Torn between two worlds - Steve Harrington ft. Mike Wheeler
summary: you try to get over your crush on steve by fooling around with mike… it works right up until steve catches you and proves he wants you just as badly. (I saw this edit of them both to the song jealous type by doja cat and couldn't help myself) warnings: Explicit sexual content, praise kink, dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected penetrative sex wc: 6.8k
disclaimer: this is an aged up version of everyone, all characters are aged up to 18+ if that’s not your thing, scroll 💕
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It doesn’t feel like a crush at first.
It feels like gravity casual, constant, too ordinary to notice until one day you trip over it.
It starts in Steve’s car.
You’re in the passenger seat, feet up on the dash until he swats at your knee with a distracted, “Hey. Seatbelt first, rebel.”
You roll your eyes but obey. He always makes you obey without sounding like he’s making you. He double-checks the click with a little nod like it personally makes his lungs relax.
The radio hums. The windows are half-down. Night air slips in, cool on your cheeks.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, easy and loose, and talks about nothing work, Robin, an old lady who tipped him with coupons instead of money.
You’re laughing, not because the story is that funny, but because it’s him telling it.
Then he glances at you. Just a normal look. Just Steve looking.
And your stomach drops straight through you.
You look away immediately. He doesn’t notice.
Why would he?
He sees you the same way he always has — familiar, safe, younger, part of the furniture of his life. Henderson-adjacent. Orbit, not center.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment.
“I’m fine,” you reply too fast, then softer, “Just tired.”
He nods, accepting it. He doesn’t push. He never pushes.
He has no idea that the real reason you’re quiet is because you’ve suddenly become aware of every inch of your own skin.
It only goes south from there.
In the kitchen you guys have set up at the Squawk, much to your luck the crush only increased when you decided to help him and rRobin at the radio over summer break.
He’s leaning next to you, shoulder brushing yours as he steals food off your plate with casual audacity.
You swat at him. “Get your own.”
“I like yours,” he says, grinning.
“Mine is literally the same.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, still chewing, “but yours tastes better.”
It’s a stupid joke.
Your body doesn’t think it’s stupid.
His thigh rests against yours under the counter without him thinking about it. Without you stopping it. His voice drops when he’s close — not intentionally seductive, just naturally softer when he doesn’t have to perform.
He smells like laundry and cheap cologne and something warmer underneath that you’ve started associating with home.
You hate that it makes your chest ache.
He looks at your plate again. “You’re not eating much.”
“I am.”
He tilts his head a little. “You usually steal my fries by now.”
The fact he noticed hits harder than it should. You shrug. “Not that hungry.”
He doesn’t tease you this time. His brows knit slightly. He nudges your plate back toward you, gentle, casual, unaware of how tender it feels.
“Eat anyway,” he says. “You get lightheaded and then I gotta carry you or something.”
You snort. “You’ve literally never had to carry me.”
He grins. “I’m preparing for my future.”
You laugh. He laughs.
He doesn’t realize he just said something that’s going to live in your head for the rest of the night.
The worst is when he’s thoughtless about touching you.
A hand at your waist to move you aside.
Two fingers under your chin when he wants you to look up.
A palm flattening between your shoulder blades when he guides you through a crowd.
None of it is loaded for him. None of it is careful.
He touches you like it’s second nature.
You spend the next hours replaying it like a crime scene.
You start noticing things you wish you didn’t: the way he always walks on the traffic side of the road, the way he checks on Dustin but lingers on you a second longer, the way he relaxes when you laugh
He has no idea he’s doing it.
You have no idea what to do with it.
People flirt with him in front of you sometimes.
Girls at movies.
Women at work.
Older, bolder, obvious.
He laughs them off with that disarming charm, completely oblivious to the way it hollows you out from the inside. It’s ridiculous you aren’t together, he doesn’t owe you anything, you know that.
But your mind loops one thought anyway:
He’s in another world.
You’re just visiting it.
One evening, you watch a girl lean in too close to him at a party, see his hand at the small of her back just enough that it pains you to look at and it hits you stupidly hard that he’s practiced at this.
Practice implies opportunities.
Opportunities imply lives you’re not part of.
Later that night, when the crowd thins and your head is buzzing, you find yourself in the hallway, leaning against the wall, just breathing.
He shows up beside you like gravity again.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He studies you, faint crease between his brows. “You don’t look good.”
You huff. “Thanks.”
He bumps your shoulder with his. “You know what I mean.”
You do. Too well.
“I’m fine,” you repeat more softly.
He nods slowly, then looks away down the hall. He has no idea that you want him to see through you. He has no idea you want him to say your name like it means something more.
He has no idea you’ve been building a life around wanting something you’re convinced you can’t have.
To him, you’re… you.
He doesn’t realize that to you, he’s the before and after.
