voice.
Something hitched in your throat, a wave of emotions flooding through you all at once. Tears lined your eyes inexplicably, a warmness washing over you.
“He’s gone? Like, really gone?” You whispered, choking up.
“Yeah, really.” Mike smiled softly, gripping your hand again.
The unexplainable feeling of freedom hit you suddenly. Never again did you have to worry about Vecna, or Henry Creel, or a demogorgon, or surviving just one more day. You were crying in earnest now, tears of finalization flowing freely down your cheeks.
Simultaneously, you were mourning, struck with grief. You mourned your childhood, your adolescence. You mourned for the period of brief purity before you knew death and danger so personally. You missed the ability to be a kid, unscathed by the stressors of saving the world, and not having anyone know what you’d gone through to do it.
“H-how?” You asked, bleary eyes meeting Mike’s.
"Joyce- it was Joyce, actually. She-" for a half second, something almost like disbelief crossed his face, the good kind. "She got him. It's over. The Abyss is collapsing, the Upside Down is-" he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, "it's complicated. But it's over."
"Good." you said with finality, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your gown.
He looked at you. His eyes were tired and red-rimmed. Maybe he’d matched your current state some hours before.
"But we're here," he said, hopeful.
You looked at the ceiling for a moment. The fluorescent hum. The ordinary, indifferent off-white. You were here with a headache that was probably going to make the next forty-eight hours profoundly unpleasant, and the world had not ended, and Mike Wheeler was in the chair beside your bed still wearing yesterday's clothes.
"You've been here the whole time," you said. Not a question.
He didn't look embarrassed about it. "Yeah."
"You could've slept in an actual bed. They have, " you gestured at the room, "Rooms here. Maybe."
"I know."
"Mike."
"I know," he said again. "I wanted to be here when you woke up."
You looked at him. He looked back at you, steady, unhurried, with the particular quality of patience he only ever deployed when he was very certain of something and could afford to wait.
"That's- " you started to thank him.
"You don't have to say anything."
"I was going to say that's very sweet, actually, and then something self-deprecating to balance it out so I didn't have to deal with the guilt."
He blinked. Then the corner of his mouth moved. "That's a lot of self-awareness for someone with a head injury."
"I contain multitudes." You shifted again, and the movement pulled at the gauze in a way that wasn't pleasant. You got your arm under yourself and pushed up, slowly, rearranging until you were sitting up against the pillow. The room tilted once, politely, and then righted itself. "Okay," you said, mostly to yourself. "Okay, that's fine."
Mike had half-risen from the chair in the time it took you to sit up. He'd stopped himself, not reaching or hovering, but the readiness was there, open and obvious.
"I'm fine," you told him.
"I know," he said. He sat back down.
You looked at each other.
"So," you said.
"So," he said.
"We're doing this."
"I mean." He spread his hands slightly. "We said… you said-,"
"I know what I said."
"On the tower."
"I know where I said it, Mike, I was there, I was conscious at that point."
"Just establishing."
"Establishing." You tucked your hands in your lap. Your head was throbbing steadily, faithfully, and you were wearing a hospital gown you'd definitely not consented to, and your hair was partially shaved around a head wound, and none of this was how you'd pictured this going. But then, nothing about the last several weeks had been how you'd pictured it going, so perhaps this was fitting. "Okay. Establishing." You looked at him properly. "Ask me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: "What are we doing?" He said your name, the statement oddly mirroring the one uttered by you some night long ago.
You'd been dreading that question for days. You'd run from it, deflected it, buried it under the logistics of pending apocalypse. And now, sitting in a military base infirmary with a bandaged head and a scratchy blanket and Mike Wheeler watching you with his whole face, you found, to your faint surprise, that you didn't actually want to run from it anymore.
Funny what a near-death experience did for your avoidance strategies.
"I don't know what the word is," you said honestly. "I know what that night was. I know it wasn't nothing. I know that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since, and honestly before, really, which is- that's not normal for me, for the record. I don't usually-" you stopped, recalibrated. "I've been scared."
"Of me?"
"Of what it means." You met his eyes. "If it's real, then there's something to lose. And there's already been so much to lose. I think I convinced myself that if I didn't say it out loud, I could keep it…safe, maybe. Sort of."
He was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "And now?"
"And now I got hit in the head by a radio tower and you sat in a chair for eleven hours, so." You lifted one shoulder. "Seems like I've been an idiot."
"You haven't been an idiot."
"Mike."
"You've been scared," he said, with a firmness that surprised you slightly. "That's not the same thing. I pushed too hard, too fast. I do that." A brief, wry pull at his mouth. "I've been told."
"By who?"
"Dustin, primarily. Also Will. Also Nancy once, but she was nicer about it."
"Wow."
"I know." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, close enough now that you could see the shadows under his eyes properly, the full depth of the tired. "I've been scared too," he said, quieter. "That's the thing I didn't say on the tower. The- I gave you the I don't want to go into this without you knowing speech, which was true, but the full truth is that I've been scared since- for a while." He paused. "Since before that night, honestly."
You looked at him. "How long?"
He laughed, short and low, and looked at his hands. "Do you want the actual answer to that?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
"Long time," he said. "Long enough that Will told me I was being embarrassing about it. Which was," he shook his head, "I don't love when Will's right, but he usually is."
Something warm was moving through you, slow and unavoidable. "What were you embarrassed about, exactly?"
"The degree of it," he said, simply. He looked up. "I think you know, since we've established that."
"I want to hear you say it."
"Oh, now you want to hear things said."
"Mike."
He held your gaze. "The degree to which I feel things, when it comes to you, it's a lot. It's more than what I said on the tower," he breathed out slowly, "I'm not going to say the word, because we just decided what we are five minutes ago. Don’t wanna make things, uh, weird, y’know."
"I'm touched by your restraint."
"I'm a very restrained person."
"You literally followed me around a hardware store for forty minutes last week because you wanted to ask me something and kept freaking out."
His face. It was spectacular. "What? No! That was- I was also buying things."
"You bought a lightbulb, Mike. One lightbulb."
"I needed a lightbulb," he shrugged sheepishly.
"Oh, did we."
"The lamp in the- yes, we did, actually, the lamp in the- that's not the point." He dragged a hand through his hair, which had nowhere further to go in terms of a mess but valiantly attempted new territory. "The point is, I'm here, and you're here, and I would very much like to- I want to do this properly. Whatever that looks like. I want to do it."
You held that for a moment. Let it mean what it meant.
"Properly," you said.
"If that's what you want, yeah."
"Properly, as in?" You smirked at him, knowing full well what he meant but just wanting to hear him say it.
"As in, not just that night, not just a thing that happened, but a thing that keeps happening. Again, if you want."
You looked at him for a long, quiet moment. The fluorescent light. His terrible hair and his yesterday's clothes and the careful, deliberate way he was watching you, waiting, not pushing.
"I want," you said.
The thing that happened to his face at that was not a triumphant thing. It was quieter than that. It was the same relief from the tower, the same exhale quality, the sense of something that had been held too tightly for too long being allowed to loosen by a fraction. He reached out and put his hand over yours where it sat on the blanket, carefully, without ceremony, and left it there.
You turned your hand over and held it back.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," you said.
A beat of comfortable, settling quiet.
Then you said, "you know what I've been thinking about?"
"What?"
"That night." You watched his expression shift into something humorous, like his brain remembered it was running the body of a young adult boy. "Not- don't make that face. You’re disgusting."
"I wasn't making a face." He threw his hands up in mock defense.
"You were making the face."
"I've just been thinking about the before part." You settled back further into the pillow. "You were being an ass, as usual. We were fighting, if you remember. If just only briefly," you mused.
"I know, sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he spoke remorsefully.
"No," you shook your head. “It’s not about that. I had forgiven you for that the moment you said it. That’s the problem. I knew that day I had it bad for you, and I discovered there was nothing you could ever say to me to make me hate you. I wanted to, so bad. But in the shower, all I could think of was how badly I’ve always wanted you.”
There was a long pause in the room, joined only by the soft beeping of the monitors at your bed-side.
“Don’t say that…I don’t want to treat you that way and have you let me get away with it. It’s not right.” He shook his head.
“Ho ho,” you laughed hollowly. “I gave you a good mouthful right after, Michael. I never said I’d let you walk away unscathed,” you teased. “But I’ll forgive you. Always.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, looking at you softly. You knew your promise was more than Mike sometimes deserved, but you meant it. Wholly.
Slowly, you leaned in to him. He was stuck watching you come closer, until he finally got the memo to bridge the small gap between your faces.
When your lips touched, it’s as if you’d taken a breath of fresh air. It was reinvigorating, shocking you full of the energy you’d seemed to be missing for days. You moaned softly into his lips, sensing yourself growing more in control of your body the longer he stayed kissing you. He was better than any medicine.
It seemed Mike had learned a thing or two from last time, seeing as how your lips moved in sync, timed in perfect cadence between one another. It was slow and soft, but you might as well have been on a rollercoaster by the way your stomach kept doing spins.
His tongue had just barely grazed your bottom lip before you pulled away, panting. You didn’t know if you could control yourself if you'd let him in, and a hospital didn’t seem like the best place for such illicit affairs. The surge of his kiss also called for a fresh wave of pounding in your head, an unwanted reminder of your injured state.
“Are you-,” he began, eyes scanning you for pain.
"I'm fine," you said, preemptively.
"Are you sure?"
"You don't have to watch me like that."
You shook your head, which was a mistake headache-wise, and looked at him. He was still holding your hand.
"Mike."
"Yeah?"
"Go get some actual sleep. There's a cot, there's probably a room, you look terrible."
"Wow, just what I want to hear after swapping spit with a chick."
You laughed earnestly, slapping his shoulder lightly.
"If you want to know, it’s self-serving. Makes me feel guilty for being the reason you look terrible."
"You're not the reason-"
"You've been in that chair for eleven hours."
"Some of which I slept in."
"Folded in half."
"I'm a flexible guy, what can I say?"
"Gross, Mike. Go sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up."
He looked at you. Something moved through his face, quick and unguarded and then tucked away again. You understood it- the particular irrational need to not leave, the superstition of it, as if the thing you'd nearly lost would only remain intact if you kept eyes on it. You'd felt it yourself, before, after other scares. It made no logical sense and was also absolutely real.
"I'll be here," you said again, softer. "Go."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stood, slowly, unfolding himself from the chair with a muffled sound that was definitely not a groan and definitely was. He stretched, briefly, and ran his hand through his hair, which accomplished nothing. He looked down at you.
"If you need anything-"
"I'll find someone,” you assured
"I mean anything-"
"I'll find you." You met his eyes. "I know where you are. You're going to be twenty feet down a hallway."
His mouth did the thing. "Yeah."
"Yeah." You settled back into the pillow. The headache was still there, faithful and dull, but it had reached a manageable plateau, and the fluorescent hum had become almost familiar, and you were very tired, and Mike was twenty feet down a hallway, and you were here. "Hey, Mike."
He'd half-turned. He looked back.
“Thank you, for everything."
He stood for another second, like he was memorizing the sight of you- terrible hospital gown, bandaged head, scratchy blanket and all.
Then he turned and walked to the door and paused with his hand on the frame and said, without looking back, "I'm going to tell you, eventually. The word."
You looked at the ceiling. The ordinary, indifferent off-white.
"I know," you said. "Me too."
He left.
You closed your eyes.
You were here, and he was twenty feet down a hallway, and tomorrow or the day after or sometime soon there was going to be a party, or a dinner, or hang-out, with you and all your friends, with nothing looming over it. The rest- the word, the name for it, all the things that were obvious and unsaid and living in the space between your hands- the rest would keep.
For the first time in a long time, you were pretty sure it would keep.
August 5, 1988
“Mike,” you broke off the kiss briefly, your body flat against the wall of your empty room with Mike’s hands aggressively fisting at your shirt. “Mike we have to go, my parents will come looking if we don’t come down soon.”
Your pleas fell on deaf ears as Mike reattached his lips to yours, hungrily grabbing at all the parts of your torso he could reach. You pulled from him again, breathing heavily against his lips.
“Mike,” you pleaded, not really making any effort to push him off you completely.
“Just tell them we’re, I don’t know, packing up the last box or something.” He countered, dragging his lips down the side of your face to kiss at your neck. Your head fell back on instinct, opening yourself up to his maneuvers.
You bit your lip in delight, eyes briefly catching on the last boxes of your items you both were encharged to take downstairs to the college caravan.
You’d gotten into the honors program at Indiana State, hence the early move-in, and while Mike would be moving into his dorm just a couple weeks after you, he’d been as insatiable these last weeks as if he’d never see you again.
As if by divine timing, you heard your mother call your name from downstairs, “Let’s go! We’re set to leave soon.”
Mike lifted his head from your neck briefly, frozen and listening to whether or not she would come upstairs to check on your work on the last of the boxes. Once he heard there were no footsteps coming up the stairs, he returned his lips to your neck.
Ever the scheming deviant, he licked lightly at your throat with a whisper “Tell her to go, c’mon. Let me give you your good-bye gift.”
No matter the fact that your parents were literally waiting downstairs for you to leave, what girl could say no to that. Mike’s voice had gotten deeper throughout the year, and his words felt like silky velvet as they passed through your ears.
Immediately you jumped into action, weak to the seductive force that was Mike Wheeler.
“Coming, Mom! Just give me a couple- we’re saying goodbye!” Mike’s hands gripped you in satisfaction as he heard your mother walk out the front door, mumbling something reminiscent about ‘young love.’
“Knew it,” you felt him smile against your neck.
You frowned at how easily he could read you. “Oh, shut up and make me come, Wheeler.”
Never one to pass on the opportunity, Mike jumped right back into action. With his lips back on yours, he dragged you into your bathroom, light shining moodily from the small window in your shower. He’d had you pushed against the counter, the granite slab digging uncomfortably into the small of your back.
Even if you could register the pain, you wouldn’t care. Mike’s lips had a way of addicting you, of making you lose any and all sense that wasn’t the warmth of his tongue fighting yours.
Abruptly, he stopped the tantalizing kiss and spun you around so you were facing your mirror. You whined meekly at the loss of contact, but he satiated you by returning his lips to your neck.
“Sorry, we gotta be quick,” he justified. With that, his hands dropped down to play with the button on your shorts, making quick work of the latching device and pulling them down without even unfastening the zipper.
His lips never left your neck as he rutted against your panty-clad rear with need. His fingers immediately attached themselves to your clit, rubbing it softly through the fabric. As if you needed more stimulation- you could feel the present wet-spot in the cotton already.
It mattered not how much sex you and Mike had been having for the past year, you could always trust him to make you feel so inexplicably good, oftentimes from doing little at all. You find yourself wet after just a bit of light kissing, more often than not. It was embarrassing, really, how much you wanted him, but Mike ate it up just the same.
His teasing only lasted a few, brief minutes before you were reaching your hand back to tangle in his hair, a pretty whine leaving your throat. “Mike, please.”
He pulled back suddenly, quickly working on shucking down his own jeans. “Okay, okay, just give me a sec.”
You watched him through the mirror impatiently, observing how he pulled a condom out from his wallet and ripped it with his teeth.
“You knew you were getting lucky, you animal,” you teased, gripping the counter with a sheepish bite of your lips.
He briefly kissed the part of your shoulder exposed by your tank top. “When have you ever denied me anything?” he joked, knowing that was fully untrue.
You rolled your eyes as he finished his preparations, one hand coming to push you down against the counter. You watched him through the bathroom mirror, bracing yourself slightly for the intrusion as he lined up against you.
Your knees buckled as you saw him spit into his hand, rubbing himself for added lubrication. The lewd sounds of his spit on his cock softly filled the room, and you couldn’t even begin to explain what it was doing to you.
Your breath caught in your throat as he pushed into you, his head falling down slightly at the feeling. You were watching him in the mirror still, never taking your eyes off him. You’d done this a couple times, in your bathroom, and you secretly relished at your ability to watch you both come apart.
The sense of urgency shadowing you both prevented him from entering slowly, but you didn’t care. You reveled in the stretch that knocked the wind out of you, forcing you to grip down harder on the counter.
You were speechless as he began to move, slowly working up his speed and force to be able to drive into you how he now had learned you needed. He threw his head back, a strand of hair framing his face so nicely, you couldn’t help the low moan you let out.
“Fuck,” he choked out, hands marking their territory on your hips.
Suddenly, your lack of privacy was remembered by your brain, and you made an effort to muffle whatever incoherent sounds wished to escape you at that moment. You turned your head to bury it in the crease of your elbow, effectively insulating the noises tumbling from your sweet lips.
“Uh- mmhmm, f-uh-ck,”
Mike, in an ever-present competition with himself, didn’t like that very much.
He picked up the speed, hitting deeper and harder with every frantic thrust. His voice didn’t match his physical cadence, however, as he spoke desperately, almost begging. “No, wanna hear- shit, please, let me hear.”
As could be established by your previous lack of backbone, you caved, dropping your head on the counter, free from the crook of your elbow.
“Yes, yes- right there, soso good,” you shook, sobbing out. You could practically cry from the simulation. Mike was hitting a spot so deep you didn’t even know it existed, and you knew you wouldn’t last long regardless of the situation.
You squeezed around him involuntarily, the pleasure causing the whole bottom half of your body to tense up. “F-uck me,” he groaned, “I won't- not if you keep doing that.”
He wasn’t really making sense- but you knew what he meant because you were there too. It was inconceivable how quickly you were nearing your peak. As he chased his high against you, knocking your hips into the counter with every bold thrust, you could sense that this would end almost as quickly as it began.
“Please don’t stop,” you pleaded, looking up to meet his eyes in the mirror. “‘M almost there, please.” You nodded your head quickly- at what, you couldn’t really place. His lips were caught between his teeth and his face was flushed in a beautiful pink, eyes glassy and brain foggy from the exertion. You wanted to take a bite of him. Unfortunately, you’d have to settle for memorizing his frame as it rocked against you.
“Oh, god, yesyesyes,” you arched your back impossibly against the counter, knocking your ass back to meet his thrusts. He drank in the sight of you spread out below him, pliant and molding to his every push. He almost couldn’t believe this was real. The sight sent him spiraling, and he fell into your back, lightly nipping at the skin.
“I’m gonna- touch yourself, pleasefuck, just do it.” He begged, sounding as wrecked as you both felt. You headed his warning immediately, one hand sneaking down to rub tight circles on your swollen nub that had been begging for attention this whole time.
It took nothing- maybe three or four embarrassingly shorts swirls around your clit for your body to react, shaking slightly as your orgasm crested upon you. You released a breathy whine, your knees buckling slightly as it rolled through you, tensing and relaxing your muscles at the same time.
Pleasure rushed through you, so blinding and jarring that you barely noticed Mike’s hips stutter against you, assuredly lost in a similar form of bliss. Your hand stopped moving against your core when your thighs trapped it between them, clenching so tightly as you came that it paused all movement in your wrist.
Slowly, as your hearing returned and your breath evened out, you felt Mike still against your back, head on your shoulder, working on his own comedown.
You let your head drop on the counter with a thud. “Shit.”
Mike mumbled something incoherent against your shoulder, hands dropping their assault on your hips.
“C’mon,” you urged after a couple seconds, “we gotta go.”
Mike made a futile attempt at keeping you planted as you pushed off the counter. You winced as he pulled out, not knowing how empty you’d feel without him.
“What do I do with this?” Mike signaled to the used condom dangling from his fingers, your bin stuffed in a box somewhere in your father’s car.
You fumbled with your shorts, pulling them up your legs and fasting the buttons as quickly as you could. “Just flush it, c’mon, we gotta go.”
He shot you a look, and walked over to flush both the condom and the wrapper down the toilet. The last thing he needed was your parents to find the tossed carelessly in the bathroom when they came to your room to miss their grown-up daughter.
“A turtle somewhere is going to die because of that, y’know.” He said pointendly, buttoning up his own jeans swiftly.
You patted your hair down slightly with a snort, trying to normalise yourself as much as possible before heading downstairs. You left him in the bathroom and walked over to the remaining boxes, picking one up to carry down.
“So, like, are we going to be able to have sex at school?” He asked from the bathroom.
“Mike, what? You mean at the place with no adult supervision and our own apartments?” You called back exasperatedly at his question. “C’mon, let's go, grab a box!” you urged, nervous that your parents would come waltzing up at any minute.
He sauntered out of your bathroom, nicely put together, and shrugged as he took a box from you. “I don’t know if we’ll be busy, or something, and roommates are a pain!”
You laughed at his worry, certain that you both would find your way just fine.
Im actually going crazy at the suggestion of vampire!mike after how dorky and cute he was in the epilogue, but i need him so badly eating r out while she’s on her period, with him not caring at all about the blood. like, either him vampire or not, but that man would still be HUNGRY 🤭🤭 especially if it helps her feel better UGHHH
starved | vampire!mike wheeler x reader
summary: Mike is starving. Luckily, you make for a pretty good meal.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: cursing, smut, oral (f!receiving), mentions and graphic descriptions of blood, descriptions of menstrual blood, menstrual cramps, vampirism, biting, consumption of blood, period head, dark-ish themes, slight ooc!mike, mike's a simp (i cant write him as anything else he JUST IS), no use of y/n, & please let me know if i missed anything!
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+! guys this shit is nasty. i have serious issues and it clearly showed here- beware okay, dont say i didn't warn you. ik i'm supposed to be working on tmo p.2 but this came across my desk and i simply couldn't contain myself. thank you anon- ur mind is a gorgeous place. i took some inspo from brimstone for some of the parts below (iykyk), ty callie hart! this is just porn btw, there ain't a plot in sight!
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos!
[divider credit @soukuna]
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Mike was hungry. The kind of hunger which emphasized the emptiness inside his stomach, how it clawed in at itself, hollow and aching. Starved. It had begun to consume him, seeing as it'd been more than a week since last he'd fed.
He didn't need to feed much to survive, always making sure to only drink the bare minimum required to satiate his hunger. Usually, hunger wouldn't deter him. He'd ignore the pull in his stomach, placing it in the back of his mind as he focused on other tasks.
The longer he went between feeds, however, the worse he felt. Understandably, just as humans required sustenance to survive, Mike could only prolong his feeds as much as his body would allow.
It had been long enough now, long enough for the pang in his stomach to pair with an undeniable thirst in his throat. It felt like he was swallowing sand paper, his throat dry and scratchy, a tell-tale sign that his next feed was rapidly approaching.
There were other signs, too, of his present hunger. His eyes, usually a deep chocolate brown, began to shift red. Not much at first, but more clearly the longer he waited. Perhaps the largest sign, the most pressing and unavoidable, was his primal urge, this deep-rooted need, to sink his teeth into something soft, something warm, and fill his mouth with saccharine sweet blood. Your blood.
Thankfully, you'd let him drink from you, so long as you received something from him in return. Preferably in the form of an orgasm or two.
Your routine with Mike was relatively simple- you were horny and he was hungry. While the feed was pleasurable for Mike too, his main call to action was the never-ending toll of hunger, which he had to satiate before he could feel any real pleasure.
So that's why, lately, around once a week or so, Mike found himself in his basement, or the back seat of his car, or in your bedroom, generously working you open with his fingers while his mouth sucked greedily on your neck, filling himself with the dark red nectar.
Most recently, Mike found himself in his bedroom, lying over you as he kissed you lazily, right knee pressed up against your aching core. Mike preferred not to rush his feedings, believing that working you up allowed him to taste the adrenaline in your blood, which added a hint of tartness to it that made you taste absolutely divine.
It was certainly not like that at the beginning, when Mike came to you practically on his knees, begging for just a small taste, not knowing who else to trust. Hell, he didn’t even fully trust himself. Regardless, you trusted him enough to know he would never intentionally hurt you. It was hard to grasp, at the beginning, but everything became easier once you felt what he could do to you.
You were moaning sweetly into his mouth, hands tangled in his hair as you ran your fingers through his dark locks. Mike could smell how ready and willing you were for him right through your panties, and the sweetness of you only made him hungrier.
As impatient as you always were during these sessions, you bucked against his knee restlessly, hoping for him to speed things along. You were so pent up from just a couple of kisses, knowing very well what was coming for you.
Mike ignored your petulant request, choosing instead to kiss softly down the side of your neck, his lips brushing delicately over your carotid artery. He liked to tease you, to make you wait for what was coming, but he sometimes ended up teasing himself, the sweet smell of your blood clouding his senses as it thumped lowly through your pulse point.
He grazed his teeth against it, pulling a low whine from your lips.
"Mike, c'mon, please? Don't be a tease," you pouted.
He huffed a laugh into your neck, finding it humorous that you thought you were the only one getting teased. His lips returned to yours, melting you against him, pliant and satiated for the time being.
While the kiss progressed, you suddenly pulled away, wincing and shutting your eyes in pain. You turned your head to the side, face scrunched and your hand gripping his hair tightly on accident.
Mike abruptly pulled away to get a better look at you, face full of worry and desperate to find out what was wrong.
"You okay?" he mumbled, searching your face for any inclination of what had happened.
You nodded curtly, "yeah, sorry, jus' cramps. Got my period yesterday." The dull ache in your abdomen was about to finish it's wave, the pain slowly ebbing and weakening. However, you knew another round would start sooner than you'd like.
Now that piqued his interest.
You loved when Mike fed from you on your period. Your cramps were shit and nothing alleviated the pain like a vampire-induced orgasm. He made you feel invincible with the way he practically melted over a chance to play between your blood-soaked folds, licking your juices off his fingers or his lips at whatever chance he got.
While he couldn't feed off your juicy cunt, he surely acted like he could. He could stay between your legs for hours, lapping against you with his skilled tongue, alternating from light flicks on your clit to broad licks from the bottom of your pussy to the top, smearing your blood against you like his own personal painting. The sweetness of your blood surrounded him, as he quite literally savored your taste without ever getting full. It was a win-win for you both.
Mike kissed your temple softly, before making his way back to your lips, capturing your mouth in another soft, slow kiss.
"You want," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, "help with that?"
Never one to deny Mike's advances, you nodded slightly against his mouth, rolling your hips once again against his knee.
He released your mouth with a pop, adjusting his weight and reaching down to grab both your clothed tits in his hands, kneading and squeezing them together through your bra while he slowly kissed his way down your neck and chest, nipping lightly in his wake.
The knowledge of your bleedings made him needier, desperate to get between your thighs to take your pain away, to taste you. In his haste, he didn't bother removing your top nor your bra, choosing instead to kiss and bite your pillowy breasts through the fabric, leaving small wet patches where he bit, canines poking tiny holes through your shirt.
Once his lips reached your shorts, he slowed. You stared down at him while resting up on your elbows, red eyes watching you as he placed one long, sinful kiss to your core. You couldn't help but whimper at the sight, Mike's hands ready at your waist, waiting for his most primal urge to overtake him so he could rip them off you.
But he didn't. He was calm again, eyes a touch darker. He had so much to be grateful for when it came to you- your trust, your silence, your willingness, and he had no other way to repay you than during these moments. While he fed out of necessity, he would never let you know that, although you'd probably already figured it out. During his feeds, Mike showed you how grateful he was by taking care of you, putting your pleasure before his most urgent biological calling. Without you, he was nothing- a monster. You made him human.
As such, Mike continued to work you up, slowly pulling down the waistband of your cotton shorts, leaving you in nothing but your cotton panties, which were marred by a little spot of dark red.
Mike's mouth began to water, gripping your thighs apart once your shorts had been discarded. From there, he could get the perfect view of your wet cunt, the slick of your arousal mixing with the blood to create this mouth-watering, enticing scent that was completely and utterly you.
To prolong his cruel game, Mike moved close enough to your core for you to feel his breath on you, then turned his head at the last minute to place wet, sharp kisses along the inside of your thigh. His canines were out, as they usually were this close to a feed. They grazed sharply along your legs, not hard enough to cause you harm, but enough to provide a hiss of pain alongside your pleasure.
"Mike, fuck, please, just-ngh," you half-begged. Halfway through you'd given up, realizing that just like all the times before, Mike wouldn't listen. It was worth it in the end.
"Relax," he mumbled against your thighs, dark hair covering his eyes. He ran his tongue lightly across your femoral artery, leaving a cool sensation in his wake. Mike could feel the blood rushing through it, he could hear the way your heart sped up at the thought of his incoming bite. Unfortunately for you, Mike was nowhere near that point yet. He was more of an appetizer before dinner kinda guy.
You could feel another round of cramps approaching. Preparing for a shift in mood, you grabbed Mike by the hair, forcing him to meet your eyes a bit more roughly than you would've liked.
"Michael Wheeler, if you don't cut the shit right no-ow," you hissed in pain mid-insult. Effective.
He took pity on you immediately, realizing that maybe now wasn't the best time to put on a show. "Sorry," he mumbled, pressing one last kiss to your abdomen, "just try to relax."
He was so fucking stupid sometimes. Not only was he a man, but he was a vampire-man. Men didn't understand the severity of menstrual cramps on a regular day, and vampires don't feel pain regardless. Imagine that combination of a creature, one blessed with double the ignorance, telling you to relax.
You rolled your eyes, "I'll fucking relax once you get your mouth on my-oh, fuck."
Mike shut you up quick with one long lick against the front of your panties. His mouth was surprisingly warm, something that you've had a hard time coming to terms with given that he should technically be dead, but a nice perk, nonetheless.
The groan Mike let out at the taste of you was downright sinful. He chastised himself for not feeding earlier than then, for he was getting exceedingly close to his breaking point and he'd barely even started.
"Fuck," he huffed, dragging your panties down your legs as you lifted your hips for him, "you always taste this good?"
"I don't know," you responded innocently, "you're the one who keeps coming back."
Your smile said a thousand words. You both knew he wasn't just coming back for the flavor. You were connected, bonded now. It was this reciprocal give-and-take that had solidified itself into your daily routines. It was so simple an arrangement, yet it was everything. Mike couldn't even fathom doing this with anyone else, not when all he needed was you.
Mike nearly keeled at the sight of your glistening cunt, mouth open, offering space for his canines to peek out slightly from beneath his top lip.
He licked his lips slightly before ducking his head into you, his warm tongue making contact just where you needed him most. His eyes fluttered closed as he took his first unobstructed taste.
You hummed in relief, lying back against his bed, hand still entangled in his hair.
The pain in Mike's stomach was growing stronger as the taste of you overwhelmed his senses and set him into overdrive. He was rabid, desperate to sink his teeth into you, but nothing could pry him from between your legs.
"S'pretty, so good," he mumbled against you between short sucks on your clit.
The feeling on your clit was white-hot. It felt like he just didn't miss, either flicking against it with his tongue or nudging it with his nose as he buried his tongue inside you, thirsty for more. Either way, he had to know that his actions were turning you into a mindless, spineless mess atop his bed.
Mike was in a blissful trance. Your soft mewls were music to his ears. He became consumed by your taste, his hips rutting gently into the mattress. His face was covered in blood and your slick, eyes red and canines out. He looked feral, and he was so fucking hot.
It was so sinful, so raw. The sounds of his mouth on your wet cunt filled the room and buzzing in your head. It was getting hard to sit still, the evidence of that being how your legs inadvertently twitching around his head. You moved senselessly, unable to stop yourself from rolling your hips into his mouth. His head probably hurt from how hard you were gripping onto his hair, but if anything, it only made him hungrier.
“Fu-, Mike so-God, don’t s-fuckfuckfuck, please,” you couldn’t process anything but the cord tightening in your cord, let alone words coming out of your mouth. It was a mess of curse words and moans at this point, your head piecing together incomprehensible sentences in an attempt to voice how you felt.
Mike needed you to come. All that bullshit about dragging it out felt like a disservice to both of you, as he could smell how badly you wanted it, how hard you were fighting to get his mouth in just the right spot. Truthfully, he needed you to come for purely selfish reasons. Mike was on the brink of snapping- the sound of your beating heart and the warm, fresh blood pumping through your delicate skin was tempting him severely. Better men than him would’ve succumbed much faster.
He focused his efforts directly on your clit. No longer was he toying with you, exploring and tasting. He needed you to break for him. You already tasted like the closest to heaven he’d ever get to, but he knew you’d taste better broken.
"Mike, pleasedontstop, 'm so close," you were gripping the sheets now, hips bucking up into Mike's mouth as he swirled his tongue around your swollen nub.
Mike could sense that your orgasm was forthcoming by the way your heartbeat quickened and your breathing became shallow. You were twitching against him, your body seconds away from hurling into an abyss of pleasure.
Mike sucked lightly on your nub, and the tight cord in your core finally snapped, throwing your head back and scrunching your eyes closed. Your mouth was frozen open in a silent moan, the waves of static starting down at your toes and shocking every limb as they traveled across your body.
Mike quickly replaced his mouth with his middle and pointer fingers, rubbing your sweet clit in stiff circles through the start. Your legs had tightened against him in the chaos, and he pushed them aside to finally sink his teeth into the soft skin of your inner thigh.
The pain cut through your orgasm briefly, the sharp, needle-like sting of his bite pairing deliciously with how hard you were coming. It only lasted a few seconds- just long enough for the venom from his bite to infiltrate your veins and give you exactly what you were craving.
It was stronger than an orgasm. You felt as if you were floating, your body lifting from Mike's bed and soaring high above the clouds. You'd thought you'd be used to it by now, given the amount of times he'd bitten you, but it was always different when he bit you during an orgasm- so much more intense, so vibrant.
There were colors swirling behind your shut eyes, spirals of reds and blues that you could somehow feel all over your body. You felt as though you had no choice but to take it all, as your legs shook and your head turned from side to side. Everything was involuntary. You had no control of your senses. You could barely open your eyes, and when you managed to peek, the view of Mike feeding off your thigh sent you right back into a spiral.
It felt like your orgasm would never end. You were stuck in an endless loop where time was meaningless. Seconds blurred to hours which blurred to minutes, leaving you with no way to grasp how long you'd been coming for.
The pleasure was strong enough to knock you out. You'd found that out the hard way the first couple times, but you didn't care. It was so addictive. You'd crave this forever, and while the physical aspects of the bite were mind blowing, the intimacy of the whole situation, how Mike needed you in order to feed, to survive, intensified your experience tenfold.
Mike groaned into your thigh as he drank, your warm blood filling his greedy mouth and quenching his thirst. His fingers never let up, working you through your orgasm and fueling your high the longer he drank from you. He knew you were in complete bliss, and it would only take a bit longer for him to drink his fill.
You tasted so fucking sweet, and he swore he'd never tasted anything better- and he never would.
He had to be careful not to drink too much at once, for the combination of the blood loss, the venom, and your prolonged orgasm would inevitably cause you to lose consciousness. It took everything in him to pry himself off your thigh, licking the small pearls of blood that trickled from his lips and down his chin.
He released his fingers from your core and licked one last time over the two punctures on your thigh, his spit clotting the incisions and hastening the healing process.
Once he'd licked off the last of his meal, he glanced over at your fucked-out state, eyes closed and chest moving with relaxed, long breaths.
He slowly made his way up to you, careful not to disturb your position.
"You okay?" He mumbled, moving your head softly onto his lap.
There was a stupid smile on your face as you nodded your head in agreement. You usually didn't talk much after, not until you'd had some time to regulate your feelings and come back down to earth.
“And the cramps?”
You have him a half-hearted thumbs up, still too blissful to make any real conveyance.
Mike couldn’t ignore his worry. He feared this every time. He was afraid that one day, he’ll go too far, drink too much. Humans were fragile, as he once remembered himself being, and no matter how well you took it, or how strong you were for him, there was always a risk. He was putting you at risk.
“Y-you’d tell me right, yeah? If it was too much?”
The anxiety in his voice brought you back down, eyes fluttering open to meet Mike’s face above you. Slowly you sat up, cupping his face, moving him closer towards you.
“Mike, like I’ve told you. I’m okay. I trust you, right? You don’t need to worry about me.” You offered him a small smile as you thumbed his cheek.
Mike always gets reflective after he feeds. The severity of it all usually becomes a lot clearer once he no longer needs to concentrate on the pain of hunger. He dotes after you every time, and every time you remind him that you’re okay.
“It’s not you I’m worried about. I’m…not thinking clearly, during this-”
“I know.”
“And what if one day, I- I snap, and I take too much an-”
“You won’t,” you cut him off sternly, “stay out of your head, Mike. I am not doing anything I don’t want to, and I was very much aware of the risks before I said ‘yes’ to you- to any of this. So please, don’t beat yourself up.”
He looked at you with sad eyes, but didn’t say anything. A small nod in acknowledgement was all he was willing to give you, still unnerved about what could’ve been.
“Besides, your lack of restraint compliments me. It means I’m just too irresistible,” you joked, whispering in his hear with a faux seduction. You'd always understood him, adept in knowing just what he needed, whether it be a quick joke or a soft touch.
He would be forever grateful to you.
He huffed out a laugh beside you, wrapping his lean arms around you and pulling you close to him. He leaned you both against his pillows, laying your head on his chest before continuing,
“Good enough to eat.”
i feel like i always reuse the same ending style but whatever, lmk what you think! <3
PLSSSSSS PART 2 TO THE EXERCISE need to see if they made the most of having the house to themselves that night!!
hiii!! unfortunately the exercise will not be getting a second part, she will be lonely and by herself! but best believe that those two used their time wisely;) but i hope you enjoyed!
summary: 18 months, 18 years, or 18 lifetimes. It doesn't matter how long Steve spends without you, he can't seem to stop loving you. And you, can't seem to stop running.
warnings/content: lots of angst, exes to lovers, arguments, grief, trauma, depression, escapism, reader being stubborn, reader is an avoidant, pining!Steve, hurt/little comfort, smut, unprotected p in v, no happy ending (yet?)
word count: 8.4k+
author's note: my baby el will be haunting some or a lot of the narrative. And, if you missed it I'd like to point it out that this fic subtly explores the five stages of grief as well, in its own way; meaning not in that very order, as the stages are different for all of us. Up until the end, squint if you must ♡
more notes at the end<3
Hawkins was a place that brought all the nightmares to life. Every single person there had demons of their own that they masked and hid every single day in white collars, black ties, aprons and suburbs. In a way, that is probably what truly brought them to life in a way that cursed the town. That stole the chance of happiness, and a normal childhood from so many kids.
It stole his youth as well, in a way. After all, he was only seventeen when he was dragged into all of this. He didn't understand the essence of what he's actually lost and how young he was when he lost it until he had more to lose. A bond, a real, firm bond. With Dustin, who was the embodiment of everything he ever wanted out of life.
He didn't realise the gravity of what he was pushed into until Derek had hugged him, in the abyss. A small, vulnerable child, robbed of his innocence so soon. It had sparked a fury in him that he hadn't really felt before. That had been building along side his protectiveness for his kids.
He realised it again, like a blow to his very heart, when he stood helpless in the Mac-Z, holding your sobbing, screaming frame, watching a seventeen year old, little girl, blow herself up into oblivion, sacrificing herself for a better future for all of them.
That moment shaped him in a way he never imagined. Everyone's screams will haunt him forever, he thinks. The gnawing, stabbing grief in his stomach when the very thing he's despised and wanted gone for the last seven years of his life disappeared, is something he'll never forget. Because with that damned place, went a very special girl who deserved so much better.
He tells himself, that is why he stayed back here — even when every single person moved away. Including Robin. Including you.
To make sure what she wanted, happened. That Hawkins returned back to normal. That's why he became a baseball coach and a teacher. To be around and protect the kids in Hawkins. To make sure, the next batch of kids have a normal childhood.
The nightmare that is the town of Hawkins stole so much from him and every single person he loves. But, it also shaped him to be the person he is today. Without it, he would've still been that douchebag jock who would've ended up being a washed up rich guy with a tenure buying a picket-fenced house on the damned suburbs.
Without Hawkins, he never would have found—and inevitably lost— you.
He mourns your presence in his life, every day he wakes. In every breath he takes. In any menial thing he does. You were and are it for him. Even after all this while.
He will never ever blame or hate you for moving away, for leaving. You had to. This town had given you nothing but grief, it hadn't shaped you for the good the way it did for him. It only brought you pain. He understood that, through and through.
Understanding, however, did not take away from the pain of losing you. Of having to let you go. It never made things easy. Just the way, all of you understood, or rather tried to understand Eleven's choice. It hurt nonetheless.
So much so it drove you out of town before you could even see it rebuild to what it is right now. It took you exactly seven months. Seven months to apply for a college and an internship in a state, in a city far away from here.
He clung to the memories of those seven months like a lifeline, even though the plug had been long since pulled.
Grief, was a ugly little thing. It spared no one. Not the grieved, not the grieving and certainly not the ones around them. Steve was no stranger to grief and even more so to people in his life grieving and pushing everyone away. He'd seen it with Max, watching her get worse day by day. He'd seen it again with Dustin, slowly losing him, their bond slowly getting cracks in it. Cracks, that had now been fixed. Restored.
Both of them, Max and Dustin had somewhat healed. As much as one can from something like this. They're graduating, all of them.
Max is skating again. She pulled through this time, not completely sinking back into a hole the way she did the last time she lost someone. She put her mind into acing her finals and catching up on the year, Higgins gave her a grace period as she was in a coma for most part.
Him and Dustin are back to being well, Steve and Dustin. He feels so proud of him for getting through with this, despite everything. Theres also this bittersweet ache that he can't deny, however, that the last thing that made Hawkins feel like home for him is also, leaving. But mostly? He's glad. Dustin and all these kids deserve to get the fuck out of here. Go to college, explore and grow up more normally.
They graduate in one day, and two days until he's finally alone in this town. And eleven months, since you've been gone. What a sick, sick irony.
As he drives to work, he can't help but let his mind go there, to whether or not you'll come back, one last time atleast, to see the kids you loved so dearly, graduate. You always talked about it. About the party you'll throw. How loud you'll clap for them and run across the stage and hug every one of them, cheering for them.
Only the kids have the answer as to whether or not you'll be here. They're the only ones here that you've kept in touch with. They all get letters, postcards and phone calls.
Robin and Nancy both get a once in two month visit in Massachusetts, sometimes they come to visit you as well. Jonathan is the one closest to you. The one who gets most of your company. It makes sense, he thinks, with New York City and New Jersey being only over an hour away from each other. And with both of you in the creative, art field.
You two had left together— the shared trauma of losing a found sister prompting you both to pack the fuck up.
“Steve! I mean— coach Steve!” came Derek's excited cheer as he walked into the field. Yes, he'd taken yet another kid under his wing. Many, actually.
Steve knocks lightly on his helmet, “That's right, better respect me,” he deadpans, and then laughs at the intimidated look on Derek's face, “Just messing with ya kid. You can call me Steve when I'm not actually teaching ya.”
Derek chuckles nervously, he'd really grown to admire him. It wasn't a new thing for Steve but it made him happy nonetheless. This was worth staying, he always reminded himself.
The practice went well— a few errors, a few bullies on the field that needed a firm tone and some of his precious students making him proud.
He spent the next few hours of his day in the gymnasium, covering for the basketball coach and overseeing their practice. And then the dreaded putting condoms over bananas for the 8th graders and a birds and the bees talk for the younger kids.
By the time he made it back to his one room apartment downtown, he was beat like a drum. His bones ached in a way that made him feel older than he is. Muscles straining and no amount of stretching really provided any relief. A hot bath would. But he settles for a lukewarm shower. He doesn't even know why.
Take the damn relief. Your voice echoes in his head. He drowns it out with music, a new favorite song of his— Wicked game.
It plays on repeat while he showers, then again while he eats and one last time as he drifts of to sleep.
I'd never dream that I'd lose somebody like you.
The day of the graduation was unsettlingly warm. He'd woken up in a sweat– not cold and not from a nightmare, he had a quiet, dreamless sleep. It wasn't even officially summer yet.