You lie awake that night thinking about stupid things:
the curve of his wrist on the steering wheel
the sound of his laugh muffled in his sleeve
the warmth of his hand between your shoulders
You don’t think: I’m in love with Steve.
You think:
This is going to ruin me.
And the worst part is… you don’t think he has the slightest clue.
Not about what you feel.
Not about what he does to you without trying.
Not about the way your whole body reacts just because he says your name in a room full of people.
You turn on your side.
You try to sleep.
You fail.
Because the problem isn’t just that you want him.
The problem is that you genuinely believe he doesn’t and will never want you back.
You didn’t notice it at first.
Mike had always been there, always nearby, always smiling at you with that slightly nervous, slightly infatuated expression you’d learned to ignore. He was the safe orbit predictable, steady. You never thought of him like that. Not really. Not until now.
It starts in the Wheeler basement. You’re sorting through some random old comics, boxes of things Dustin had long abandoned, trying to make sense of the mess, and Mike is beside you, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch. He doesn’t say much at first. Just watches you.
“Found anything interesting?” he asks softly.
You glance up. He’s smiling, genuinely, like you’re the only person he wants to see in the whole universe.
“I mean, some of this is trash, honestly,” you say, and your voice carries a bit more warmth than you intended.
Mike chuckles. “Trash can be fun too. Depends who’s looking at it.”
You look at him. Really look. And for the first time, you realize how much he’s grown. The baby-faced boy you knew is gone. Taller, broader shoulders, stronger jawline, but still with the same soft brown eyes. Those eyes are trained on you now.
Your heart flips.
You clear your throat. “Yeah… I guess so.”
“You look nice,” he says casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
You freeze. You’re sure your face is bright red. “Uh… thanks.”
He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but the way he’s looking at you makes your chest ache. He slides closer without realizing it, knees brushing yours. “Really,” he adds, quiet. “You’re… nice.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You mean like ‘my sister’s annoying little sister nice’ or… actual nice?”
He smirks. “Actual nice.”
Your stomach flutters. The first time you notice it, the way his gaze lingers on your lips, the gentle curve of your jaw, the way he listens to everything you say, it’s like a new kind of gravity. It pulls and you don’t fight it.
Later, the room is quiet. Dustin is sprawled out on the couch upstairs, Robin and Lucas are playing video games, and you and Mike are the only ones left in the basement.
You’re both seated on the floor, knees nearly touching, sorting through old movies. You brush a strand of hair from your face, and Mike’s hand hovers, unsure if it should help or if he’ll be overstepping.
“Here,” he murmurs, softly, fingers brushing your temple.
You shiver. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back. Just watches you, attentive, steady. The space between you hums with anticipation.
Finally, he leans in. Slow. Tentative. His lips brush yours, soft, questioning. Your body melts into it. You taste him, warmth, the faint scent of him, and the ache you’ve been carrying all these months for someone else suddenly softens, replaced by something safer, sweeter, intoxicating.
You wrap your arms around him. He holds you gently, as though he’s afraid to hurt you, but his hands explore slowly, intentionally — the sides of your ribs, the small of your back, thumbs pressing into your hips.
“God, you feel… amazing,” he whispers, voice trembling a little, low and awed.
You gasp softly, pressing into him. “Mike…”
He smiles against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you…”
You let him. Let the sensation sweep through you gentle, consuming, warm. He tilts you slightly, so his weight is balanced on you, kisses deepening, soft moans shared, breath catching.
Every touch is praise. Every movement is affirmation. “So good, so perfect for me,” he murmurs. “You make me feel… everything.”
You shiver and moan softly into him, hips pressing against his, hands threading into his hair, pulling lightly. He responds, careful, attentive, making sure every sound you make is welcomed.
“Do you… want me?” he asks between kisses, tentative, almost shy.
“Yes,” you gasp, voice broken but confident. “I want you. I want this.”
He grins, triumphant, and your lips meet again. Fingers clutching at shoulders, hips moving with his, the basement warm and quiet except for your joined breaths. The pleasure is slow, sweet, overwhelming. Every caress leaves you weak, every whisper makes your chest ache.
Eventually, you both collapse back against the couch, tangled and laughing softly, chest heaving, hearts racing. Your fingers rest on his arm, tracing gentle lines over muscles he didn’t know you’d noticed.
Mike presses his forehead to yours. “You’re incredible,” he whispers. “I could stay like this forever.”
You smile, heart full, the tension and longing with Steve momentarily forgotten. The ache for Steve is still there ,a background hum, but for now, Mike is soft, warm, and all-encompassing.
Weeks blurred together in that tilted way. Mike Wheeler’s mouth became something you knew in the dark soft, eager, trembling like he couldn’t believe you were kissing him back. He kissed like someone discovering pleasure for the first time. Like sweetness. Like wanting to be careful with you even when your hands were already in his hair pulling.