His stomach fluttered weirdly, in anticipation, in anxiety as he went about his morning— a cold shower he dreaded getting out of, a breakfast he couldn't stomach and putting on a suit that felt too big for him. That made him feel older than he is, like time is slipping out of his hands.
Will you be there? he wonders.
He can't tell if the thought of you being there makes him want to rush out the house to the field or stay right here, frozen forever.
He decides to steady himself and walk out as the picture mask of calmness.
The first entire half of the graduation ceremony went in a blur. You were nowhere to be seen. Part of him was relieved and the other was secretly, enraged. But mostly, he was glad to have Robin by his side once again, it had been strange without her around and he'd missed her so much. He spent that half catching up with her.
The second half, went in total anticipation. You still weren't here. He must've checked every corner. Mike wasn't here either. Steve somewhat knew that Mike planned to not walk to the stage and get his diploma. He couldn't blame him at all. The same way, he couldn't blame you for not being here. After all, she wasn't here.
By the last part, he didn't think of you— for once, as his entire focus shifted on Dustin about to give his valedictorian speech. And, Mike had surprised everyone and finally walked in wearing his cap and gown. Steve wondered as to what made him finally come through, but any and all external thoughts disappeared the second, Higgins called Dustin's name on the stage.
And all he remembers next is his chest tightening with nothing but pride, clapping until his palms started to sting and still not stopping and then flipping off his old high school alongside Dustin.
He remembers pulling out a camera and capturing the kids finally grown up. He remembers talking to everyone and then— all he can feel is that same warmth from this morning, again. And there's an unmistakable change in the very air, or atleast the one he consumes.
Then, the kids suddenly gleam. And they run, past him, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan— Mike walks, a steady knowing smile stuck to his face. Robin and Nancy are the ones facing to whatever or whoever's behind him. And he knows it and feels it in his bones, long before he sees the look on Robin's face— directed at him. Long before he even thinks of turning around.
You.
The kids all cheer your name and it's like a painful memory for him. Suddenly, everything starts to make sense, why he felt the way he did all day. Why the very day felt different. It was as though the atmosphere itself was trying to warn him, prepare him for what he has to face.
Seeing you again was not just confronting the last eleven months of his life it was like reliving the last seven years. And there was nothing that could've prepared him.
He doesn't even feel himself turning around. The only thing he can register next is you. You wearing a formal dress, standing in the middle of all five of them; swarming you.
There used to be six. A nagging, sadistic little voice whispers at the back of his head. The way it always does when he sees them together now.
Soon it will just be you, the voice prods further.
“...I'm so proud of you guys.” your voice is like a fever dream to him. Like music after months of radio silence.
Robin's already rushing to fight past the kids to get to you— as if she didn't see you only a month ago. Jealousy settles in his stomach.
Nancy's next— two months. And when Jonathan stays by his side it's like a slap to his face because of course he does. He gets to see you on a weekly basis.
He can't tell if he's upset that they get to see you so often or that you get to see them more often than he does. He thought he's come a long way in the last 11 months– and he has. But he's still allowed to be upset about some aspects.
He misses you, like yearning for you is a part of himself. He misses Robin and Nancy. He even misses Jonathan. He didn't think the graduation will hit him like a wrecking ball, but it has. And yet, for just a moment, all of it softens. All of the anger, the bitterness gets swallowed down.
When you say, “Hi, Steve.”
Shit. He didn't realize he'd been not-so-subtly staring at you. You felt obligated to say hi to him, this was horrifying.
He clears his throat, his voice almost betraying him by rendering him mute. “Hi,” he manages, followed with a very soft murmur of your name.
That's all the interaction he gets from you until Max pulls you away for a photo. That's when Jonathan pats him on the back and finally follows y'all. Nancy joins, Robin stays— she always does, except for the one time she deserved to leave.
“Are you okay?” she asks, sitting down next to him on the bleachers.
Since Robin moved away and a physical distance was put in between them, it had gotten easier to lie to her. To just tell her he's fine even on the days he's not, to only tell her about all the good things and crumble all the bad into a paper ball and toss it aside. But now, when she was right here, he couldn't really lie to her. She knew him like they were separated twins.
“Yeah. Just... seeing her brought back a lot, you know. It hasn't been easy,” he admits.
She puts a hand on his back in a gesture of comfort and nods, “I know,” she says, “If it helps, I can vouch it hasn't been easy for her either.” she attempts to reassure. It helps only a little.
He diverts the topic to what's new in her life, not just because he doesn't wanna talk about his but because he wants to talk about her. He's used to knowing every single thing about Robin firsthand, and now there's so much to catch up on.
They talk, she tells him all about college and the new book she's writing a paper on which is from the 30's, and how it has queer elements that she's going to dare to include in a positive light and present. He's immensely proud at how far she's come in accepting herself.
She tells him about all her new friends and he does admittedly linger on that part mentally for longer than necessary. And then she tells him about all the little getaways she's had with you and Nancy— by then there's a quiet ache settling in his chest that he can't quite explain.
Robin and Nancy particularly had become somewhat inseparable too in the last three years, and after you mover away we well it was like people might as well call y'all the three Musketeers & the filmmaker.
It's only at times like these that he ever regrets staying back, when he hears about how much he's missed out on. But when a weekday comes and he's all around kids who admire him, trust him to make Hawkins better, the ache goes away just as fast as it comes.
He does fill her in on quite a bit as well, and after a lot of hesitation he tells her about the sex ed teacher gig and she practically falls off the bleachers with how hard she laughed. If You, Nancy and Jonathan hadn't walked over when y'all did he was almost certain she would've popped a blood vessel in her nose.
“Jesus, Robin, you look like a cartoon character who just ate a chilli. Are you okay?” your humorous concern is half sincere.
“I'm okay! Just catching up with Stevie boy,” her laughter dials down.
He rolls his eyes, “Ha ha, my life is so amusing.” he deadpans but settles into a comfortable chuckle with her as well.
Only then, do you look at him, silently, but you do. There's a shared look, like your eyes are doing all the talking your mouths can't dare to. Somewhere in that code, he tries to convey an “I missed you.”
And for his own sake he pretends you signal “I miss you too.”
He breaks the ice by asking, “Where'd the party go?”
You give him a half sad smile, “One last campaign.”
You don't tear your eyes away from each other, sharing a bittersweet look of understanding and grief— they've finally grown up.
You finally sniffle, and look away from him when it hurts too much to, when your eyes sting and threaten to water. You'd had enough of that.
“Guess they're gonna party hard today,” you joke, a nervous laughter offered to break the very obvious tension, “But... what about us?” you ask, voice small and hesitant. Like the very idea of doing something normal together could split the ground beneath them right now.
Jonathan and Nancy share a look, Robin looks at everyone expectant, hopeful, that just maybe they all can be together just for today.
Steve's the one who speaks up, “Well,” and you almost think he's going to snap at you for having the audacity to ask that when you left.
“I think I have an idea.” Is all he says, a reassuring helpful smile directed at you.
And suddenly you wish he had snapped at you. Yelled at you. Stormed off because he didn't want to look at you. That would've hurt less than... this.
You muster a fake smile and let him lead all of you away to wherever he plans — in his new car. The one you never got to see before. You suddenly feel out of place. Like you no longer belong here, in this town, around him.
And you most likely don't.
So you choose to sit in the backseat, with Nancy and Jonathan, letting Robin acclaim the front seat. You didn't want to ever sit there again.
The drive is short and quiet, as he pulls over to an all familiar building. WSQK— the squawk.
This one not so little building held so many damn memories. All the late nights you pulled with Steve when he had to clean up or fix something. Makeshift ‘candlelit’ dinners using the “On air” sign and a quick take out from the nearest diner when he couldn't make it on time for a date and Enzo's would close.
And worst of all, the last moments you spent with her, right before you parted for the battle were here. The memories were painful.
It only got more painful from there on when you all talked about your lives. Steve kept asking y'all, or rather, them if they missed Hawkins. You knew him well enough to know it was really directed at you. Avoidance, was like an unspoken tragic thing y'all shared. None of you wanted to talk about this, about Hawkins. So one of y'all swiftly diverts the topic to making fun of Steve's sex ed gig, and then Jonathan's anti-capitalism movie that you've been helping with as a script writer. Then Steve saying he'd consider moving to and teaching at Smith, for Robin. And then Nancy's surprisingly confession about dropping out. You didn't even know that, granted the last you met was three months ago.
You all voiced the support for her nonetheless, a trainee position at the Herald is still a huge leap out of her comfort zone, which is something to be proud about. That's what you all needed, being on the edge and out of your comfort zone in normal human ways. Not wondering when the world will spin off it's axis, or which new inter-dimensional species will you have to decide next.
You smile at Nancy as she talks about her life, there's something different about her, a different type of a confidence, a comfort in her own skin you've never quite seen before on her. It almost mirrored the one Robin had after she finally found Vickie. You softly huff a chuckle, “Nancy Wheeler, still full of surprises.” You say to her and she looks at you and smiles— a personal understanding shared just between the two of you. Like the other eyes on you right now don't exist. Like you can't feel his eyes on you.
“You know, there is one thing that I miss about this place,” Robin says, her eyes slowly welling up, though, still trying to keep her smile on, “You guys.”
And almost instantly the air on the roof changes– warmer but accompanied with the howl of a gale, almost as if mourning what they all used to be.
“I mean, I really like my new friends, you guys of all people know that. You've met them, but it's just...” She says, to you and Nancy, your eyes' welling up.
Nancy looks down and nods, “It's not the same,” she finishes for her.
You can't stop the tears even though you try, you feel your face wetten before you realise you're crying. You sniffle, furiously wiping at your cheek once, letting out a bitter chuckle, “I don't think it will ever be the same.”
Your eyes instinctively fall on Steve— who's looking away, trying to hide his own tears. It breaks your heart to see him cry, especially considering that was the last memory you had of him.
The earlier silence is replaced by Nancy's quiet sniffles and Robin's sobs. Steve's the one to finally break y'all out of the moment, “Okay, Jesus, you're killing me man,” he gets up with a watery laugh, “I mean, let's do something about it, like, I don't know... meet up,” he says, his eyes lingering on you, as if the fate of this friend group falls in your hands.
You nod, everyone agrees to meet up more often, somewhere neutral. That's between to Jersey, New York, Massachusetts and Hawkins. You settle on Robin's weird uncle's place in Philly. Y'all make plans and promises you know deep down will not be fulfilled. Not forever, anyway. But right now, right here it feels real. It feels possible. It feels hopeful. And it's important to you to cherish that for as long as you can, after all it wasn't always any of you had hope.
When the sun started to set, so did the reality. It creeps on you like a vice. The reality of what has happened and how badly you don't want to be here. And how inevitably, you will have to. It's dark and you didn't want to drive back all the way to New Jersey all alone. Nancy and Robin were going to head back to Massachusetts together, and normally you would've driven back with Jonathan but he was obviously going to stay back to see Will off to college.
That leaves you alone here, with no real place to stay. Nancy had offered but Robin was already going to crash there and the kids were going to pull an all night D&d campaign so you really didn't want to intrude. And there was no space at Hopper's cabin— even if there was you wouldn't touch that area with a 10 feet stick. Her essence would be everywhere.
When all of you walked back down to Steve's car, you ask Jonathan to give you a ride to the closest Inn downtown once y'all get back to the high school.
Steve's eyes hadn't really left you the entire time y'all were up there. The only time he did, was to hide his own tears. And now, watching you completely ignore his presence and turn to Jonathan for a ride while he was right here stung a little. More so than that, the thought of you coming back in town months later only to stay alone in some hollow Inn room, getting swallowed and taunted by your own mind— sickened him to his core.
And so, he found himself talking. Intervening, like the very reason he'd learned to walk was to always walk towards you.
“You can stay with me.”
No one speaks. Nancy and Jonathan are sharing a look, Robin suddenly finds her converse very interesting. He's looking at at you and you, are not. You're staring away at his number plate, biting your lip nervously. And a panic settles into his chest like he'd just ruined the whole peace everyone had established today.
“I- I mean, you can crash for the night. It's not that big but it's way closer than any Inn,” he tries to make it better, “Plus, Jonathan, didn't you tell me Mrs. Byers wanted you home early for uh— a family dinner?” Steve straight up lies, praying, hoping Jonathan plays along. And he does.
Your brows meet together in the middle, trying to form another sensible solution and when you come to none, you –hesitantly– agree.
“If its really okay with you, then yeah, thank you. I'll be gone first thing in the morning anyway.” You tell him, like the thought of you gone will be comforting. Like the very idea of it doesn't make him want to go back up to the roof and jump.
But he doesn't say that, in fact he doesn't say anything. He just stares at you until you do finally look him in the eyes and hear everything he doesn't say anyway. Only then does he look away, clear his throat and telepathically tells Robin to break the tension with some weird nervous joke not that he even has to, she would've done it regardless.
As the day winds down to dropping off everyone else, driving to only two houses until they're fully alone feels like a prison sentence. But it's one Steve would want to do for life. Having you around again is healing.
As he finally pulls up to Hopper's cabin to drop off Jonathan, your body goes tense. He can't tell if it's the cold, or the idea of being completely alone with him with no buffer or just, the memories of her. He decides it's all three and looks away.
Two minutes after Jonathan gets out, you do too. To hug him goodbye. To tell him you'll see him directly next week. The steering wheel imprints into his palm with how hard he's clenching it.
“You should come in and say hi to Mom. And Hopper.” he tells you and you shake your head.
“You know I can't go in there. But I'll see you in a few days and we can go visit Will together,” you promise and then hug him again.
When he goes away and you finally turn around to him, to the car, you pause and realize that for the first time since you saw him again, you are now alone, with Steve Harrington. That you no longer have a buffer or an excuse to avoid him, to sit in the backseat. Your heart thuds against your chest rapidly as you walk to the front and feel the cold handle of the passenger seat on your hand. Steve's staring ahead at the door that Jonathan just went in from, not at you.
After a mental pep talk you get into what used to be your designated seat.
The cold air from the woods had trapped itself into the car, a contrast to the bubbling warmth that had settled into your stomach. In nervous anticipation. You're hyper aware of every single thing you felt for him, that you'd tried to forget in these last eleven months and failed miserably. Your chest aches from how hard your heart beats for this man.
You take a deep breath and put your seatbelt on as Steve starts the car.
There's a tension-thick silence that spreads inside the car which is weird because both of you have so many things you want to ask the other. You have a million things to talk about. And yet not a single word is uttered.
Steve hated deliberate silences. Or just, silences in general. It always ended up reminding him of all the years he's spent alone in a quiet, empty house, void of a family and happiness. There had been a time, when he was eight years old, that for months his parents didn't come home and normally he used to drown the loud silence out with even louder music but eventually unkind, taunting thoughts would blast in his mind.
Much like now, except there was no music to begin with. Just your presence and that loud, loud silence that he can't take anymore and so he resorts to the worst thing known to man— awkward small talk.
“So,” he clears his throat, “you and Jonathan hang out often now?”
You flinch slightly, not expecting the sound of his voice directed at you.
“Oh, Y-yeah,” your voice cracks despite yourself, “We do, I mean we only live like two hours away from each other and...” you pause, hesitating to say the next bit. “...he's the closest thing to home I have since I moved away.”
Part of him wishes you'd just stopped at ‘yeah’ or ignored him altogether as your answer is like a punch to his gut. Because of the unwanted jealousy that settles within him and because his heart aches for you, for how much you've lost.
He pulls up to his new apartment building, you look around, you feel... out of place, yet again. This is a life that he's built– built without you. All by himself. A life, probably envisioned without you and yet here you are, stepping into what should be off limits to you.
“Steve,” you say, suddenly very aware of the fact that this could go south, “are you sure you want me to–”
“Yes.”
The answer comes before you can even finish your sentence, in fact before you can even completely start, like he can read your mind and he probably can.
He's not even looking at you, he's taking off his seat belt and then getting out of the car. You take your own seatbelt off and then about to open your own door.
Steve blames it on biology; instinct. On history, on science; muscle memory. He doesn't even dare to blame it on emotions. On his stupid, stupid heart, when he walks to your side to open the door for you.
You pause. Look at him, stunned and finally he looks you in the eyes. And suddenly, somehow, you have all the answers to the questions you'd left unasked earlier when you'd opted for awkward silence instead.
He clears his throat for the tenth time tonight and steps away. You start to think he's gonna have a sore throat by morning.
You let him close the door and lead you to his apartment, it's on the first floor itself. And the building looks good, a little rustic and probably has been here for a decade or two.
It's his and so unmistakably him.
As soon as you step inside his familiar scent takes over your senses. The wall to your left is littered with photo frames, the ones you've seen and the ones you haven't. There's one with him and his entire baseball team; all adorable little kids literally looking up at him and cheesing. There's some new ones with him and Dustin and one with Robin.
You are nowhere in sight. Not even a single group photo with you in it. You probably deserve that.
He takes your coat and gestures at you to sit, it all feels too painfully formal and awkward.
“Night cap?” he asks
“Alcohol or coffee?”
“Anything you like. I can even make the coffee a little... Irish if you want.”
The playful smirk on his face makes him so irresistibly attractive.
Normally, you'd settle for a nice hot coffee. But if you were to survive this night, in Steve's presence, in his house, you were gonna need the support of gin. Or whiskey, anything really.
“How about just Irish, no coffee?” you ask mirroring his smirk.
He huffs, “Coming right up.”
Three drinks down along with the help of the earlier beers, y'all were laughing and reminiscing about old memories. Of the crew, about Dustin singing and the time Robin tried to colour her hair pink and it turned out to be neon. These were all safe memories. You should have stuck with those.
But instead, you found yourself reminiscing something you shouldn't have.
“Oh my God, remember the time Robin had walked in on—” you catch yourself just in time before you finished the sentence, both of you straightening and sobering up quickly.
Steve's face pales somewhat and he swallows, “Yeah,” he says plastering a tight smile, “Yeah, I remember that.”
The room suddenly felt warmer and small again. You look away, setting down your glass, “... Sorry,” you mumble, “that was weird, wasn't it?”
“No, not weird,” he reassures and shrugs, “It's okay, I mean we can joke about this right? It's been almost a year, It's fine.”
He gets up to put the gin and tonic away and you can tell it's not fine. Steve has this tick where his voice gets all high pitched and choked and he tries to busy himself with some menial task to avoid being perceived.
“Are you fine?” you ask him
“Perfectly.”
You nearly scoff. When you agreed to come back here you didn't expect a lot. You expected a cold shoulder, a radio silence, a heated argument or confrontation. You prepared yourself for nearly every heated outcome. What you didn't think to prepare yourself for was... this. Steve being so chill with you like you're old buddies.
“Don't be like that.”
“Like what?” he shrugs
“That. So fucking... casual. Acting like you don't care,” you snap.
Steve still has that faux clueless and casual look on his face but his eyes are bitterly glassy, betraying him.
Taking a deep breath, you say, “I just... want you to be honest with me. Even if it's brutally.”
“I am being honest with you,” he says like it's the most obvious thing even though he almost chokes on the words.
“Bullshit.”
“Just, drop it.”
“No.”
“Fine! You want the truth? The truth that every single second I've spent without you feels like hours. That every single hour I've spent with you today has felt like milliseconds, that truth?” the words leave him like a train wreck.
“Or how about the truth that you going on to keep in touch with every single person except me made me so fucking miserable.” Steve was breathing heavily, he could practically hear the fast murmur of his own blood and he was sure so could you.
This was good. This was heat. This made you feel something and didn't confirm what you thought; that you'd become completely hollow inside.
“What? Nothing to say now?” his voice is small
When you don't say anything he scoffs, “Yeah, that's what I thought.”
“It wasn't easy for me.” You say after a long moment of silence.
He looks at you, “What wasn't?”
“Leaving.” you let out a shaky breath, “Hawkins was like a cage for me, one that I wanted to get out of my entire life even before all of this.”
“...And the second I found a reason to stay in that cage, I had the opportunity to be free.”
You pick at your nail bed until it's raw, “And, I did stay. I stayed for the longest time. For the family I built here, for you.”
It's the first time tonight you've directly acknowledged your past together. “But,” your eyes well up, “after what happened, I couldn't. I can't. It hurts too much, even right now just being here hurts so much.”
Steve's chest hurts, he always had more empathy than he could handle. Even for the people that hurt him, or rather, especially for them. You, however were not just someone who hurt him. You were someone who taught him what love really is. You taught him that in conquers a lot, but not all. You're the person who's held him on countless nights when he couldn't bear to be In this world. So how could he not hurt and ache for you?
“And I don't know... I felt like keeping in touch with you after everything, after the fight we had would hurt even more. I had rather you hate me than pretend to tolerate me when I was clearly hurting you and my choices were pissing you off.” You tell him honestly.
“Damn it,” he almost whispers, “but you're not the only one who gets to make that decision. Why don't I get a say in it?”
“Because, If you did have a say in it, you would stay.”
You're louder now and you choke on your words, “You would stay with me and leave this town even though you don't want to.”
“You'd let yourself be miserable with me than happy without me.”
“That's the thing though, I'm not happy without you. I try to be, I really do. I invest most of my time into work, I love spending time with the kids,” he takes a fortifying breath, “I've tried to go on dates,”
Despite knowing he has more than the right to move on, you can't help how the confession makes you feel; sick to your stomach and jealous. But his next words comfort you a little.
He sits down next to you, “It goes horribly. At the end of the date all I can think about is ‘oh she's nice, but nah she doesn't laugh like you’ ‘she doesn't smell like you’ ‘she can't make me laugh with just a simple look like you’.” He imitates his train of thought, breathlessly.
“The point is,” he dares to take your hand in his, “No one and nothing makes me happy like you.”
You let your fingers entwine with his, his touch is grounding. It makes you feel.
“Are you?” he asks
“Am I what?”
“Happy.” he says, “are you happy?”
‘Without me’ is left unsaid.
You look into his eyes and soon enough, tears start forming in yours. You were far from happy. You couldn't remember the last time you were happy but you're sure it was with him. Your body has ached and pained in regret ever since you walked away from him. It's never stopped, never dulled.
Putting your other hand into his as well, you shake your head gently.
“Do you miss me?” he asks hopefully and you give him a watery smile.
“Of course I do,” you say, “Do you miss me?”
“With every damn bone in my body.”
Your head falls down and he habitually reaches to caress your hair back. That's the moment that breaks it for the two of you. You don't know who leans in first, you're almost certain you do. The kiss is hesitant, teetering on the edge of something risky and it ends almost as soon as it starts.
Steve swears it took the Gods themselves to physically stop him from grabbing you and kissing you stupid. His lips tingle from the mere 20 second kiss.
Your foreheads lean against each other, he licks his lips savouring the taste of you for a little longer.
“Steve, we shouldn't. Nothing has changed, I still want nothing to do with this town and you still do,” you say but lean into his touch anyway. How could you not? This very touch is what had kept you from breaking those seven months. And then the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept you sane these past eleven, months.
“I know,” he gently rubs down your shoulder, “I know,” he repeats, a whisper.
“But, that doesn't mean we can't steal one day— just one more day, all for us,” he bargains.
These last 18 months had been like waking up in a cold, empty void every single day. And then like clockwork, your mind set up a projection screen and replayed all the blood curdling moments of your life, like a never ending movie. And Hawkins was your cinema of doom. Though you'd torn up that ticket, and walked out, there was still something that connected you here— him. The man in front of you who had been your entire world. The world, that you uprooted. The one, that was haggling you for you.
And you give in.
Your mouths crash together again, this time fully unwavering and purposeful.
It's all a haze of heat as he pushes you on your back, towering you— his mouth on your neck, on your collar bone, on your chest. Every kiss, every touch, every spark that jolts both of you alive feels like goodbye. You know it is goodbye and it hurts so much that all you can do is let yourself feel it and feel him.
He's hot and hard between your thighs in seconds. Like putty, you melt into each other's embrace. He grinds into you and cries out.
Steve hadn't been touched this way since you left, hadn't even wanted to be. So now, every touch from you sets his skin ablaze, hot under your fingertips. You roll your hips against his once again to get that reaction out of him, it numbs the pain you feel for the time being and you need that.
“Fuck..” he curses, his eyes stinging from the sensitivity.
He lifts you up in his arms and takes you to his bedroom, you don't even have time to take a look around as he throws you on the bed and towers you again instantaneously, pulling you into another heated make out.
You all but tear off each other's clothes. He has to take a moment to ground himself when he looks at you, bare, beneath him glowing and bathed in moonlight, looking like something that's worth 11 months of abstinence. Looking like he could marry you right in this moment.
That's just a dream that'll never be fulfilled he reminds himself and latches onto your nipple to make himself forget it. Your sweet whines and moans do just that.
His one hand twists and plays with your neglected breast while the other reaches down, between your thighs to feel you.
He bites down onto your nipple and then moans when he feels how wet you are for him.
He pulls away, “Holy shit, baby, all that for me?” he pants against you.
You moan and nod dumbly, latching onto his lips restlessly, needing to feel him everywhere. Your hands roam all over his body, feeling the shape of his biceps, the constellations of his moles that you have memorized like it's your own body.
“Stevie...” you roll your hips into his hand, urging him to do more.
He pushes two fingers in, his thumb taking care of your clit. You grind deeper into his hand, needing more of it, more of him.
If this was goodbye, you wanted to make sure it never ends.
You thrash and hump into his hand until his thumb slips off from your clit and you whine, while he smiles at you. “You like that? You want me touching you there?” he purrs against you, and you nod, biting your lip, embarrassed at how quickly he'd gotten you worked up and begging.
Steve himself wasn't doing any better than you, his cock was threatening to break free from it's constraints. So he withdraws his fingers from you.
“No!” you whine, “Fuck, why would you— please—”
“It felt so good.” you complain and he coos against you, shushing you, pressing his erection into you to calm you down. “I know, baby,” he whispers, freeing himself finally. Hissing softly against you when the cool air and the warmth of the split of your pussy touches his cock at the same time.
“Fuck, I don't know if I can survive this,” He chuckles nervously, “haven't felt this in so long, might just die.”
His words and the noises he's making, makes you impossibly wetter. And more impatient, desperate.
You wanted this to last as long as possible but you also wanted and needed him to fuck you stupid until you couldn't form a single thought.
“Stevie— inside— please..” you can barely speak.
He pushes himself inside before he can brace himself, or give himself a little pep talk, just to take your ache away. He thrusts are shallow at first, he's too overwhelmed to fuck you in full force yet. His head falls to your chest and your arms cradle him down.
“I missed you,” he chokes against your chest, thrusts deeper now. “God, I missed you so much it hurt.”
When he pushes in further, the walls of your pussy clench and contract around him like you never want to let him go. He freezes momentarily, the feeling's too much. “Oh— shit, wait...” he holds himself up with his fists on each side of your head, clenched into the pillow.
You feel it too; the stretch, it's too much. The way your walls grip him like they refuse to forget him. Like your body wishes to carve him into yourself. But, it's worse for him, you can tell. Every thrust, every jerk of either of your hips feels like electricity jolting down his spine— awakening something in him that wasn't even asleep to begin with.
He brings one hand down to press into your stomach, as if to feel himself inside you. You gasp, it feels too good.
Your voice and any sound from you, makes it so much worse for him.
He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, “Too much. You’re too tight, I can’t– I can’t move yet or I’ll–” His voice breaks into a whimper. “Fuck, waited so long for this. Wanted this every night– woke up hard—” he pants each word and times it with each thrust. The stretch is exquisite torture for you both.
“Don't stop, please don't stop.”
A broken sound rips through him when you clench him harder, urging him to go deeper, faster. You feel every throb if his cock. Matter of fact you can practically feel his heartbeat as he fucks you deep, echoing where you're joined.
“Baby— Oh, you're squeezing me so hard— too hard.”
Tears sting your eyes with the physical and emotional intensity of it all.
Each thrust punches a new sound out of both of you, your broken whines and his low, wrecked groans. The bed creaks under the force of his newfound rhythm that threatens to ruin y'all. His arms wrap around you so tight it’s hard to breathe, like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and tether your bodies together so you can never be apart again. Like he refuses to let this be good bye.
When his breathing gets faster and he brings one hand down to desperately rub at your clit, you know he's close already. And just the thought of that brings you closer as well.
“Can't hold it— need you to come for me baby, please, I can't hold it for long.” He whines against you, mouth latching onto your nipples helplessly. He knows it's your weakness, the one thing that'll speed up your climax.
His forehead presses against yours once again, as the end nears. His calloused finger increases the sweet torment against your pearl.
His eyes well up and he moves to press a faint kiss against your temple that breaks into a sob when you moan, “Steve, gonna—” you bury your head in his shoulder, biting down.
“I love you, I love you, I love—” you choke on your feelings as the orgasm washes over you. Ruining you and making you anew all at once. You writhe and roll your hips against his, pushing him over the edge as well.
“Fuck, baby, gonna come—”
“Can I fill you up, please— need to fill you—” he groans and it's the filthiest most wrecking sound you've ever heard.
You should say no. You're not on the pill, this is good bye, you probably won't even see him again. You should say no.
“Yes— fill me up, please, oh god—” is what you say, beg, instead.
His hips stutter and then with one last, deep thrust, come to a halt. He chokes on a cry before silencing himself against your lips in a mind numbing kiss.
He fills you up, to the brim with weak thrusts to preserve the moment even though he's raw. To keep his essence within you, like a damn parting gift.
For the next who knows how many minutes you stay that way, holding each other, crying openly.
When he's finally too tired to hold the stance, he pulls out and lays next to you, still holding you to his chest.
You don't know how long it took until you stopped crying. Until he stopped crying. Until he fell asleep against you, fingers still tight around your shoulders.
Even in his sleep, he cant seem to let you go. His love for you transcended state of consciousness, norms, dimensions.
Eventually when he does loosen his grip on you, you get up to go to the bathroom. That's when you finally get a chance to look around his new room and what you see nearly makes the floor beneath you slip.
Pictures. Yours, his with you, all around the wall. He still kept them. Even in a new house, a new life, even though you weren't here physically he still took you along with him every new step.
You wanted to cry. You wanted to wake him up and tell him how much you love him. That you wanna stay with him. But most of all, you wanted to leave. You wanted to get out of here, run away from everything once again.
So, as soon as dawn hits, you do. You leave. With a letter on his night stand and uncontrollable tears in your eyes, you leave once again and hate yourself for it. And you know, or rather hope he will too. You need him to hate you. To let you go, to forget you. Because you truly didn't, and probably will never have it in you to stay here.
reblogs and feedback greatly appreciated!
end notes: left this at a sadder, open ending for if or when i do have motivation to write more of this. Honestly, this one is truly for the avoidant girlies and also my way to cope with a breakup. MIGHT MAKE A PART TWO ONCE I'M DONE COMPLETING SOME REQUESTS?
Dare I request shy aged up Mike x reader where she makes him touch himself in front of her while she watches….mayeb this is too political idk but I’ve BEEN thinking about this idea 😋
the exercise | college!mike wheeler x f!reader
summary: You offer to fix Mike’s inability to talk to women by having him participate in a lovely, very much not board certified, psychological exercise.
word count: 6.9k
warnings: mike-centric but still second person pov, cursing, discussions of sex, sub!mike (as the lord intended), dom!reader (not crazy dommy mommy but it makes sense you’ll see), unethical use of science??, m!masturbation, light oral, spitting, mike being a big fucking loser (what’s new), mean!reader (if u squint), vague discussions of anxiety, mike discovering he does in-fact like to be told what to do, fluff, no use of y/n
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+ SUB MIKE IS HERE SUB MIKE IS HERE, y’all idek what i did here but dis shit freaky. i didn’t really imagine him as a virgin in this one but he’s definitely inexperienced, the world is your oyster imagine him how you wish! i also don’t know shit about psychology & this is a work of fiction so don’t go looking for evidence bc all this shit is made up. sorry anon if this is not what you had in mind- it just took it and ran with it! thank you for your request & hope you enjoy!
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos
[banner credit @dividers-are-us]
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likes and reblogs make the world go round ♡
Mike Wheeler believed himself to be a very lucky man. As luck went, it seemed like he'd consistently received more than his fair share, yet somehow, there was always more to go around.
In his fruitful luck, Mike had miraculously aided in saving the world, defying all odds and somehow living to tell the tale. He'd also been able to snag a last minute seat in his freshman Introduction to Publishing class, where he'd luckily met the son of the most influential publisher in the North East, who was luckily very interested in Mike's authorship.
His most recent bout of luck had come the first week of winter break. He'd come back home to Hawkins, excited to see his friends and ready to catch up on lost time. His parents were on a trip to Florida for Holly's dance competition, luckily set to return a couple days after Mike had arrived, leaving Mike home alone.
The rest of the party wouldn't arrive in Hawkins until around the same time, but ever so luckily, you'd arrived first.
So in the spirit of luck, fate, and the Holy Powers That Be, Mike, desperate to finally have something to show for the three years he'd wasted pining timorously after you, cashed in the remainder of his luck and invited you to spend the night at his house, just like old times.
Luckily, you'd said yes.
But what Mike didn't realize, in his present luck-induced euphoria, was that his luck would eventually run out. There, in the dimly lit basement of his childhood home, surrounded by a pizza box, chip bags, and the light smell of underground mildew, with your pajama-clad body spread out peacefully on the opposite side of his couch.
There was a reason he'd allowed himself to pine after you for all these years- he couldn't get himself to talk to you without sounding like a complete idiot. He often couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth, really, and so, he'd decided it was better to yearn in secret. Poor guy.
Mike was usually (keyword there) very outgoing. He'd been the leader of the party, the Dungeon Master, the one everyone depended on to call the shots. But when it came to you and your beautiful eyes, kind features, and bold personality, Mike found himself regressing.
He became shy around you, unsure, not wanting to trip over his words in fear of ruining any shot he had with you. He'd known you’d never hold that against him, but you were just so beautiful, so perfect, and you reverted him to a meek puddle of the man he could be whenever you were near. Pitiful really, but Mike never said he was unhappy.
So there, in his basement, with a mindless sitcom playing in the background, laugh track rudely interrupting Mike's precious brainstorm for conversation starters, Mike realized that his luck had finally run dry.
You both were so close, in an empty house with no responsibilities, but Mike couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say in order to take the night in the direction he wanted it to go.
He'd thought his luck would grant him a couple of good pick-up lines, or maybe just enough confidence to slide up next to you, anything. So far, everything you both had spoken about had been completely, utterly, and entirely mundane.
It's not that Mike didn't care about how college had gone for you, nor you for him. On the contrary, he'd drunk up every word you'd said with genuine interest.
The issue lay with your sheer cotton long-sleeve and no bra, which had your nipples pebbling deliciously in the cool December night. Mike had noticed them immediately, and for the entirety of the night, his brain had been plagued by insufficiently effective ideas on how to address the problem at hand.
He wanted something more like his problem in your hand.
And he'd been absolutely losing his mind about it.
You’d been watching Mike for a while- not in a creepy way, just in that unmistakable you’re being observed and I know you know way.
He cleared his throat. Again.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?” you asked, innocently in the most fake way possible.
“That,” he said, gesturing vaguely at you. “The looking.”
You grinned. “I’m allowed to look at you. You’re my best friend.”
“That feels like a loophole.”
You shrugged. “I think unprompted looking is allowed in Clause C, Section 2 of our friendship code. ”
He laughed despite himself, then immediately realized that laughing was a mistake because now you’re smiling wider, eyes bright like you’d just unlocked a new achievement.
Mike shifted, the couch creaking traitorously.
You tilted your head. “You okay there, Wheeler?”
He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “You are doing this on purpose.”
“Oh, absolutely,” you said, adjusting yourself so that you were laying facing him. "You're acting weird, and I'm going to keep staring at you until I figure out why." You squinted your eyes in his direction.
"I am not acting weird," he huffed, reaching for a slice of pizza. Maybe he could conceal his internal battles by shoving his face.
"You are so acting weird. I've known you forever. You're acting all skittish, like," you paused to make a motion with your hands, "like a mangy cat."
“You’re sho kin’,” he said, speaking through a mouth full of pizza.
You pursed your lips knowingly, shooting him a look that read more "I know all your secrets," rather than "I am a kind and loving friend! Trust me!".
"Mike, c'mon. Are you worried about school? I thought all your classes were going well?"
He shook his head as he chewed, "It's not school, I'm fi-"
"Is it girls?" You cut him off.
Mike began to choke on his pizza.
Your eyes lit up in delight. "Gotcha!"
You shimmied yourself over to him, offering two friendly pats to his back to help the choking subside.
Mike was very outgoing, yes, but his fatal flaw had always been that he wore his heart out on his sleeve. In your years of friendship, you'd learned to read him like a book. Mike wore his emotions on his face and through his actions. He would practically reek of feelings, his vibe shifting outwardly to match whichever sensation most plagued him.
"It's, n-no-, fuck, it's not that," he finally breathed out once his attack died down, placing the slice back in the box.
"Mike," you shot him another knowing look. "You can talk to me. Wouldn't it be nice, to y'know, talk about your girl troubles with a girl? I could have valuable insight!"
"Dude, no way you're a girl?" he joked, eyes wide in fake surprise. You slapped him in the arm, his laugh light.
"I'm serious, you ass!" You nudged him lightly with your leg, both of you sinking into the side of the basement couch. You weren't terribly close, but enough to touch each other without having to reach much.
Mike sighed, ultimately cornered under your watchful gaze.
“It’s nothing, really, I don’t know,” he shook his head in exasperation, “I just need to stop getting so, like, nervous all the time.”
You looked at him with understanding, warm eyes urging him to continue. “What do you mean by nervous?”
“Shit, like, I see a girl, okay right, she’s attractive,” he spoke animatedly, “and I know what I want to say, but then I speak and it all comes out wrong and I end up sounding like a fucking idiot and she looks at me weird and runs away!”
You hummed, nodding your head slowly. “Why do you think it’s hard for you to talk to them?”
Mike had finally caught on to what you were doing. “Are you doing your therapist shit on me right now?”
You glared at him. You were a third year psychology student at NYU, studying hard in hopes of one day earning a PhD. You’d done two years of dual enrollment at Hawkins Community College, so you were fast-tracked to enter your master’s program in a couple years. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but let your education seep into your friendships, seeking always to provide the tools to assist them with whatever it was that troubled them.
“Yes I am, now answer the question. It could help!”
He rolled his eyes at you, pulling a throw pillow onto his lap for comfort.
“I’ve never been confident when it comes to girls, you know this. Girls usually don’t like guys who aren’t athletic or don’t work out or whatever. I’m- I’m a freak to them most of the time, and it’s hard to get past that first impression. I guess I get scared that I’ll say the wrong thing before I even say anything, and then it goes downhill from there.”
“That’s not necessarily true, Mike. Lots of girls would be delighted to be with you,” you offered.
“Yeah, maybe. I just wish I could wake up one day, y’know, and be different. I wish I had the confidence to say what I needed to without sounding stupid.”
You thought for a second before an idea came to you. “What if you didn’t need to be different? There’s exercises you could do to bypass that, maybe. We just learned about some.”
He looked at you with wary eyes. “Exercises?”
Okay, maybe not necessarily exercises. More like experiments. You had a feeling, a hypothesis if you will, that if Mike paired his communication issues with a high-stress environment, his cognitive output would become distracted, ultimately overwhelming himself and releasing his ‘tongue-tie.’ Once he did that, he’d subconsciously realize that it was okay and normal to say whatever it was he needed to say, and boom, he’d be cured. Maybe. Possibly.
You nodded, “you gotta stay with me here okay. You’d need to simulate a high-stress environment, um, somewhere you’d feel like, uncomfortable or nervous. But it needs to make you feel substantially more nervous than talking to a girl would. It has to override that feeling, sorta.
“Then, I’d ask you questions that would simulate a conversation with a girl. Since you’d be focusing on two things at once, the goal would be that the greater stressor, situation one, would overpower the minor stressor, the communication issues, and you would basically distract yourself into forgetting about how you can’t talk to girls because you’ll be caught up in the major stressor. Does that make sense?”
Mike was confused as to the details, but understood the general principle. You were basically trying to distract the nervousness out of him, and it seemed plausible. He just didn’t know what kind of environment you both could simulate to get the desired outcome, but it was worth a shot.
“O-okay, sure, yeah.” He agreed, gripping the pillow a tad tighter.
Your face lit up with joy, excited to get your exercise on its way.
You cleared your throat as you settled in next to him, using your hands to put emphasis on your words, “so we would need to brainstorm. Think of stuff that would stress you out, but be realistic. No skydiving, or failing a math test, or whatever.”
Mike nodded, gears churning in his brain.
“Well, for one, girls-“
“We can’t do that, the variables would be too similar. Next one.”
“Okay, uhhh, haunted houses?”
“Mike,” you warned, “you’ve literally fought real-life monsters and you’re stressed out by haunted houses?”
He shrugged, “fine, um, let me think.”
You both sat in silence for a while, TV still playing mindlessly in the background. Mike was deep in thought, committed to finding something that would work well for the exercise.
“Sex.” He finally spoke, eyes shifty and nervous, refusing to meet your gaze.
“Oo-kay,” you sing-songed, “sex. Right. Actually, it's a pretty normal choice, statistically speaking.”
“But, like, how do we, y'know, use that for the exercise?” He brought a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing oddly for comfort.
“Well,” you swallowed, wracking your brain for any uses you could think of. “I don’t think it would be fruitful to simulate sex itself, but maybe like a part of it?”
“A part of it,” Mike repeated, heart starting to beat a bit faster.
“Yeah, a part of it. Sometimes most experiments and exercises don’t require a subject’s full exposure to the variable. Sometimes, a partial exposure works just as well.”
“So what, you want me to have partial sex?” His voice squeaked.
“No, silly, just like, something sexual? I think it would distract you just like you need it to.”
Mike opened and closed his mouth a couple times, searching for the appropriate thing to say. He felt like a fish out of water.
Feeling his apprehension, you began to backtrack. “It’s okay, you don’t have to. It might be a bit strange. We can think of another way,” you offered, looking to avoid a Michael Wheeler panic attack.
He shook his head, much to your surprise. “No, no, I…I think you’re right. This could help. It’s just, wow, um, I could, maybe, touch myself? Would that work?”
“Yeah, yeah it could, but I don’t want to freak you out with anything, so really, we don’t have to.” You offered him a small smile, finally meeting his gaze. He looked unsure, and you hoped he wasn’t doing this for the sake of not shutting down your idea.
“I want to, yeah. Let’s do it.” Mike didn’t even know why he was agreeing to this. He was having a hard time grappling with the fact that he’d need to be naked and touching himself in front of you before he’d even confessed his feelings. It seemed like he was skipping a few steps there.
But this small part of him, a tiny minuscule part hidden under the nerves and anxiety, was grateful for the opportunity. If this exercise failed at getting him over his tongue-tie, he hoped it would change something between you both. While you were being exceptionally clinical about it all, which he partially appreciated, deep down, he wanted you to feel some sort of way about this- about him doing this in front of you.
“Okay. Cool. I really think this will work. Just, get situated, and I’ll ask you questions. It’s gonna feel super uncomfortable at first, but just remember that it’s for the greater good, and you can stop at any time.”
He removed the pillow from his lap, awkwardly wiping his clammy hands on his thighs.
You scooted closer- just enough that your knee brushed his thigh. Deadly casual.
“You’re very cute when you’re flustered,” you told him.
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Mmhmm. And thinking very loudly.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” you said. “I can practically hear the gears churning in there,” you gestured to his head.
He exhaled and looked at you- really looked at you now. His cheeks were pink and his eyes a little too focused, like he’d been deciding whether he’s brave enough to jump off this cliff.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
You hummed. “Maybe.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
He shifted again, slower this time, like he’s finally given up pretending nothing’s happening.
“You’re not gonna make fun of me,” he said.