He held your face when he kissed you. He whispered your name like it was fragile.
And you told yourself it wasn’t serious.
Just distraction. Just warmth. Just something to stop your chest from aching every time Steve Harrington laughed too near you.
You thought you were subtle.
You weren’t.
Steve wasn’t either.
At first, he didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. Same easy grin, same soft teasing voice, same lazy, careless way his eyes followed you around rooms without ever really landing anywhere else.
But then he did notice.
The first crack showed in something tiny.
You and Mike were sitting too close on the couch. Your knee brushed his. His fingers toyed with yours tentatively, like testing courage.
Steve walked in.
And stopped.
Something in his jaw tightened for a second just a second before he smiled too wide and tossed himself into a chair like nothing mattered.
“So,” he said casually, voice a little too bright, “movie night. Cute.”
You pretended not to hear the edge.
Mike flushed, but didn’t move his hand.
You didn’t either.
That became a pattern.
You caught Steve looking away sharply when he saw you whispering with Mike in kitchens, in the Byers’ living room, outside the arcade at dusk. You heard that strain in his laugh whenever Mike touched your back without thinking. He started dodging rooms you were both in. Started driving the long way around Hawkins just to have excuses to drop everyone else off first, leaving you for last—and then not knowing what to say to you when it was only you.
The flirting didn’t start until he snapped.
He didn’t mean to flirt harder.
He just couldn’t help himself.
He leaned closer when you talked. He complimented you too sincerely. He held eye contact a little too long. His voice went lower around you like gravity itself changed.
One night, in the kitchen, he brushed past you and his hand steadied your waist as you reached for a glass.
Too long.
Too warm.
Your breath hitched.
He heard it.
His hand didn’t move.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low enough that it didn’t belong to any version of him you knew.
“Yes,” you said, even though your heart was aching and loud and everything at once.
He let go first.
Everyone was at the Wheeler house noise and laughter everywhere, doors half-open, lights dimmed. You and Mike slipped away without thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. You didn’t even make it into a room you just ended up in the hallway between bedrooms, pressed against the wall, kissing like the world had temporarily loosened its rules.
Mike kissed you with both hands in your hair.
“Missed you,” he muttered against your mouth, sweet and breathless and sincere in that way that made something inside you warm.
“Mike” you whispered back, but your body leaned up to keep kissing him anyway.
He smiled into the kiss.
That’s when footsteps stopped.
You didn’t hear the approach. You felt it.
You broke the kiss just in time to see Steve standing there.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just wrecked.
Like someone had knocked the air out of him and he was still trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.
His eyes moved from your swollen mouth to Mike’s hand on your waist. He swallowed once. Twice. Said nothing.
“Steve,” you breathed.
He laughed once, short and humorless. “Yeah. No. Don’t—”
He turned and walked away fast, shoulders tight, like he had to leave right now or something inside him would burn down the hallway.
Mike stared after him, stunned, then looked back at you. You touched his arm.
“I need to talk to him,” you said softly.
Mike nodded. He understood more than he wanted to.
You went after Steve.
You caught the front doors still swinging, the echo of heavy footsteps ahead of you. He was already halfway across the lot, shoulders tight, keys clenched in his fist like he wanted to stab the whole night with them. His movements were fast, angry, but controlled in that way that meant he was seconds from not being controlled at all.
“Steve!” you called.
He didn’t stop.
He yanked open the driver’s door. You reached him just as he slid inside.
“If you go, I’m going with you,” you said, breathless, hand on the car door.
He finally looked at you.
His jaw was locked, eyes dark and glassy, chest moving too fast. For a second he looked like he might argue then something in him just… gave. He didn’t say yes, didn’t say anything, just watched you walk around the hood and get in.
The car door closed. The world went small.
He started the engine.
The drive was quiet at first, streetlights dragging gold across his face in sharp cuts, his knuckles white on the wheel. You swallowed.
“So,” you said softly. “Are we going to talk about it?”
His mouth curled humorlessly. “No.”
“Steve—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped, then immediately ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “Sorry. I just— not now. Please.”
You nodded, heart pounding. The rest of the drive passed in thick silence.
He didn’t drop you home.
He pulled into his driveway.
“I’m not letting you go back like this,” he said, voice quieter now but no less intense. “Come inside. We’re talking.”
You followed him up the steps, inside, up the stairs. He didn’t look back, but he knew you were behind him you could feel it in every controlled line of his body.
His bedroom door shut behind you with a soft click.
He stood there for a moment, back to you, breathing like he’d just finished sprinting. Then he turned.
You swallowed. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Me and Mike. It wasn’t I didn’t mean for it to be public.”
He laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Public. That’s what you’re worried about?”
“I—”
“I don’t care that it was public,” he said, words rushing now, like something broke loose. “I care that it was him. That it was anyone. That it wasn’t me.”