You softened just a touch. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Okay, maybe a little,” you admitted with a smile. “But only affectionately,” you said with a wink.
He laughed, breathy, shaking his head. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you said, leaning in just enough to lower your voice, “you haven’t told me to stop.”
That does it.
He swallowed. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, like he’d been checking the exit signs one last time before deciding to stay seated.
“…You’re not gonna look away?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He let out a long breath, a half-laugh. “You’re evil.”
“Correct.”
Another pause. This one was heavier, but still playful, buzzing with the type of tension that felt slightly ridiculous and extremely charged.
He finally nodded, just once. “Okay. But if I die from embarrassment, that’s on you.”
“I’ll put it on your headstone,” you say. “Died for science.”
That earned you a snort, which somehow made the moment better instead of ruining it.
He settled back against the couch, shoulders loosening as he realized- oh. It wasn’t scary. It was just… vulnerable. And you were right there, watching him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your chin propped in your hand, eyes warm and unmistakably interested. You were curled up next to him, your warm legs burning a hole into the side of his thigh.
His hands started towards his zipper, but hesitated slightly once they reached the button.
“Wow,” you said after a moment, thoughtful. “You really do overthink everything.”
He groaned. “Please don’t narrate.”
“Fine,” you said. “But just so you know-”
He sent you a hard glance.
You smile, slow and unapologetic. “You’re doing great.”
He returned his gaze down towards his cock, now slightly inflated in his pants. He was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that maybe he did like this, you watching him. It felt dirty, taboo even, and definitely unlike anything he’d ever thought about while touching himself.
Well, you were always there, of course, in every dirty fantasy of his. But when he touched himself at night, he more so imagined being the one taking on the leadership role, caring for you- guiding you. Instead, Mike was discovering how much he liked when you led him.
Mike bit his lip, refusing to meet your eyes, focused instead on his growing erection that seemed to spur itself on the more he thought of you watching him. Tentatively, his hand came to rest directly atop his erection, pushing down slightly with a soft roll of his hips.
He looked good enough to fucking eat. His pale skin was slightly flushed, and his hips were rolling in on themselves softly, but still desperate enough that you could tell he was holding himself back. You loved Mike like this, completely nervous and raw. You loved knowing that you made him like this, and that he would kiss the ground you walked on if you’d let him.
“How’s that?” You asked softly, eyes trained on the way he groped himself.
“N-not bad, yeah,” he responded breathily, voice cracking a bit.
You practically melted at the vulnerability in his voice. If you were a better woman, you’d let him be. You’d let him forget all about the deal you made earlier and just let him enjoy the moment. You wished you were better, really, but you had waited a long time to see Mike like this, and you were going to milk it for all it was worth.
“Do you like it,” you paused, “when I watch you?”
It was an innocent enough question. Nothing outwardly dirty or provocative- a basic understanding of what was happening would be enough to answer. Mike, however, who would become red in the face if you accidentally touched his hand, almost choked on the spit in the back of his throat as blood rushed to his cock.
Unable to trust his voice around you, he chose to nod quickly, hand gripping harder around his full erection. He had practically forgotten the second part of this exercise, arguably the most important part. He couldn’t think of what to say to you even if he’d wanted to, focused deeply on how he’d let you do absolutely anything you wanted to him at any point, forever.
You tsked in disapproval. “C’mon now Mike, we agreed on words.” You dragged your blunt nails over his knees for emphasis, reminding him of his purpose.
Shame shot through Mike at your touch, feeling his cock jerking in his hand. He was filled with this overwhelming sense to please you, to be good for you. He wanted to show you that he was capable of stringing together two fucking words in front of a hot girl. Most importantly, he wanted you to be proud of him for doing it.
Your touch lingered on his knee, fingers now rubbing soft, small circles overtop his jeans, slowly acclimating Mike to your touch.
“I- I do, I like every-, everything y’do,” Mike spilled out, chest starting to heave a little from exertion.
What in the everloving fuck was that. If he had half a mind right now, he would slap himself in the face and leave his own damn house. Not only did Mike basically admit to having a crush on you, but he didn’t even care. He was in this odd sort of headspace, aiming only to please, and somehow, he felt like the best way to achieve that was indeed to sound like a submissive virgin while he touched himself in front of you.
Luckily for Mike, his admission had your legs squeezing together like they were connected by magnets, pussy fluttering at his honesty. It was becoming quite hard to keep yourself together for him.
Instead, you returned to your role, your voice dripping honey. “Aw, that’s sweet, Mike, really. I think you deserve something special for how sweet you’re being, what do you think?”
He nodded lightly, hips coming to a stop in preparation for your next instructions. “Yeah, y-yeah, whatever you want.”
“Look at me,” you demanded, having adjusted yourself slightly so that your covered nipples were unobscured by your arms. Immediately, his eyes locked on yours. He was so easy for you, questioning nothing. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Take your cock out, Mikey,” you hummed lightly, following with a small giggle, “I wanna watch you for real.”
His mouth dropped open slightly at your request, eyes not breaking contact with yours. Nervously and with much incoordination, Mike managed to pull his zipper down, slip his pants off, and place his hand back on his cock while only breaking eye contact thrice. Small wins.
Once he realized what he did, his face flushed even redder, so incredibly nervous to be sitting like this before you. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched you watching his cock, waiting for you to say something before he started again. The longer you stared, the more freaked out he became. Was he too much of a nervous wreck? Were you having second thoughts? Did you not want to do this with him?
One by one, evil thoughts began to plague his brain, and in true Mike Wheeler fashion, they began to show all over his face.
You were mesmerized by him, tall and proud, leaking small pearlescent beads of precum from the top of his red, leaky tip. It was so long, long enough to reach the back of your throat with more to spare, delicious and lengthy. It looked so soft, almost velvet to the touch, with one long vein running down the bottom of the shaft, begging for you to run your tongue along it.
You licked your lips hypnotically, caught in your own fantasies of Mike and blissfully unaware of the emotional wreck he was becoming beside you.
A small, frustrated groan pulled you from your reverie, a tiny pout marring your face in disappointment. Your features softened substantially once you realized the look on Mike’s face, once again so nervous that he seemed ready to bolt from the couch. You warmed slightly at his demeanor, finding his anxiety rather charming.
“What’s wrong?” you hummed, knowing rather well what he could be feeling.
Mike’s hand was no longer on his cock, instead balled into a fist at his sides. His nerves did nothing to discourage his length, however, which thrived in the novelty of the situation. Mike still didn’t know what to think. He knew he was highstrung, closer to a full blown crashout than he’d probably ever been, but not because he didn’t want to be here. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Simply, Mike was having a hard time adjusting to his role, not fully understanding that his shy, nervous attitude could act as an attractant instead of a repellent.
“What are you thinking?” He asked in response, desperate for your opinion to soothe his perpetual worries.
You thought about it for a second, choosing your words carefully. Mike’s heart was pounding in his chest the longer you took, preparing himself for a vicious rejection.
“I think,” you started, slowly rising from the couch, “that you look too good to not get a better view.” Slyly, you slipped onto the floor, in between his spread legs, now face to face with his angry cock, bringing your head to rest lightly on his knee. You could see his face perfectly, full of emotion and surprise. An absolutely perfect seat.
Mike was about to throw up. He felt like he was in a dream. Like he’d just taken a ride on the longest rollercoaster in America. Like he’d gone to Blockbuster and snagged the last copy of The Lost Boys with a box of M&M’s. He was absolutely out of his element, with you watching him expectantly between his legs. He silently blessed whoever had been looking out for him, and he’d come to the conclusion that he fully, totally, and wholly lucked out.
“How do you feel?” You spoke softly from the floor.
“Good, y-yeah, real good.” He spoke, just a bit rushed.
“Tell me more. You agreed, remember? Talk to me,” you added lightly, wrapping your hand around the back of his ankle lovingly, rubbing the cotton material of his crew sock lightly with your thumb.
He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling before settling in back on you.
“Well, fuck, ummmm, y’know, good’nstuff,” he mumbled, red in the face.
You huffed out a laugh, “good and stuff? Sweetheart, this is supposed to help you communicate in high stress situations. You do have to help yourself, though.”
He scoffed, as if it wasn’t a completely reasonable expectation to be nervous in a situation like this.
“It’s a bit hard to judge when you’re not the one naked and hard,” he said matter-of-factly, your name rolling off his tongue at the end.
“Would it help?” You countered. “If I took my shirt off?”
Mike may have been a loser, but he wasn’t an idiot. That would fucking rule.
But he had to play it cool. This was an exercise, after all.
“Only if you want to. I think I’ll be okay.”
You didn’t like that answer. You wanted feelings, real thoughts. Not what he thought you’d want to hear.
“No,” you shook your head, “Tell me straight. Do you want my shirt off?” Your eyes bore into his, tempting him to lie again.
He knew the act was up. Again, he was filled with that overwhelming urge to please you, to open up the deepest parts of himself and lay them out for you on a silver platter.
“Please,” he whispered, eyes closed for a brief moment, “take it off. I- I want to see you.”
Pressing a kiss to his knee, you voiced him a quick praise, lifting your shirt up from the hem, exposing your breasts to the cool air.
Mike sucked in a breath, his shaky hand subconsciously returning to his cock. You looked so good, carefree and calm, like you weren’t rocking his world with one simple action.
You leaned back against the coffee table, chest in full display before him. While it was supposed to ease his nerves, the sight of your bare torso made him a bit dizzier, in actuality.
“Better?”
“Yes, yeah, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you smiled at him lightly. Now that he was settled, you urged him to continue.
“You can, y’know, start, if you want.”
He nodded in understanding, remembering again what was supposed to be happening. He watched you watch him, confidently sitting back between his legs, gorgeous tits taking up his field of vision. Soon, the throb in his cock got to be too much, and he began to alleviate himself with slow, shaky strokes.
He huffed a breath through his nose at the sensation, brows furrowed ever so slightly. He liked this, a lot more than he wanted to admit, and you hadn’t even begun asking him questions. It was different from his expectations for sex. He’d always believed that sex had to be this thing, an act that required set-up and commitment to follow through. But this was so casual, so free, and Mike was excited to be a part of it.
You squirmed a bit as you watched him touch himself, huffing out little gasps of pleasure, bottom lip catching between his teeth. You were so entranced by his movements, you forgot that you were supposed to be asking him questions. Unfortunately, you’d have to push your feelings to the side for a moment. For, uh, science.
“I’m gonna ask you stuff now, okay? The questions are supposed to elicit a, um, reaction. But try your best to answer truthfully and coherently. I’ll start off easy.”
You tried your best to not sound clinical, but there was no way to explain the parameters of the exercise without sounding like you’d need a labcoat and a legal pad.
He nodded in understanding, his hand still moving slowly.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” You started. That was easy enough. He’d basically admitted his crush on you earlier, so you didn’t believe it to be too egregious of a start.
The pleasure in Mike’s groin was starting to build, if ever so slightly, meaning he was growing exponentially more disheveled as the time passed. He knew that his answers would lose coherence accordingly.
“Y-yeah, so pretty. Prettiest-ngh, girl I’ve ever seen.” He broke eye contact halfway through, choosing to sacrifice his gaze for comprehension. He didn’t think he’d be able to fully comply just yet.
You were tempted to praise him again, but you wanted this to feel as normal of a conversation as possible. “I think you’re pretty, too. Painfully handsome, actually.”
“Oh fuck, really?” His hand stuttered a bit as he registered what you said, ultimately gripping himself a little harder once he realized your comment.
“Yeah, I do. So, so handsome. I think about you sometimes. Do you think of me?”
He threw his head back at your admission, his hand moving a bit quicker, small drops of precum leaking out of his tip, spread slickly by his thumb.
“What the fuck,” he groaned out your name, his brain completely unprepared to deal with this. He was actually going to die. You thought of him? He hoped it was like this, dirty thoughts. Thoughts that matched his of you in the middle of the night.
Giggling, your hand grazed his knee in gentle reassurance, urging him to continue.
“Y-yes, all the-shit, all the time.” His hips started rolling softly again.
“What do you think about?”
You were unsure if you even wanted to know the answer. Mike was pent up, sure, but at least he got to put his hands on his cock to alleviate some of the surely building pressure. You were stuck squeezing your legs together in response to what was possibly the sexiest thing you’d ever see in your entire life, unsatisfied and forced to stay calm. You had to keep reminding yourself that you were doing this for him, not for you.
Mike used the little resolve he had left to wracked his brain for an appropriate answer, but ultimately came up short. He decided to just put his faith in the exercise, trusting himself to say the right things. In reality, he could only focus on two things at once, choosing those to be his cock and your tits.
“I think about you, ohgod, how fuckin’ p-perfect you are. So smart, funny, fuck-brave” he got cut off with a light groan, “think about us, sometimes, too. Alone.”
You leaned away from the coffee table, arranging your position so that you were seated on your knees. “And what do you think about, when you’re alone?” A kiss on his knee again.
“Fuck, I don’t k- stuff like this?” He was crumbling ever so slowly, his hand moving faster against himself.
“What’s ‘stuff like this’?” You hummed against his knee, trying to pry it out of him.
A pained groan left his mouth, “sexual s-shit, like this. I think about it with you.”
“Good job, that wasn’t that hard, hm? Do you think you’d like doing it with me?”
He nodded immediately, “Fuck yes, always yes, wan-wanted you…so fucking long,” his breath hitched at the end, almost whimpering. You had no idea what you were doing to him, so fucking innocently, like you were unaware of how hard he was trying to keep it together. Something about you, treating him like you almost didn’t care, was so unbelievably attractive. It surprised him that he’d even lasted this long.
“I’ve wanted you too, Mike. I want to do things with you, nasty fucking things,” you kissed both his thighs between words, “can I show you something?”
He expressed his agreement in a rather aggressive jerk of his head. You leaned closer to him, face mere inches away from his throbbing, red, beautiful cock, and took his wrist in your hand. His hand was dry, and you knew despite the desperation, it could always feel better. Without warning, you brought your lips to brush the head of his cock, so delicately. You parted your lips, and a fat, warm, dollop of spit landed right on the side of his cock, trailing slowly down towards the base.
Mike thought he was dead. Rest in fucking peace.
He was destroyed. Demolished. Annihilated. Obliterated. Mike had been fucked for every other girl for the rest of his life, because he would only ever be able to think of this moment. He’d think of it until he was blue in the balls. He’d think of it until he memorized every single detail.
Once you pulled away, a small string of spit connecting your lips to his cock, you noticed his chest heaving, eyes locked in on yours with his jaw slack. Beautiful and utterly fucked.
“Go on,” you prompted, back to your position on your knees, resting your ass on your heels.
“Holy fu-uck,” he spread your spit over himself, pumping with little resistance. He gripped his hand tighter around himself, desperate to come.
“Tell me what you think of,” you asked, head returning to his knee. You were so wet. You could feel your juices seeping through the cotton of your pajama pants, the wet spot growing to cover the tops of your inner thighs.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d tell you everything. Every dark fantasy, every secret thought, he didn’t care. He’d let the words flow, his need overcoming his nerves and shyness, both of those carelessly thrown halfway out the window.
“I think about your mouth, fuck, so warm…and w-wet,” it sounded more like a question, but he was too fucked to care, “wanna fuck you, y-yeah, all the fu-fucking time. Wanna make you feel so good, shit-like this. Let you- whatever you want, anything.”
You closed your eyes and let out a shallow breath as he continued. “Think about your tits, holy fuck, and wonder if you’d let me…let me come on them, sometimes. ”
He was so close, it wouldn’t take long at all. His brain was swarming with thoughts of you. You knew that it was probably the best time to keep asking him questions- he’d be raw and unfiltered, exactly what you think he’d need to get over his tongue-tied affliction. However, the room was about ten degrees hotter, and you were also beginning to lose your ability to think clearly.
“Y’gonna come, Mike?” You asked softly.
He nodded, hand working diligently to get him over the edge. All you could hear was the slick sound of his pumps harmonized with his heavy breaths.
“Can I help you?” You tried to stay strong, you really did, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
“Fucking shit, please,” he grunted out, knowing he wouldn’t need much.
You were at the point of ferality, and sure, you could’ve moved his hand and pumped him the rest of the way, or maybe suckled on his tip so that he came into your inviting mouth. But no. You wanted him to feel things, things he’d probably never felt. So you dipped your head, your warm, wet mouth coming to suckle softly on the center of his balls. They were heavy on your tongue, but the moan Mike let out was enough to make you hum with content.
He grabbed onto the back of your head by instinct, keeping you right where he wanted you. Before the back of his head even hit the couch, he was coming. His legs trembled while you sucked, running your tongue around the loose skin and savoring his salty taste.
He moaned your name loudly, pumping roped of cum onto his torso. He felt shattered, almost like he couldn’t remember where he was off the comedown. He was buzzing down to his toes, his whole body in a floaty state of euphoria.
You pulled off him with a pop, glassy eyes watching as Mike covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths, cum splayed over his clothed stomach.
After giving him some time to recharge, you spoke, weary voice splitting the silence.
“Try now,” you said.
“Hmmph?” He mumbled quizzically from beneath his hands, chest taking slow, deep breaths.
“I want to see if the exercise worked. Tell me something that would’ve made you nervous before.”
He removed his hands from his face and shot you a deadpanned look. “You couldn’t wait, I don’t know, until I wiped the cum off my shirt?”
You scrunched your nose, “No actually, Mike, I am a woman of science. I must know now. And also change your fucking shirt. Don’t just wipe.”
He rolled his eyes, lifting the shirt off his head, momentarily stark naked. He gathered up all his clothes, piling them in his hands while you put on your shirt.
“What would be considered a success? Based on the exercise,” he asked, walking up the basement stairs to dispose of his clothes in the hamper and put on pajamas.
“I don’t know,” you called, settling back down on the couch, “something you wouldn’t normally say without getting flustered. To a girl!”
Mike went up to his room pensively, thinking about what you’d said. As he shuffled through his drawers for a t-shirt and sweatpants, he realized that he didn’t physically feel any different than he did before you worked your psychological voodoo on him. Mentally, however, he felt like things between the both of you had shifted. The confessions from just a view minutes before were not lost to him, and he wondered if knowing that you felt the same about him made the idea of talking to you about his deepest thoughts easier to digest.
He’d made up his mind by the time he met you back in the basement. Running a hand through his tussled hair, he plopped down next to you and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
You looked at him expectantly, patiently awaiting the results of your experiment. In all fairness, it was self-serving. Lucas had told you months ago how Mike felt about you, and you’d truthfully run out of patience with him to make a move. Luckily for Mike, you’d just finished a Sexual Psychology class at NYU, and you were more than happy to kickstart the beginning of your relationship for him.
Much to your satisfaction, Mike turned to face you, hand coming to cup your cheek. His eyes met yours and found acceptance, tenderness, and a hint of something else. Adoration, perhaps? He wasn’t sure. But he knew he’d wasted too much time with you already.
“I like you. A lot. I,” he sighed, “I wasn’t kidding…before. I have for a long time,” he ran his thumb delicately across your cheek. “And, I think about you, all the fucking time. I want to be with you, and fuck, that was so hot- you’re so hot. And truthfully, I think I like when you tell me what to do.”
You smiled into his palm at his confession. “I know.”
Now that caught him off guard. You could see the emotions flickering through his features, ultimately landing on confusion.
“Lucas told me in June, before we left,” another sheepish smile.
He took a minute to process the information, before letting out a shocked laugh.
“For the record though, Mike, I wasn’t lying either, earlier. I like you too. Lots. I wouldn’t mind thinking of you more.”
He dropped his head to your shoulder with a groan, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Then why didn’t you say anything? You knew I’d never be able to.”
You ran your hands through the back of his hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo. Was that fucking Fabergé Organics? Whatever, you’d bug him another time for that.
“Actually, the exercise worked exceptionally well, I think. From your confession, and lack of intense stuttering, I can deduce that you’ve overcome your fear of talking to pretty girls.”
He pulled away, locking eyes with you, “you’re a genius, Doctor,” he joked, leaning in slightly to the point where your foreheads were touching.
You reciprocated, tangling your hands in his hair, brushing your lips with his, and whispered with a laugh, “I think gonna win a fucking Nobel prize.”
thank you all for your support! lmk what you think <3 muah!
there is so much to say and so many great moments in this fic that it's impossible to say all my thoughts but i am SO fucking obsessed with this it's actually insane
the way mike is written makes me so unbelievably smitten for him (as if i wasnt smitten enough already). and reader using her psychology knowledge to her advantage to extract information from him OHHHH I LOVE IT I JUST LOVE IT
i could feel the tension between these two. it was so easy to immerse myself and put myself in reader's shoes that i couldn't look away. not to mention this was SOOOOOO hot. mike progressively becoming more fast and loose with his words the closer he gets AHHHHHH
im just obsessed with everything about this. you wrote this so well.
Dare I request shy aged up Mike x reader where she makes him touch himself in front of her while she watches….mayeb this is too political idk but I’ve BEEN thinking about this idea 😋
the exercise | college!mike wheeler x f!reader
summary: You offer to fix Mike’s inability to talk to women by having him participate in a lovely, very much not board certified, psychological exercise.
word count: 6.9k
warnings: mike-centric but still second person pov, cursing, discussions of sex, sub!mike (as the lord intended), dom!reader (not crazy dommy mommy but it makes sense you’ll see), unethical use of science??, m!masturbation, light oral, spitting, mike being a big fucking loser (what’s new), mean!reader (if u squint), vague discussions of anxiety, mike discovering he does in-fact like to be told what to do, fluff, no use of y/n
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+ SUB MIKE IS HERE SUB MIKE IS HERE, y’all idek what i did here but dis shit freaky. i didn’t really imagine him as a virgin in this one but he’s definitely inexperienced, the world is your oyster imagine him how you wish! i also don’t know shit about psychology & this is a work of fiction so don’t go looking for evidence bc all this shit is made up. sorry anon if this is not what you had in mind- it just took it and ran with it! thank you for your request & hope you enjoy!
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos
[banner credit @dividers-are-us]
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Mike Wheeler believed himself to be a very lucky man. As luck went, it seemed like he'd consistently received more than his fair share, yet somehow, there was always more to go around.
In his fruitful luck, Mike had miraculously aided in saving the world, defying all odds and somehow living to tell the tale. He'd also been able to snag a last minute seat in his freshman Introduction to Publishing class, where he'd luckily met the son of the most influential publisher in the North East, who was luckily very interested in Mike's authorship.
His most recent bout of luck had come the first week of winter break. He'd come back home to Hawkins, excited to see his friends and ready to catch up on lost time. His parents were on a trip to Florida for Holly's dance competition, luckily set to return a couple days after Mike had arrived, leaving Mike home alone.
The rest of the party wouldn't arrive in Hawkins until around the same time, but ever so luckily, you'd arrived first.
So in the spirit of luck, fate, and the Holy Powers That Be, Mike, desperate to finally have something to show for the three years he'd wasted pining timorously after you, cashed in the remainder of his luck and invited you to spend the night at his house, just like old times.
Luckily, you'd said yes.
But what Mike didn't realize, in his present luck-induced euphoria, was that his luck would eventually run out. There, in the dimly lit basement of his childhood home, surrounded by a pizza box, chip bags, and the light smell of underground mildew, with your pajama-clad body spread out peacefully on the opposite side of his couch.
There was a reason he'd allowed himself to pine after you for all these years- he couldn't get himself to talk to you without sounding like a complete idiot. He often couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth, really, and so, he'd decided it was better to yearn in secret. Poor guy.
Mike was usually (keyword there) very outgoing. He'd been the leader of the party, the Dungeon Master, the one everyone depended on to call the shots. But when it came to you and your beautiful eyes, kind features, and bold personality, Mike found himself regressing.
He became shy around you, unsure, not wanting to trip over his words in fear of ruining any shot he had with you. He'd known you’d never hold that against him, but you were just so beautiful, so perfect, and you reverted him to a meek puddle of the man he could be whenever you were near. Pitiful really, but Mike never said he was unhappy.
So there, in his basement, with a mindless sitcom playing in the background, laugh track rudely interrupting Mike's precious brainstorm for conversation starters, Mike realized that his luck had finally run dry.
You both were so close, in an empty house with no responsibilities, but Mike couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say in order to take the night in the direction he wanted it to go.
He'd thought his luck would grant him a couple of good pick-up lines, or maybe just enough confidence to slide up next to you, anything. So far, everything you both had spoken about had been completely, utterly, and entirely mundane.
It's not that Mike didn't care about how college had gone for you, nor you for him. On the contrary, he'd drunk up every word you'd said with genuine interest.
The issue lay with your sheer cotton long-sleeve and no bra, which had your nipples pebbling deliciously in the cool December night. Mike had noticed them immediately, and for the entirety of the night, his brain had been plagued by insufficiently effective ideas on how to address the problem at hand.
He wanted something more like his problem in your hand.
And he'd been absolutely losing his mind about it.
You’d been watching Mike for a while- not in a creepy way, just in that unmistakable you’re being observed and I know you know way.
He cleared his throat. Again.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?” you asked, innocently in the most fake way possible.
“That,” he said, gesturing vaguely at you. “The looking.”
You grinned. “I’m allowed to look at you. You’re my best friend.”
“That feels like a loophole.”
You shrugged. “I think unprompted looking is allowed in Clause C, Section 2 of our friendship code. ”
He laughed despite himself, then immediately realized that laughing was a mistake because now you’re smiling wider, eyes bright like you’d just unlocked a new achievement.
Mike shifted, the couch creaking traitorously.
You tilted your head. “You okay there, Wheeler?”
He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “You are doing this on purpose.”
“Oh, absolutely,” you said, adjusting yourself so that you were laying facing him. "You're acting weird, and I'm going to keep staring at you until I figure out why." You squinted your eyes in his direction.
"I am not acting weird," he huffed, reaching for a slice of pizza. Maybe he could conceal his internal battles by shoving his face.
"You are so acting weird. I've known you forever. You're acting all skittish, like," you paused to make a motion with your hands, "like a mangy cat."
“You’re sho kin’,” he said, speaking through a mouth full of pizza.
You pursed your lips knowingly, shooting him a look that read more "I know all your secrets," rather than "I am a kind and loving friend! Trust me!".
"Mike, c'mon. Are you worried about school? I thought all your classes were going well?"
He shook his head as he chewed, "It's not school, I'm fi-"
"Is it girls?" You cut him off.
Mike began to choke on his pizza.
Your eyes lit up in delight. "Gotcha!"
You shimmied yourself over to him, offering two friendly pats to his back to help the choking subside.
Mike was very outgoing, yes, but his fatal flaw had always been that he wore his heart out on his sleeve. In your years of friendship, you'd learned to read him like a book. Mike wore his emotions on his face and through his actions. He would practically reek of feelings, his vibe shifting outwardly to match whichever sensation most plagued him.
"It's, n-no-, fuck, it's not that," he finally breathed out once his attack died down, placing the slice back in the box.
"Mike," you shot him another knowing look. "You can talk to me. Wouldn't it be nice, to y'know, talk about your girl troubles with a girl? I could have valuable insight!"
"Dude, no way you're a girl?" he joked, eyes wide in fake surprise. You slapped him in the arm, his laugh light.
"I'm serious, you ass!" You nudged him lightly with your leg, both of you sinking into the side of the basement couch. You weren't terribly close, but enough to touch each other without having to reach much.
Mike sighed, ultimately cornered under your watchful gaze.
“It’s nothing, really, I don’t know,” he shook his head in exasperation, “I just need to stop getting so, like, nervous all the time.”
You looked at him with understanding, warm eyes urging him to continue. “What do you mean by nervous?”
“Shit, like, I see a girl, okay right, she’s attractive,” he spoke animatedly, “and I know what I want to say, but then I speak and it all comes out wrong and I end up sounding like a fucking idiot and she looks at me weird and runs away!”
You hummed, nodding your head slowly. “Why do you think it’s hard for you to talk to them?”
Mike had finally caught on to what you were doing. “Are you doing your therapist shit on me right now?”
You glared at him. You were a third year psychology student at NYU, studying hard in hopes of one day earning a PhD. You’d done two years of dual enrollment at Hawkins Community College, so you were fast-tracked to enter your master’s program in a couple years. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but let your education seep into your friendships, seeking always to provide the tools to assist them with whatever it was that troubled them.
“Yes I am, now answer the question. It could help!”
He rolled his eyes at you, pulling a throw pillow onto his lap for comfort.
“I’ve never been confident when it comes to girls, you know this. Girls usually don’t like guys who aren’t athletic or don’t work out or whatever. I’m- I’m a freak to them most of the time, and it’s hard to get past that first impression. I guess I get scared that I’ll say the wrong thing before I even say anything, and then it goes downhill from there.”
“That’s not necessarily true, Mike. Lots of girls would be delighted to be with you,” you offered.
“Yeah, maybe. I just wish I could wake up one day, y’know, and be different. I wish I had the confidence to say what I needed to without sounding stupid.”
You thought for a second before an idea came to you. “What if you didn’t need to be different? There’s exercises you could do to bypass that, maybe. We just learned about some.”
He looked at you with wary eyes. “Exercises?”
Okay, maybe not necessarily exercises. More like experiments. You had a feeling, a hypothesis if you will, that if Mike paired his communication issues with a high-stress environment, his cognitive output would become distracted, ultimately overwhelming himself and releasing his ‘tongue-tie.’ Once he did that, he’d subconsciously realize that it was okay and normal to say whatever it was he needed to say, and boom, he’d be cured. Maybe. Possibly.
You nodded, “you gotta stay with me here okay. You’d need to simulate a high-stress environment, um, somewhere you’d feel like, uncomfortable or nervous. But it needs to make you feel substantially more nervous than talking to a girl would. It has to override that feeling, sorta.
“Then, I’d ask you questions that would simulate a conversation with a girl. Since you’d be focusing on two things at once, the goal would be that the greater stressor, situation one, would overpower the minor stressor, the communication issues, and you would basically distract yourself into forgetting about how you can’t talk to girls because you’ll be caught up in the major stressor. Does that make sense?”
Mike was confused as to the details, but understood the general principle. You were basically trying to distract the nervousness out of him, and it seemed plausible. He just didn’t know what kind of environment you both could simulate to get the desired outcome, but it was worth a shot.
“O-okay, sure, yeah.” He agreed, gripping the pillow a tad tighter.
Your face lit up with joy, excited to get your exercise on its way.
You cleared your throat as you settled in next to him, using your hands to put emphasis on your words, “so we would need to brainstorm. Think of stuff that would stress you out, but be realistic. No skydiving, or failing a math test, or whatever.”
Mike nodded, gears churning in his brain.
“Well, for one, girls-“
“We can’t do that, the variables would be too similar. Next one.”
“Okay, uhhh, haunted houses?”
“Mike,” you warned, “you’ve literally fought real-life monsters and you’re stressed out by haunted houses?”
He shrugged, “fine, um, let me think.”
You both sat in silence for a while, TV still playing mindlessly in the background. Mike was deep in thought, committed to finding something that would work well for the exercise.
“Sex.” He finally spoke, eyes shifty and nervous, refusing to meet your gaze.
“Oo-kay,” you sing-songed, “sex. Right. Actually, it's a pretty normal choice, statistically speaking.”
“But, like, how do we, y'know, use that for the exercise?” He brought a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing oddly for comfort.
“Well,” you swallowed, wracking your brain for any uses you could think of. “I don’t think it would be fruitful to simulate sex itself, but maybe like a part of it?”
“A part of it,” Mike repeated, heart starting to beat a bit faster.
“Yeah, a part of it. Sometimes most experiments and exercises don’t require a subject’s full exposure to the variable. Sometimes, a partial exposure works just as well.”
“So what, you want me to have partial sex?” His voice squeaked.
“No, silly, just like, something sexual? I think it would distract you just like you need it to.”
Mike opened and closed his mouth a couple times, searching for the appropriate thing to say. He felt like a fish out of water.
Feeling his apprehension, you began to backtrack. “It’s okay, you don’t have to. It might be a bit strange. We can think of another way,” you offered, looking to avoid a Michael Wheeler panic attack.
He shook his head, much to your surprise. “No, no, I…I think you’re right. This could help. It’s just, wow, um, I could, maybe, touch myself? Would that work?”
“Yeah, yeah it could, but I don’t want to freak you out with anything, so really, we don’t have to.” You offered him a small smile, finally meeting his gaze. He looked unsure, and you hoped he wasn’t doing this for the sake of not shutting down your idea.
“I want to, yeah. Let’s do it.” Mike didn’t even know why he was agreeing to this. He was having a hard time grappling with the fact that he’d need to be naked and touching himself in front of you before he’d even confessed his feelings. It seemed like he was skipping a few steps there.
But this small part of him, a tiny minuscule part hidden under the nerves and anxiety, was grateful for the opportunity. If this exercise failed at getting him over his tongue-tie, he hoped it would change something between you both. While you were being exceptionally clinical about it all, which he partially appreciated, deep down, he wanted you to feel some sort of way about this- about him doing this in front of you.
“Okay. Cool. I really think this will work. Just, get situated, and I’ll ask you questions. It’s gonna feel super uncomfortable at first, but just remember that it’s for the greater good, and you can stop at any time.”
He removed the pillow from his lap, awkwardly wiping his clammy hands on his thighs.
You scooted closer- just enough that your knee brushed his thigh. Deadly casual.
“You’re very cute when you’re flustered,” you told him.
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Mmhmm. And thinking very loudly.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” you said. “I can practically hear the gears churning in there,” you gestured to his head.
He exhaled and looked at you- really looked at you now. His cheeks were pink and his eyes a little too focused, like he’d been deciding whether he’s brave enough to jump off this cliff.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
You hummed. “Maybe.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
He shifted again, slower this time, like he’s finally given up pretending nothing’s happening.
“You’re not gonna make fun of me,” he said.
You softened just a touch. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Okay, maybe a little,” you admitted with a smile. “But only affectionately,” you said with a wink.
He laughed, breathy, shaking his head. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you said, leaning in just enough to lower your voice, “you haven’t told me to stop.”
That does it.
He swallowed. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, like he’d been checking the exit signs one last time before deciding to stay seated.
“…You’re not gonna look away?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He let out a long breath, a half-laugh. “You’re evil.”
“Correct.”
Another pause. This one was heavier, but still playful, buzzing with the type of tension that felt slightly ridiculous and extremely charged.
He finally nodded, just once. “Okay. But if I die from embarrassment, that’s on you.”
“I’ll put it on your headstone,” you say. “Died for science.”
That earned you a snort, which somehow made the moment better instead of ruining it.
He settled back against the couch, shoulders loosening as he realized- oh. It wasn’t scary. It was just… vulnerable. And you were right there, watching him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your chin propped in your hand, eyes warm and unmistakably interested. You were curled up next to him, your warm legs burning a hole into the side of his thigh.
His hands started towards his zipper, but hesitated slightly once they reached the button.
“Wow,” you said after a moment, thoughtful. “You really do overthink everything.”
He groaned. “Please don’t narrate.”
“Fine,” you said. “But just so you know-”
He sent you a hard glance.
You smile, slow and unapologetic. “You’re doing great.”
He returned his gaze down towards his cock, now slightly inflated in his pants. He was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that maybe he did like this, you watching him. It felt dirty, taboo even, and definitely unlike anything he’d ever thought about while touching himself.
Well, you were always there, of course, in every dirty fantasy of his. But when he touched himself at night, he more so imagined being the one taking on the leadership role, caring for you- guiding you. Instead, Mike was discovering how much he liked when you led him.
Mike bit his lip, refusing to meet your eyes, focused instead on his growing erection that seemed to spur itself on the more he thought of you watching him. Tentatively, his hand came to rest directly atop his erection, pushing down slightly with a soft roll of his hips.
He looked good enough to fucking eat. His pale skin was slightly flushed, and his hips were rolling in on themselves softly, but still desperate enough that you could tell he was holding himself back. You loved Mike like this, completely nervous and raw. You loved knowing that you made him like this, and that he would kiss the ground you walked on if you’d let him.
“How’s that?” You asked softly, eyes trained on the way he groped himself.
“N-not bad, yeah,” he responded breathily, voice cracking a bit.
You practically melted at the vulnerability in his voice. If you were a better woman, you’d let him be. You’d let him forget all about the deal you made earlier and just let him enjoy the moment. You wished you were better, really, but you had waited a long time to see Mike like this, and you were going to milk it for all it was worth.
“Do you like it,” you paused, “when I watch you?”
It was an innocent enough question. Nothing outwardly dirty or provocative- a basic understanding of what was happening would be enough to answer. Mike, however, who would become red in the face if you accidentally touched his hand, almost choked on the spit in the back of his throat as blood rushed to his cock.
Unable to trust his voice around you, he chose to nod quickly, hand gripping harder around his full erection. He had practically forgotten the second part of this exercise, arguably the most important part. He couldn’t think of what to say to you even if he’d wanted to, focused deeply on how he’d let you do absolutely anything you wanted to him at any point, forever.
You tsked in disapproval. “C’mon now Mike, we agreed on words.” You dragged your blunt nails over his knees for emphasis, reminding him of his purpose.
Shame shot through Mike at your touch, feeling his cock jerking in his hand. He was filled with this overwhelming sense to please you, to be good for you. He wanted to show you that he was capable of stringing together two fucking words in front of a hot girl. Most importantly, he wanted you to be proud of him for doing it.
Your touch lingered on his knee, fingers now rubbing soft, small circles overtop his jeans, slowly acclimating Mike to your touch.
“I- I do, I like every-, everything y’do,” Mike spilled out, chest starting to heave a little from exertion.
What in the everloving fuck was that. If he had half a mind right now, he would slap himself in the face and leave his own damn house. Not only did Mike basically admit to having a crush on you, but he didn’t even care. He was in this odd sort of headspace, aiming only to please, and somehow, he felt like the best way to achieve that was indeed to sound like a submissive virgin while he touched himself in front of you.
Luckily for Mike, his admission had your legs squeezing together like they were connected by magnets, pussy fluttering at his honesty. It was becoming quite hard to keep yourself together for him.
Instead, you returned to your role, your voice dripping honey. “Aw, that’s sweet, Mike, really. I think you deserve something special for how sweet you’re being, what do you think?”
He nodded lightly, hips coming to a stop in preparation for your next instructions. “Yeah, y-yeah, whatever you want.”
“Look at me,” you demanded, having adjusted yourself slightly so that your covered nipples were unobscured by your arms. Immediately, his eyes locked on yours. He was so easy for you, questioning nothing. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Take your cock out, Mikey,” you hummed lightly, following with a small giggle, “I wanna watch you for real.”
His mouth dropped open slightly at your request, eyes not breaking contact with yours. Nervously and with much incoordination, Mike managed to pull his zipper down, slip his pants off, and place his hand back on his cock while only breaking eye contact thrice. Small wins.
Once he realized what he did, his face flushed even redder, so incredibly nervous to be sitting like this before you. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched you watching his cock, waiting for you to say something before he started again. The longer you stared, the more freaked out he became. Was he too much of a nervous wreck? Were you having second thoughts? Did you not want to do this with him?
One by one, evil thoughts began to plague his brain, and in true Mike Wheeler fashion, they began to show all over his face.
You were mesmerized by him, tall and proud, leaking small pearlescent beads of precum from the top of his red, leaky tip. It was so long, long enough to reach the back of your throat with more to spare, delicious and lengthy. It looked so soft, almost velvet to the touch, with one long vein running down the bottom of the shaft, begging for you to run your tongue along it.
You licked your lips hypnotically, caught in your own fantasies of Mike and blissfully unaware of the emotional wreck he was becoming beside you.
A small, frustrated groan pulled you from your reverie, a tiny pout marring your face in disappointment. Your features softened substantially once you realized the look on Mike’s face, once again so nervous that he seemed ready to bolt from the couch. You warmed slightly at his demeanor, finding his anxiety rather charming.
“What’s wrong?” you hummed, knowing rather well what he could be feeling.
Mike’s hand was no longer on his cock, instead balled into a fist at his sides. His nerves did nothing to discourage his length, however, which thrived in the novelty of the situation. Mike still didn’t know what to think. He knew he was highstrung, closer to a full blown crashout than he’d probably ever been, but not because he didn’t want to be here. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Simply, Mike was having a hard time adjusting to his role, not fully understanding that his shy, nervous attitude could act as an attractant instead of a repellent.
“What are you thinking?” He asked in response, desperate for your opinion to soothe his perpetual worries.
You thought about it for a second, choosing your words carefully. Mike’s heart was pounding in his chest the longer you took, preparing himself for a vicious rejection.
“I think,” you started, slowly rising from the couch, “that you look too good to not get a better view.” Slyly, you slipped onto the floor, in between his spread legs, now face to face with his angry cock, bringing your head to rest lightly on his knee. You could see his face perfectly, full of emotion and surprise. An absolutely perfect seat.
Mike was about to throw up. He felt like he was in a dream. Like he’d just taken a ride on the longest rollercoaster in America. Like he’d gone to Blockbuster and snagged the last copy of The Lost Boys with a box of M&M’s. He was absolutely out of his element, with you watching him expectantly between his legs. He silently blessed whoever had been looking out for him, and he’d come to the conclusion that he fully, totally, and wholly lucked out.
“How do you feel?” You spoke softly from the floor.
“Good, y-yeah, real good.” He spoke, just a bit rushed.
“Tell me more. You agreed, remember? Talk to me,” you added lightly, wrapping your hand around the back of his ankle lovingly, rubbing the cotton material of his crew sock lightly with your thumb.
He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling before settling in back on you.
“Well, fuck, ummmm, y’know, good’nstuff,” he mumbled, red in the face.
You huffed out a laugh, “good and stuff? Sweetheart, this is supposed to help you communicate in high stress situations. You do have to help yourself, though.”
He scoffed, as if it wasn’t a completely reasonable expectation to be nervous in a situation like this.
“It’s a bit hard to judge when you’re not the one naked and hard,” he said matter-of-factly, your name rolling off his tongue at the end.
“Would it help?” You countered. “If I took my shirt off?”
Mike may have been a loser, but he wasn’t an idiot. That would fucking rule.
But he had to play it cool. This was an exercise, after all.
“Only if you want to. I think I’ll be okay.”
You didn’t like that answer. You wanted feelings, real thoughts. Not what he thought you’d want to hear.
“No,” you shook your head, “Tell me straight. Do you want my shirt off?” Your eyes bore into his, tempting him to lie again.
He knew the act was up. Again, he was filled with that overwhelming urge to please you, to open up the deepest parts of himself and lay them out for you on a silver platter.
“Please,” he whispered, eyes closed for a brief moment, “take it off. I- I want to see you.”
Pressing a kiss to his knee, you voiced him a quick praise, lifting your shirt up from the hem, exposing your breasts to the cool air.
Mike sucked in a breath, his shaky hand subconsciously returning to his cock. You looked so good, carefree and calm, like you weren’t rocking his world with one simple action.
You leaned back against the coffee table, chest in full display before him. While it was supposed to ease his nerves, the sight of your bare torso made him a bit dizzier, in actuality.
“Better?”
“Yes, yeah, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you smiled at him lightly. Now that he was settled, you urged him to continue.
“You can, y’know, start, if you want.”
He nodded in understanding, remembering again what was supposed to be happening. He watched you watch him, confidently sitting back between his legs, gorgeous tits taking up his field of vision. Soon, the throb in his cock got to be too much, and he began to alleviate himself with slow, shaky strokes.
He huffed a breath through his nose at the sensation, brows furrowed ever so slightly. He liked this, a lot more than he wanted to admit, and you hadn’t even begun asking him questions. It was different from his expectations for sex. He’d always believed that sex had to be this thing, an act that required set-up and commitment to follow through. But this was so casual, so free, and Mike was excited to be a part of it.