Your heart stopped.
He took a step closer. Then another.
“I’ve been trying so damn hard not to do this,” he went on, voice rough, the confession tearing out of him. “Not to make you uncomfortable. Not to screw up your life. Not to cross a line. You’re younger. You’re brilliant. You deserve something simple, and I am not simple.”
He exhaled, shaky.
“But seeing him touch you like that? Seeing your hands in his hair, your mouth on his—” he swallowed hard, jaw clenching. “I lost it. I can’t pretend anymore. I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long it hurts.”
The room spun.
“Steve,” you whispered, because his name was the only thing left in your head.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, already stepping right into your space. “Tell me this isn’t what you want and I swear I will, even if it kills me.”
You didn’t.
You reached for him.
The kiss hit like a dam bursting.
He groaned into your mouth, hands immediately on your waist, then your back, then higher like he wanted to touch everywhere at once and couldn’t decide where to start. You fisted his shirt, dragging him closer, desperate, matching his urgency.
He broke the kiss only long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”
He kissed you again, deeper, backing you toward the bed until the back of your knees hit the mattress. You fell back and he followed, bracing himself over you, heat and weight and want.
His mouth moved down your throat, slow at first, then hungry open kisses, lingering licks, the scrape of teeth that made your breath stutter. His hands slid under your shirt, large and warm, thumbs dragging up your sides like he was memorizing you.
Clothes went somewhere. You didn’t care where.
He pulled back only to look at you.
“Look at you,” he murmured, wrecked. “Spread out on my bed like this. All for me.”
His mouth traveled lower.
He settled between your thighs like he belonged there like he’d always belonged there and kissed the inside of your knee, then higher. Each kiss got slower, wetter, more deliberate, until his breath ghosted over where you needed him most.
You made a helpless sound.
He smiled against your skin. “Yeah. That’s the one I wanted.”
He licked you once slow, broad, devastating.
Your back arched.
He didn’t rush. He ate you like he’d fantasized about it in ridiculous detail, like he wanted to wring every sound from you. His tongue circled, then flicked, then pressed, finding exactly what made you gasp and staying there. His hands held your thighs open, firm but reverent, thumbs stroking soothing patterns even as his mouth drove you insane.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he groaned against you. “Been dying to know. Dying to make you fall apart on my tongue.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair.
“Steve—”
“Uh-uh,” he murmured smugly. “I’m not stopping until you say my name like you’re begging.”
You did.
You broke on his mouth, hips shaking, sounds spilling out of you uncontrolled. He groaned like your orgasm was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and didn’t stop until you whimpered from sensitivity.
He kissed his way back up your body, slow and reverent, until he was over you again. You reached for him, hand sliding into his boxers, wrapping around him.
He swore, low and rough.
“Careful,” he warned, voice strained. “I’m hanging on by thread here.”
You stroked him anyway, loving the way his breath hitched, the way his forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second like he needed to regroup. He grabbed your wrist gently and guided your hand away, not angry just desperate.
“Need to be inside you,” he said, voice almost broken. “Please. I need you.”
The first push in was everything.
He was big thick, stretching you slow enough that your mouth fell open on a sharp breath. He stilled instantly, eyes searching yours, control trembling.
“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “More.”
He groaned like that was the last thing holding him together.
He moved.
Slow at first, deep, unhurried thrusts that made you feel every inch of him. His hand slid under your thigh and lifted it, rolling your hips up to meet him the angle changing, the drag of him inside you suddenly so perfect it made you cry out.
“That’s it,” he panted, thrusts getting stronger. “Take it. God, you feel unreal.”
Your nails dug into his back.
He kissed you through it messy, desperate kisses full of teeth and breath and heat then flipped you without warning, pulling you on top of him. His hands gripped your hips.
“Ride me,” he said, voice wrecked. “Been dreaming about this. Watching you move. Knowing you’d be so pretty like this.”
You moved.
The sound of your bodies filled the room skin, breath, his rough groans every time you took him deep, the helpless little sounds you couldn’t hold back. He praised you constantly:
“Good girl.”
“Look at you, taking all of me.”
“Just like that, that’s perfect.”
He sat up suddenly, chest to yours, arms locking you in as he thrust up into you hard enough to steal your breath. You gasped against his mouth. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you.
You shattered around him.
He followed, swearing into your skin, holding you tight as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck like the feeling was too much.
Silence.
Just breathing.
Just heartbeats.
He eased you down beside him, still holding you, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back. Your eyelids felt heavy. His chest was warm under your cheek.
You should have felt calm.
Instead, your mind spun.
Mike. Steve. You.
What now?
You stared at the ceiling in the dark and thought:
I’m so, completely, absolutely screwed.
update: Im making part two!! Thank u for the love on this one, let me know if u would like to be tagged!! (I will be probably tagging some people that left loving comments)