You squirmed a bit as you watched him touch himself, huffing out little gasps of pleasure, bottom lip catching between his teeth. You were so entranced by his movements, you forgot that you were supposed to be asking him questions. Unfortunately, you’d have to push your feelings to the side for a moment. For, uh, science.
“I’m gonna ask you stuff now, okay? The questions are supposed to elicit a, um, reaction. But try your best to answer truthfully and coherently. I’ll start off easy.”
You tried your best to not sound clinical, but there was no way to explain the parameters of the exercise without sounding like you’d need a labcoat and a legal pad.
He nodded in understanding, his hand still moving slowly.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” You started. That was easy enough. He’d basically admitted his crush on you earlier, so you didn’t believe it to be too egregious of a start.
The pleasure in Mike’s groin was starting to build, if ever so slightly, meaning he was growing exponentially more disheveled as the time passed. He knew that his answers would lose coherence accordingly.
“Y-yeah, so pretty. Prettiest-ngh, girl I’ve ever seen.” He broke eye contact halfway through, choosing to sacrifice his gaze for comprehension. He didn’t think he’d be able to fully comply just yet.
You were tempted to praise him again, but you wanted this to feel as normal of a conversation as possible. “I think you’re pretty, too. Painfully handsome, actually.”
“Oh fuck, really?” His hand stuttered a bit as he registered what you said, ultimately gripping himself a little harder once he realized your comment.
“Yeah, I do. So, so handsome. I think about you sometimes. Do you think of me?”
He threw his head back at your admission, his hand moving a bit quicker, small drops of precum leaking out of his tip, spread slickly by his thumb.
“What the fuck,” he groaned out your name, his brain completely unprepared to deal with this. He was actually going to die. You thought of him? He hoped it was like this, dirty thoughts. Thoughts that matched his of you in the middle of the night.
Giggling, your hand grazed his knee in gentle reassurance, urging him to continue.
“Y-yes, all the-shit, all the time.” His hips started rolling softly again.
“What do you think about?”
You were unsure if you even wanted to know the answer. Mike was pent up, sure, but at least he got to put his hands on his cock to alleviate some of the surely building pressure. You were stuck squeezing your legs together in response to what was possibly the sexiest thing you’d ever see in your entire life, unsatisfied and forced to stay calm. You had to keep reminding yourself that you were doing this for him, not for you.
Mike used the little resolve he had left to wracked his brain for an appropriate answer, but ultimately came up short. He decided to just put his faith in the exercise, trusting himself to say the right things. In reality, he could only focus on two things at once, choosing those to be his cock and your tits.
“I think about you, ohgod, how fuckin’ p-perfect you are. So smart, funny, fuck-brave” he got cut off with a light groan, “think about us, sometimes, too. Alone.”
You leaned away from the coffee table, arranging your position so that you were seated on your knees. “And what do you think about, when you’re alone?” A kiss on his knee again.
“Fuck, I don’t k- stuff like this?” He was crumbling ever so slowly, his hand moving faster against himself.
“What’s ‘stuff like this’?” You hummed against his knee, trying to pry it out of him.
A pained groan left his mouth, “sexual s-shit, like this. I think about it with you.”
“Good job, that wasn’t that hard, hm? Do you think you’d like doing it with me?”
He nodded immediately, “Fuck yes, always yes, wan-wanted you…so fucking long,” his breath hitched at the end, almost whimpering. You had no idea what you were doing to him, so fucking innocently, like you were unaware of how hard he was trying to keep it together. Something about you, treating him like you almost didn’t care, was so unbelievably attractive. It surprised him that he’d even lasted this long.
“I’ve wanted you too, Mike. I want to do things with you, nasty fucking things,” you kissed both his thighs between words, “can I show you something?”
He expressed his agreement in a rather aggressive jerk of his head. You leaned closer to him, face mere inches away from his throbbing, red, beautiful cock, and took his wrist in your hand. His hand was dry, and you knew despite the desperation, it could always feel better. Without warning, you brought your lips to brush the head of his cock, so delicately. You parted your lips, and a fat, warm, dollop of spit landed right on the side of his cock, trailing slowly down towards the base.
Mike thought he was dead. Rest in fucking peace.
He was destroyed. Demolished. Annihilated. Obliterated. Mike had been fucked for every other girl for the rest of his life, because he would only ever be able to think of this moment. He’d think of it until he was blue in the balls. He’d think of it until he memorized every single detail.
Once you pulled away, a small string of spit connecting your lips to his cock, you noticed his chest heaving, eyes locked in on yours with his jaw slack. Beautiful and utterly fucked.
“Go on,” you prompted, back to your position on your knees, resting your ass on your heels.
“Holy fu-uck,” he spread your spit over himself, pumping with little resistance. He gripped his hand tighter around himself, desperate to come.
“Tell me what you think of,” you asked, head returning to his knee. You were so wet. You could feel your juices seeping through the cotton of your pajama pants, the wet spot growing to cover the tops of your inner thighs.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d tell you everything. Every dark fantasy, every secret thought, he didn’t care. He’d let the words flow, his need overcoming his nerves and shyness, both of those carelessly thrown halfway out the window.
“I think about your mouth, fuck, so warm…and w-wet,” it sounded more like a question, but he was too fucked to care, “wanna fuck you, y-yeah, all the fu-fucking time. Wanna make you feel so good, shit-like this. Let you- whatever you want, anything.”
You closed your eyes and let out a shallow breath as he continued. “Think about your tits, holy fuck, and wonder if you’d let me…let me come on them, sometimes. ”
He was so close, it wouldn’t take long at all. His brain was swarming with thoughts of you. You knew that it was probably the best time to keep asking him questions- he’d be raw and unfiltered, exactly what you think he’d need to get over his tongue-tied affliction. However, the room was about ten degrees hotter, and you were also beginning to lose your ability to think clearly.
“Y’gonna come, Mike?” You asked softly.
He nodded, hand working diligently to get him over the edge. All you could hear was the slick sound of his pumps harmonized with his heavy breaths.
“Can I help you?” You tried to stay strong, you really did, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
“Fucking shit, please,” he grunted out, knowing he wouldn’t need much.
You were at the point of ferality, and sure, you could’ve moved his hand and pumped him the rest of the way, or maybe suckled on his tip so that he came into your inviting mouth. But no. You wanted him to feel things, things he’d probably never felt. So you dipped your head, your warm, wet mouth coming to suckle softly on the center of his balls. They were heavy on your tongue, but the moan Mike let out was enough to make you hum with content.
He grabbed onto the back of your head by instinct, keeping you right where he wanted you. Before the back of his head even hit the couch, he was coming. His legs trembled while you sucked, running your tongue around the loose skin and savoring his salty taste.
He moaned your name loudly, pumping roped of cum onto his torso. He felt shattered, almost like he couldn’t remember where he was off the comedown. He was buzzing down to his toes, his whole body in a floaty state of euphoria.
You pulled off him with a pop, glassy eyes watching as Mike covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths, cum splayed over his clothed stomach.
After giving him some time to recharge, you spoke, weary voice splitting the silence.
“Try now,” you said.
“Hmmph?” He mumbled quizzically from beneath his hands, chest taking slow, deep breaths.
“I want to see if the exercise worked. Tell me something that would’ve made you nervous before.”
He removed his hands from his face and shot you a deadpanned look. “You couldn’t wait, I don’t know, until I wiped the cum off my shirt?”
You scrunched your nose, “No actually, Mike, I am a woman of science. I must know now. And also change your fucking shirt. Don’t just wipe.”
He rolled his eyes, lifting the shirt off his head, momentarily stark naked. He gathered up all his clothes, piling them in his hands while you put on your shirt.
“What would be considered a success? Based on the exercise,” he asked, walking up the basement stairs to dispose of his clothes in the hamper and put on pajamas.
“I don’t know,” you called, settling back down on the couch, “something you wouldn’t normally say without getting flustered. To a girl!”
Mike went up to his room pensively, thinking about what you’d said. As he shuffled through his drawers for a t-shirt and sweatpants, he realized that he didn’t physically feel any different than he did before you worked your psychological voodoo on him. Mentally, however, he felt like things between the both of you had shifted. The confessions from just a view minutes before were not lost to him, and he wondered if knowing that you felt the same about him made the idea of talking to you about his deepest thoughts easier to digest.
He’d made up his mind by the time he met you back in the basement. Running a hand through his tussled hair, he plopped down next to you and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
You looked at him expectantly, patiently awaiting the results of your experiment. In all fairness, it was self-serving. Lucas had told you months ago how Mike felt about you, and you’d truthfully run out of patience with him to make a move. Luckily for Mike, you’d just finished a Sexual Psychology class at NYU, and you were more than happy to kickstart the beginning of your relationship for him.
Much to your satisfaction, Mike turned to face you, hand coming to cup your cheek. His eyes met yours and found acceptance, tenderness, and a hint of something else. Adoration, perhaps? He wasn’t sure. But he knew he’d wasted too much time with you already.
“I like you. A lot. I,” he sighed, “I wasn’t kidding…before. I have for a long time,” he ran his thumb delicately across your cheek. “And, I think about you, all the fucking time. I want to be with you, and fuck, that was so hot- you’re so hot. And truthfully, I think I like when you tell me what to do.”
You smiled into his palm at his confession. “I know.”
Now that caught him off guard. You could see the emotions flickering through his features, ultimately landing on confusion.
“Lucas told me in June, before we left,” another sheepish smile.
He took a minute to process the information, before letting out a shocked laugh.
“For the record though, Mike, I wasn’t lying either, earlier. I like you too. Lots. I wouldn’t mind thinking of you more.”
He dropped his head to your shoulder with a groan, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Then why didn’t you say anything? You knew I’d never be able to.”
You ran your hands through the back of his hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo. Was that fucking Fabergé Organics? Whatever, you’d bug him another time for that.
“Actually, the exercise worked exceptionally well, I think. From your confession, and lack of intense stuttering, I can deduce that you’ve overcome your fear of talking to pretty girls.”
He pulled away, locking eyes with you, “you’re a genius, Doctor,” he joked, leaning in slightly to the point where your foreheads were touching.
You reciprocated, tangling your hands in his hair, brushing your lips with his, and whispered with a laugh, “I think I’m gonna win a fucking Nobel prize.”
thank you all for your support! lmk what you think <3 muah!
WORD COUNT. 1849
SUMMARY. from this request. basically, soft dom hopper + fluid play + a horny writer = a really fucking good time
WARNINGS. 18+ readers only. soft!dom hopper my beloved, implied legal age gap, praise, fingering, pussy play, pinv sex, creampie, breeding kink/ fluid play, bit of cockwarming at end, general filth throughout. porn no plot, it’s all just smut
There's only a handful of people in your life that you allow to treat you this way, and when you say handful, really you just mean one. One very special person that you will ever beg and whine and cry for — this said individual being the chief of police, Jim Hopper.
You've never much been able to explore your sexuality. You've never really had the chance to delve into what you like and don't, to test whether you actually enjoyed the things you've fantasied about. But with Hopper, you've spent your time learning; understanding what you like and how it works for you.
Not only has sex with Jim been educational, it's been world altering; your experiences in the past with other men barely even scratching the surface of what you have with Hop. It's fun, it's loving, it's dirty, safe — everything you've actually ever wanted.
And what you've learnt, is that you respond well to authority; your small town chief of a man the perfect person to carry out such a role. Though he's dominant in a way that's gentle and soft — like it's about taking charge and fulfilling needs rather than anything selfish, or heedless. And these said needs he fulfils, are yours. But there's only one small thing he asks in return: he gets to choose where he unloads.
You're tucked into Hopper's side, bare body fused into his nude upper half — pudgy skin sweaty and warm against you. He's on his side, resting on a bent arm beside your head; inner hand supporting the weight of his head as he whispers obscenities into your mouth. His opposing hand wanders you, touch featherlight, bordering on non-existent as he trails your skin; finger tips failing to graze the same place more than once.
But now, his hand sits at the side of your neck, palm large and rough as it slots into the dip — so perfectly it's hard to imagine it wasn't made specifically for that area, for you. His thumb skims along the bottom of your lip, pad of it playing with the flesh that ghosts his. He slips it inside your mouth slowly and rests it atop your tongue, waiting for you to curl it around him like you always seem to do.
He retracts it as leisurely as when he popped it in. "And y'know my favourite part of that?" he whispers, voice low and husky as it fills your mouth, the prior taste of you evident on his tongue. The ask came from a place of continuation, question almost rhetorical as he refers to the previous filth he uttered against you.
He presses a faint kiss to your lips and pulls back, heavy wanting eyes flickering over your face like he had no control of where his sight lands. You give him a small shake of the head and it's then a little smile creeps out, the expression so genuine it reaches your eyes.
"No," you whisper in response. "What?"
His hand placement alters and he slides it to sit just at the base of your neck. He's careful and cautious as he gives it a pulse, thumb and fingers giving it a squeeze on either side.
"It's when I see those pretty eyes of yours get all teary…" he pauses, searing a deep, lengthy kiss to your lips — motion unrushed, like he was savouring it, taking his time. "And you get all shy," he pauses, pressing another kiss and another.
You divert your eyes, head tilting aside as if to cower from his appreciating, observant eyes.
"Like that," he teases, a small sly grin forming. He knew you, he could real you like a book. He knew all your tells.
He dips in again, only not your lips, off to the side this time. He presses a short string of kisses to the corner of your mouth, planting them to where he can reach with your heads tilted position. His hand around your throat continues to lower, palm flat and evident as he eventually situates it on your pubic bone, the weight of it noticeable against you.
His middle fingers extends downwards, raking through your priorly fucked cunt, pussy lips soaked and taken care of, yet he returns for more. For himself this time; rock hard, unattended-to cock practically poking you in the hip, begging for attention. He dips it, his finger, sinking it between the mess he had made of you those many minutes before.
"Got it in you for one more, hm?" he hums, gaze peering down to you.
You give him a nod, a fairly uncertain one at that. You weren't sure if that were even possible, but yet, you agree.
A prideful glow twinkles in his eyes. "Course'ya do… that's my girl," he kisses your cheek, arousal-soaked facial hair rubbing off on your skin. "That's my girl," he repeats, tone gravelly and possessive as he utters it — as if he knew it to be a phrase you favoured most.
His finger swirls in the messy state that is between your thighs, tip of it collecting slick with very little effort at all, if not, none at all. He joins his ring finger, connecting it with his middle as he sinks them both inside you once again; not an ounce of resistance restricting him. He slips right on in.
They each curl upwards, locating that savoured spot of yours as effortlessly as they did earlier on — one of the spots that's already had quite the taking tonight. He rubs at it, running the pads of his fingers over the internal ridges as his palm pushes in further, creating suction atop your cunt. The heel of it locates the burning, spent bundle of nerves that is your clit, and you recoil — a whiny, airy, almost pained moan falls from your lips at the contact.
Hopper coos, the sound teasing, patronising even. Though it wasn't all disingenuous, there was a hint of concern etched on his face — thick brows furrowing, like he could tell the difference between the sounds you make.
"Hurtin’ real good, ain't she?" he hums into your temple, lips hovering over the skin there like it was an offer to comfort.
He loosens his hold over your pussy and retracts his fingers, deciding you may need a little longer than originally suggested. And so he places his palm atop the crease where cunt meets thigh, hand placement calculated as his fingers toy lightly with the skin of you just below. He's looking down at you now, blue eyes almost doting as they study you.
Though you can't help but divert yours away again.
"D'I tell you to look away?" he cranes his neck ever so slightly, making you meet him. "Eyes on me," he utters, a faux sense of sternness blooming.
But really he just turns to mush when he sees that attempt you make to hide your smile, the light in your eyes giving it away. You like the subtly in his directions, the way he gives it too. He can't help but return yours with a similar expression of his own: a poorly concealed smirk.
Though that only lasts so long when he feels your fingers join his, your antsy hand directing him back to your cunt, and it's then a pained expression replaces the one of bliss from before. You just made it harder and harder to ignore the ache leaking between his own thighs, the one he'd been neglecting as a means to take care of you.
He was waiting for you to come down a little more before he sinks his dick into what he's been after the whole night; he's selfless like that. But it's when he sees that needy little flicker in your eye that he realises, that time is now. You were ready and that was your subtle, wordless signal.
Jim pulls his hand away from between your thighs and guides it upwards, reaching for your face. He gives your cheek a few light taps as a proud grin tugs on his lips, there really was no hiding it that time.
"Wan' see how much I love you, mhm?" he murmurs, lowered voice changing in pitch with his repositioning.
He's between your legs now, reddened, aching cock leaking precum in his hand as he gives it a few prudent pumps; it was a dangerous game to play, he shouldn't be doing that, he didn't want to cum before he's even been inside you. You mirror him, shimmying your position to line up with him — trying to be nice and helpful.
But it makes no difference, he tugs you by the hips, pulling you down the mattress so as to better feed himself into you. He's on his knees between your legs, head of his cock itching for the suction-like warmth of your cunt. He sucks on his teeth, chest heaving impatiently as he eases himself inside you fully — relief evident in that breathy groan he gives you.
Your face contorts blissfully, your mien practically mirroring his.
"Feelin' too good," his head shakes regretfully, like he hates the thought he otherwise would have slobbered over. Hopper's eyes close and he clamps down on his lips for a moment, seemingly trying to compose himself as his thumb twiddles with your clit.
He winds his hips into you once maybe twice, before he's losing that sense of control he desperately claws onto, rough deep grunts following as it builds inside him. Leaking inside you, he fills you with himself as he gives you a few uncontrolled, unplanned thrusts; twitching cock with a mind of it's own. He pulls himself out. Still coming, he unloads what remains atop your cunt — white milky drops making a Pollock painting.
By now, his eyes have snapped open, gaze focused between your thighs as he watches himself leak all over you; his mess mixing with yours that he'd previously smeared around. His laboured breathing begins to even out, but yours has not yet subsided; you were in awe. It might be one of the hottest things he'd ever done to you.
He meets your eyes, and its then you give him another smile — a teeny, tiny pleased one spreading across the lower of your face. Hopper gives you a little chuckle in return, head shaking gratifyingly as he eases his spent cock back inside you like a plug, stopping his seed from seeping out.
Lowering, he hovers above and slips an arm behind you, holding you tight as he rolls; keeping your body latched to his as he turns onto his back. You adjust yourself like he does, and you itch upwards, pressing your lips to his as you plead for some kisses.
With his hands from the small of your back, he brings them your face, each of them holding the sides of your head — holding you there as he guides you in to repeatedly sear deep, extolling kisses to your lips. Like he was silently appreciating you and thanking you for being so good to him. For allowing him to unload in his most favoured place.
it’s times like these where steve can be a totally jerk— making you snap back into reality that he really is just a man after all. him constantly complaining about putting in all the work— that there’s no reason for him to, not when you’ve fucked each other stupid on uncountable occasions.
“oh, c’mon. you’re acting like you’ve never took me before.” steve taps the soft flesh of your ass, his tone growing in irritation as you grind against him. watching his dick disappear and reappear between your plush folds, coating him in your glossy slick. “i knoww.” you slightly pout, dragging your words as your roll your hips against him while pressing your palms against his chest for balance.
“i’m just not sure if it’s gonna fit this time.” you murmur, beautiful brown eyes trailing up his body to meet his eager gaze, as you see his lips tug into a knowing grin. a fucking menace as his dick twitches beneath you with a low laugh slipping through the space between you two. he slides both of his hands up the sides of your waist, practically engulfing you as he holds you still. “not like it’ll make a difference.” he tilts his head with a sigh, “i think you just like me doing all the work.” he huffs defeated, pivoting his hips and spreading his thighs further apart to lift you above his cock as he leaks with pure precum.
“fuckin’ pillow princess.” he mumbles, as you furrow your eyebrows annoyed. “no i’m not.” you bite, before he instantly replies with a “yes, you are.”— “no, i am not.” you’re looking him in the eyes as he just stays silent, with a pause while looking back at you. he thinks you’re so damn cute when he provokes you. “yess, you are.” he adds again, this time blandly.
“you’re so childish, oh my gosh.” rolling your eyes, as you see a shit-eating grin plastered in his face. he’s obviously getting off to this. “childish, but you’re still not sitting on my dick.” he jokes, though a condescending motherfucker as you clench your jaw at his witty response.
you shift slightly, bringing a hand underneath you to grab at the base of his cock— lining the fat, mushroom head against your entrance as he groans. “caught a nerve, baby?” he grins, almost satisfied before lifting his hips to prod open your tight hole as you gasp at him entering.
“d-don’t do that steve.” you snap with a soft groan, feeling the stretch of his tip inside of you. “thought i’d help’.” he replied, dick twitching at the warmth of finally feeling a snug on his cock. “you’re too fuckin’ big to be helping. thought you wanted to be the pillow princess for the night.” you teased, slowly sinking down his fat cock— feeling your cunt split open as you mewl at the ‘never getting use to the size of his dick’ stretch.
steve watches his length slowly disappear inside of you with his jaw dropped, fighting the urge to slam you down the rest of the way onto his cock as he gasps. “yeah?” he says, hand tight around your waist as he clicks his tongue. “do you hate me?” he asks, pupils practically blown as he looks into your eyes waiting for an answer.
“you are a-annoying.” you moan a bit, feeling him pull you down his length slowly, even though you were supposed to be doing the work. “fuck— then you’re definitely gonna hate me after this.” he grits, before slamming you down flush against his pelvis as his the head of his cock nuzzles itself sweet against your cervix, as you let out a pitched whimper with your back arched. nails clawing into his pecs as he stuffs your cunt, groaning at the the way your walls milk him.
biting down on your lip, stifling your pretty little moans as steve’s hand cracks a palm against the plush of your ass. “that’s it, baby. bounce, grind, cry on it if you have to. just don’t stop moving.” he slides his hand back to your soft body as he watches you struggle to bounce up and down his length. one of his hands trailing up to fondle your breast as you both moan in unison.
“mngh so.. big.” you choke, body rocking against him as you rolls your hips with a slight tremor while whining. steve coaxes, “you’re taking it. my pillow princess fucking me, whata’good girl.” his voice shakes as if he’s about to bust at any given second, only a few minutes in as your pussy strangles his cock.
your ass clapping against his bare thighs, as he grunts at each stroke your walls squeeze out of him. “gonna c-cum already?” you pout, asking steve with glossy, wet eyes drunk off struggle as the pleasure wholes through your body. he reaches an arm behind your neck, his fingers tangling in your curls as he pulls your face towards his, panting against your lips. “you gonna be mad if i cum inside?” he breathlessly laughs, as his hips subconsciously buck upwards to drive deeper inside you— making you moan out his name as you cry out.
“thaaat’s it, ngh. fuck me juustt like that.” he pants, desperate to reach his high as his cock swells inside of you, pulsing with pleasure as your cunt swallows him whole and your tummy bulging. “ste—” his lips crash against yours, swallowing every single whimper you let out into his mouth, as a strangled groan breaks his kiss and he’s forcing your hips down with his free hand.
steve throws his head back against the headboard—his cock bursting warm fluids inside of you, as your walls pulse with each rolls of your hips milking him dry.
“fuck.” he whines, spent out with a rough laugh against your lips. “can we do that again?” 
steve harrington x reader
ever since the Upside Down collapsed, Steve's been dealing with a performance problem. his overactive sex drive begs the question- will you be the one to help him out of this maddening dry spell?
foreword: this Steve is post-ST5 battle but pre-epilogue/career, and as such there may be minor plot spoilers. I’ve done research into PTSD-related erectile dysfunction for writing this fic, but in no way claim to be an expert or to have written the experience perfectly! thanks so much to my cheerleader @rebelfell for plotting via dms with me on this one <3
cw: shifting POVs, Steve has trauma-induced erectile dysfunction, slight angst, sexual shame, former sexual dysfunction (R), wet dream, mentions of PTSD + migraines, Reader has breasts + a vagina, Reader has hair (no other description), allusions to former hookups, oral (both receiving), Big Dick Harrington, deepthroating, the healing power of blowjobs, mdni
wc: 4.4k
steve harrington mlist
Steve’s got a problem.
Of the performance variety.
Ever since the world almost ended two months ago, Steve and his dick have been at odds.
There’s been a general lack of stiffness, for the first time since his pre-pubescent years, and Steve’s starting to go a little insane. He hasn’t had a dry spell this long since he had to don that stupid nylon Scoops uniform, for fuck’s sake- and even then, at least Steve had a right hand and a Playboy to see him through the lonely nights.
Not even Baywatch gets him hard anymore. And that’s a national shame Steve’s taking on himself.
The self-doubt is probably not helping the whole situation, either, but Steve kind of can’t help it. It’s too embarrassing to talk about with his buddies so he’s just sort of stewing in the emotion by himself.
And he’s tried it all- switching up his spank bank material, different music, different positions, more lube, less, a meditation tape for christ’s sake-
Steve’s rope is starting to fray at the edges. It’s maddening. He feels wound tight, jumpy, hot under the collar at the drop of a hat but unable to do anything about it.
And then, you come into his life.
Steve finds his purpose pretty quickly.
The first time he comes over to your place, he doesn’t overthink it at all when you plop yourself into his lap halfway through a Cheers rerun- he lets his mind quiet and his body do what comes naturally.
Kissing you breathless, sucking bites into your neck, following you down onto the couch. It all flows so smoothly, muscle memory engaged as Steve helps you out of your shirt and dips to take your breast in his mouth and you moan so sweetly he feels his cheeks heat.
Though there’s a dull connection with anything south of his belt, Steve really enjoys himself with you. Takes his time with it. Gets to know your pussy. He’s always loved this part of sex, making his partner feel good with just his mouth and fingers, getting to see and feel and taste close up the evidence of their arousal.
Steve eats you out like he’s been starved for your cunt alone. Grinding his hips into the cushion mindlessly as your own hips jerk towards his mouth; his tongue does all the talking. Buried all the way inside of you, nose brushing your clit, he shakes his head gently back and forth.
Your thighs tremble something fierce around his ears, and Steve is sort of obsessed with how responsive you are. Some girls he’s been with were real shy about getting eaten out, but here you are, fingers buried in his hair and no sign of letting up.
Steve’s focused solely on your pleasure so he only distantly registers the tingling feeling of bloodflow, warm behind his zipper; when you come with the next pass of his wet thumb over your clit, he moans into the spasm of your walls and realizes this has him half-hard.
For the first time in two months, Steve Harrington has a beautiful person in his lap and a cock at half mast, but there’s still something that lingers like a shadow over his self-confidence.
Your hand trails down his chest, a smile coy and wanting to match.
Steve’s heart deflates, along with his partially formed erection, balking at the idea of having to maintain it in front of you.
He keeps his groan of frustration inward and instead plays it off, giving you one of his most winning, charming grins- “Don’t worry about me, honey, already came. Y’tasted so good.”
Then he’s back to kissing you, the lie sitting bitter at the back of his throat.
It’s not like he hasn’t blown a load in his jeans from eating someone out before. A totally plausible explanation. One that Steve is desperate for you to take at face-value- if there’s even the slightest bit of pushback, he’s sure he’ll cave.
You’re too pretty to keep secrets from. He’s barely hanging on as is.
Lucky for him you’d just laughed against his lips, and said, “Well I suppose I’m not one to talk. You had me going in less than three minutes, that’s a new personal best.”
Steve had flushed with pride under your praise. He spends the rest of the night cuddling you to the drone of the TV, and goes home with the taste of you still hidden in the soft contours of his cheeks.
When Steve wakes in the same twin mattress of his parent’s empty house, he feels a little off. More breathy than usual, too warm-
and then he feels the tacky dampness in his briefs. Evidence of a wet dream that he wasn’t even conscious for, the phantom ghost of your lips around his cock wavering in and out of the recesses of his sleepy vision.
Steve sighs, more whiny than he’s used to. He snakes a hand underneath the band of his underwear and strokes a palm over his softened length, giving a couple tugs with the added lubrication.
There’s no response, like a sex wire has been snipped somewhere deep in his psyche.
Well. At least he knows now that he’s not totally broken. Just in need of a mysterious tune up.
___
You’re pretty sure Steve’s not attracted to you.
Sure, the guy goes down on you like a world class champion of pussy eating, and his head game is far superior to any other hookup you’ve had in recent memory.
But that’s all he’s willing to do with you.
Three times, now, he’s brushed you off afterwards with a weak excuse for why he isn’t aroused (if he’s going for the came too soon angle there would really be more evidence of that).
It’s really too bad. You’d love to keep his mouth around, but don’t quite feel it’s fair to Steve if you continue seeing him, as the guy just seems too sweet to say aloud the awkward truth of the matter.
So the next time you’re over at his place, and he leans across the couch cushions to kiss you, your hand plants itself against the front of his polo and you let him down. Easy.
“Listen- it’s okay if you’re not into this.”
Steve looks bewildered, doe eyes flicking between yours like he’s trying to read your mind. “Not… into this?”
“Not into me, I mean.” You shrug, even though the words sting a bit. Better to get it all out into the open. “I just- I’d prefer to cut you loose now, rather than later down the line when feelings might tangle us up.”
“Hold on.” Steve is genuinely baffled, blinking fast, his heart rate under your palm quickening. “What makes you think I’m not into you? Am I not- was it not good? The- when I ate you out?”
“No,” you shake your head, a dry chuckle forming before you can stop it. “That’s definitely not the issue here. You’re great at oral. It’s just… you don’t seem like you- like you’re enjoying it. For yourself. Y’know?”
It’s a slightly clumsy way to bring up the topic but it seems to land with Steve, who withdraws, sinking into the couchback and scrubbing an open hand through his chestnut strands.
He looks so embarrassed and dismayed that it ripples through you like a physical ache. You scooch closer, aligning your thigh to the outside of his, letting your arm sling around his nearest shoulder and patting at his chest again in soothing rhythm.
“It’s really okay, Steve.” And you mean it. Steve is a great guy, and he’s made you feel so good- he deserves to be with someone who makes him feel the same. “No hard feelings on my end. I want you to-”
“Hang on.” Steve interrupts. There’s a flush of pink at his cheeks. “I need to tell you something. You gotta know, it’s not you.”
You wait for him to continue, patient and quiet. Hand still sweeping comfort at the inside of his shoulder.
Steve blows out a breath, sounding strained and uncomfortable. “After the attacks, all the- the Upside Down bullshit. I started having problems with my- with…” He gestures vaguely to his lap, like even the words might be too much to say. “I can’t keep it up. Which is, uh- very much a new problem for me.”
He chuckles dryly, a mirror of your own from earlier. He still won’t look at you as he admits- “And ‘cuz it was so new, and so stupid, I didn’t know how to tell you. Not without fucking things up, which. I guess I already have.”
Everything clicks into place regarding his strange behavior the past few weeks. Honestly, it’s a relief to know the real issue.
“Hey.” You squeeze his trapezius, molding the strung-tight muscle under your thumb. Steve leans into your touch as you say carefully, “Thank you for telling me. Really. I appreciate it. And also, it’s so not stupid.”
Steve’s eyes flick to yours. Questioning and hopeful. “...yeah?”
“Yeah. I had similar- ah- finishing issues. After the earthquakes, especially. It was like my mind and my body were living in two separate spaces.”
Steve can’t seem to look anywhere but at you now, as he drinks this information in. His wide, warm palm smooths over the thigh of your jeans. “Shit. No kidding. How’d you… fix it?”
Even though there’s a shared thread of post-trauma intimacy between the two of you, it feels a bit sticky to talk about, still. You steel your nerves, staring at the perfect cluster of moles on the side of Steve’s neck instead of his face.
“I’m not sure it is totally fixed. But, I just- I took my time. Learned to be kind to myself through the dry season. And then-”
Here, you lift your eyes to meet Steve’s intense gaze. “-I met a guy who should get a gold medal in pussy easting. And that kind of lifted the spell for me.”
You have the pleasure of watching Steve's face break open in a grin so wide, it might as well be a sunbeam. He lifts your hand from his shoulder to kiss over your knuckles, one by one. “Wow. No kiddin’.”
And then Steve’s kissing you again, and fuck is he ever so good at it.
Tongue twining with yours, exploring along the roof of your mouth, lips slotted and reforming into new shapes that pull you closer in. Steve always kisses you like it’s his last chance, like it’s a Hail Mary before the end.
Maybe that’s part of the problem.
You allow him to lead as usual, but take it slower than you normally would- letting your touches trail everywhere, across the width of his shoulders, down his back, under his shirt. Steve’s panting by the time you pull the fabric over his head, as you stare unabashed at his torso.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through the thatch of hair at his chest, watching with fascination when his abs clench in response to your fingertips.
He exhales into the side of your neck. Plants another kiss there and lets himself be touched. “Says you.”
There’s a tantalizing treasure trail disappearing behind the button of his jeans that you’d love nothing more than to follow but for now you swing yourself into Steve’s lap, grinding your hips down and forward with a slow rock.
“This okay?” You ask, and giggle when Steve nods so quickly you hear his neck creak.
His hands roam the length of your body, slipping under your shirt, groaning as he takes two handfuls of your tits that are beginning to spill from your bra cups with all the movement. “Jesus. Can I see you?”
You nod. Slow and steady. Grin turning sultry as he helps you out of the shirt.
“Fuck.” Steve’s pupils are two huge, glittering pools of lust as he tips forward, hands slipping to your low back to hold your torso to his and burying his face into the soft landing of your cleavage.
“Fuck,” he says again, the word muffled as he mouths over each of your breasts in turn. “So pretty. God.”
Your pelvis is aligned with Steve’s, and the next time you rotate down, grinding into him, there’s the suggestion of a bulge forming beneath the V of his legs. You feel it again on the next rock forwards, as your arms slide to Steve’s freckled shoulders, as your teeth catch at his earlobe and you can feel the helpless jolt forward of his hips.
“What if we just tried,” you whisper at his ear, another distracting roll of your hips, his lashes sweeping at your cheek. “What if you let me try sucking you off, hm?”
His breath kicks up again, hands tightening around your waist, even as you continue in a low, soothing voice- “I know it takes a lot of trust for something like this. But I promise I won’t be upset, whatever happens, however your body feels- we can always take a break, you just say when and I’ll-”
Steve raises a hand to the side of your neck and pulls you in for another kiss. It’s sloppy and there’s a clash of teeth, which makes you whimper, Steve making one of his own in response; his voice is choked with emotion and raw constraint as he agrees.
“Yeah, sweetheart, yes- okay. I trust you. That’d be- let’s try. I wanna try.”
You kiss down the line of his neck, his collarbone, chest hair pleasantly scratchy at the soft press of your lips as you keep working your way south, eventually sliding from his lap to kneel on the carpet between the split of his legs.
“I really mean it.” You run your hands along the tops of his thighs, a path repeated with new motions each time- a thumb digging into the ditch of his knee, fingers trailing just that much higher towards his zipper on the return. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t mind if you can’t stay hard or if you don’t come- I just really want to feel you in my mouth.”
Steve is watching you through half-lidded eyes, mesmerized, the flush at his cheeks creeping up to his ears, to the hollow of his throat, splotchy at the skin of his chest as it heaves and stutters with breath. “Jesus, angel. Can do whatever you want to me.”
Your wicked grin is back as you pull the zipper of Steve’s jeans down. It’s loud in the otherwise quiet living room, and Steve swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he lifts his hips to help you shove the waistband of his jeans down and off.
Then there’s just the black fabric of his briefs, stretched tight over the generous width of his upper thighs and the bulge between them.
Even now, you take your time- pressing kisses to the inside of his thighs, grazing your teeth against the hair under his navel, teasing your touch beneath the band of his underwear.
Steve is letting small whines escape, punctuating every touch of your hands and mouth. His hands lift from their death grip on the cushion towards your face and then hover, helplessly, before snapping back to the couch as you rub your cheek against the outline of his cock.
You’re pretty sure he’s about halfway to fully hard, which is heartening, but you still want to keep the emotional pressure from entering his head.
So you say nothing about it and instead let your mouth do the talking.
Your lips press a steady line over his clothed length, exploring, getting to know the feel of him with your touch before your eyes get to fill in the blanks.
When you suck at the head of his cock with learned precision, Steve’s thighs tighten and tremble under your palms. He hisses, then whines, then swears- “Oh, jesus. Fuck. That feels so good.”
“Good,” you murmur, using the outline of him to map your way back down, nosing into the soft space between his cock and sac. “Tell me if anything doesn’t, okay?”
Your mouth closes over one of his balls, and there’s a thunk above you- Steve’s head hitting the wall. You’re careful with the tender skin behind the fabric, running your tongue along the round shape before letting him pop free of your mouth.
When you pull back to ease his briefs off, Steve is watching you down the line of that beautiful Roman nose. His brows are knotted together, eyes hazy with pleasure. His right hand lifts, this time to cup your cheek.
Your suspicions were correct- even partially erect, Steve’s cock is huge. Easily packing more girth and length than any person you’ve ever been with, by far.
“Holy shit, Steve.” Your first reaction is an honest, shocked gasp, hands slipping to his inner thighs as you take him in for the first time. “This is- the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.”
“Charmer,” Steve accuses, but it’s made less casual by the fact that he sounds completely wrecked. “I’m usually- usually harder, by now, it’s-”
“Shhh.” A shake of your head quiets him, but your eyes stay focused on his ever-growing length. There’s a dark green vein along the underside, and he’s filling out slightly to the left, cock nearly weighed down by its own fat head. “Knew you were gonna be perfect. I was right.”
Steve wants to laugh it off but chokes when you lean in to take the bare skin of his cockhead into your mouth. You lap at the fat rim separated from his shaft and suck, the tip of your tongue tracing his slit.
Steve’s panting again, abdomen lurching under your palm. His hand hasn’t left your cheek, so you reach for his wrist, encouraging his fingers to slide to the roots of your hair.
“I don’t mind if you get a bit rough,” you pull off his cock to say, with a wink.
Steve’s jaw drops, momentarily, and when you dip back down to take him again there’s a long moan loosened from his chest, crawling out of his throat with a force of sound that makes your clit pulse.
Steve’s babbling, head thunking backwards again while your head bobs to fit more of him in. Your tongue flattens to accommodate the thickness of his next few inches, and already- even though he’s not at full stiffness- he’s a stretch to take.
The sides of your tongue dig into your molars with the sheer heft of Steve in your mouth, sinking further back, tip leaking salty precum at the back of your throat. You purr around the mouthful and hear Steve grunt in response, his fingers in your hair snagging and tightening.
“You’re so- so good at that- holy fuck, honey-”
Your jaw hinges open far enough to welcome more of him in, cockhead now nestled at the very back of your throat. You take a breath through your nose, then swallow.
Steve’s reaction is immediate and intense- a slew of curses, thighs shaking so hard you wonder if he’s about to come without warning, nails stinging at your scalp; then he’s panting again, like he’s trying to tamp down the wave of pleasure hitting from all sides.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck. You keep that up and- I don’t think I can- hold-”
If your mouth wasn’t full you’d tell him that’s the idea.
___
Steve’s so hard he thinks he might pass out.
Every drop of blood in his system is singing, apparently intent on making up for the lack of stiffies in the past few months by rushing and congregating on a direct path to his crotch.
Steve feels like a part of his soul is leaking steadily out, right into the clutch of your throat.
Nostrils flaring, eyes rolling back in his head, he probably looks fit for a seance. There’s certainly something supernatural about the way he’s filling out in your mouth, soft velvet encasing the hard-as-diamond interior in a way that he simply hasn’t ever felt before.
There’s a throbbing behind his temples, sort of like the beginnings of a migraine, except this time Steve knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’ll go away the second he comes.
An animal, base instinct is swelling, flaring like a bad temper, making hips hips jerk forward despite himself; Steve begins to unwind his fingers from your hair, worried about hurting you- but you hum around his length again, this time in encouragement, vibrations carrying throughout the entirety of Steve’s body.
So he keeps one hand in your hair. The other clutching desperately at your bare shoulder, just to feel the warmth of your skin under his hand as you begin to unravel him.
Steve’s fully hard now, which feels like a triumph in itself. If a stormcloud of interdimensional trauma tried to roll in, Steve is pretty sure he’d simply tip his head back to the sky and let the rain fall.
It’s hard to care about anything other than your soft palette cradling his length, or the feeling of your fingertips against the rippling scar tissue at his side. There’s no room for much else.
Steve’s toes curl into the carpet. The crown of your head dips again, fitting him further in with a new angle that pulls a strangled gasp straight from his lungs. It’s happening so quickly, this time, the edge approaching with a rapidity that truly seems to want to make up for all the grief of the recent months.
You slide him from your mouth just to kiss up the underside of his shaft, your lips wet with his pre as you kiss over the tip, grinning with your tongue out as you catch him watching.
“S’okay,” you assure him, hand sliding slick to the base of his cock, forming a tight ring of perfect pressure that makes Steve’s cock visibly jolt in your grasp. “Don’t think about it. Lemme think for you.”
Steve really, honestly wants to laugh, in a frenzied sort of way that denotes how insane he feels- but then your mouth is engulfing him in that sumptuous heat again, all the way down to meet at your fingers, and suddenly the only sound he’s capable of making is a hoarse cry-
“Jesus- fucking- christ-!”
Another swallow, another twist of your fingers, and Steve feels it- that hook behind his belly button, pulling him in, about to catapult him over the edge.
Everything is so wet, hot and tight, his abs and glutes and quads and every other fucking muscle in his body clenching in time with your rhythm.
He doesn’t have time for a warning, hoping that the sudden hunch forwards of his shoulders and frantic spasming of his fingers against your skull will clue you in.
His cock throbs, jerks, sac drawing up towards your chin, hair flopping over his forehead as he grits his teeth with the overwhelm about to happen.
“Oh, fuck.”
The orgasm hits so sudden and so hard that Steve doesn’t even recognize it, at first, cock pulsing out ropes of cum before the feeling even registers.
When it finally does, it’s like touching a live wire, his entire body thrumming with the energy of it, spilling load after load in steady successions down your throat.
Steve’s lashes flutter, jaw dropping open to loose a wall of noise, incoherent babbling and drunken praise and your name thrown into the mix, sweat beading at his hairline and prickling at his arms.
The pleasure lasts for so long, just keeps unspooling and zipping through every limb, wringing him dry; your mouth slides up along with your hand, still suctioning and dragging him through the tail end of it.
Finally, Steve lets his hands drop to the couch, palms up like an offered prayer, sinking back into the cushions, thoroughly wiped. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his right ear, stars dancing behind his eyelids.
He feels like he’s underwater, but not in a scary Lover’s Lake Hell Gate way- more like a womb. Surrounded by the fizzling ends of an orgasm so good there might’ve been a brief flatline to his heartbeat.
Steve sucks in ragged breaths, tingling everywhere, eyes still closed with the rapture of it all. Distantly, he feels a comforting weight over his thighs, then the rest of his body; he reaches up blindly and finds your back, your waist, wrapping his arms around the settled feeling of you in his lap.
You’re giggling at him, soft and bright and sweet in his ear. Steve tugs one corner of his mouth upwards in response, but that’s about all the energy he has to offer.
You don’t seem to mind, cuddling into his chest, head tucking to fit under his chin, hand smoothing a path down his ribs as he floats slowly back down to earth.
“Wow.” Steve’s surprised he still has a grasp on the English language, but his voice works fine. Maybe even better than before, as if this world-shattering blowjob had healed more than simply his lacking sex track record. “That was. Truly fucking great. Y’got it in one. Fixed me.”
He feels you shudder with laughter in his arms, turning the side of your face towards his neck to plant some gentle kisses there before you say, “You were never broken to begin with. But I’m glad I could help.”
Steve blinks up at the ceiling. He has to hug you tighter in order to stave off tears, which he’ll save for later- after he’s eaten you out so good that you’ll be the one crying next.
