↳ summary: three weeks ago, steve harrington left y/n’s life without saying goodbye. fifty five minutes until new years, and maybe it’s insane to think he will show up.
↳ warnings: angst, pure love.
↳ notes: happy new years! more of a comfort fic ngl
word count: 5k
It was eleven o'clock on New Year's Eve, and the world smelled like burnt marinade, pine needles, and the metallic tang of snow that hadn't quite fallen yet.
Y/N stood by the sliding glass door, wrapped in a coat that felt two sizes too big now. She was watching her father flip burgers on the grill, laughing at something Robin's dad had said. It was a picture of normalcy. It was a scene from a life she felt she had lost the rights to.
"It's weird, right?" Robin's voice sliced through the cold. She was standing next to Y/N, clutching a plastic cup of warm cider like a lifeline. "The concept of time? We arbitrarily decided that in exactly fifty-nine minutes, everything resets. Like, poof, new year, new trauma. Or, hopefully, less trauma. Statistically speaking, we're due for a boring year. I've done the math. The probability of an apocalypse happening four years in a row has to be infinitesimal."
Y/N took a sip of her own drink. "Robin, breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm breathing exclusively to keep my body temperature up because it is freezing and my mom insisted we do a 'winter barbecue' because she read it in Better Homes & Gardens," Robin rambled, her breath pluming in the air. She bumped Y/N's shoulder gently. "You okay? You're doing the staring thing again. The 'thousand-yard stare into the void' thing."
"I'm fine," Y/N lied. The word felt brittle in her mouth.
She wasn't fine. She hadn't been fucking fine for months.
It had started slowly, insidious and quiet, like mold blooming behind wallpaper. At first, it was just the headaches, a dull, rhythmic throb at the base of her skull that synced with her heartbeat. Very annoying. She had blamed it on the fluorescent lights at the Hawkins Post, where she worked as a junior editor. Then came the nosebleeds, sudden and hot, ruining her white blouses in the middle of meetings.
But it was the sleep that destroyed her...
For weeks, sleep had become a battlefield. It wasn't just nightmares; it was a dismantling of her psyche. She would close her eyes and smell rotting pumpkins. She would hear the wet, slick sound of something moving in the walls. And in the center of it all was the guilt, the job offer.
California. The letter had been sitting in her desk drawer for a month, burning a hole through the wood. A senior position at the San Francisco Chronicle. It was absolutely everything she wanted. It was escape from Hawkins.
And Vecna had used it. He had twisted her ambition into a noose. He whispered to her in the dark, telling her she was selfish, that she was abandoning the people who saved her, that she was leaving Steve behind to rot in a dead-end town while she chased sunshine. The guilt had fed the curse until Y/N was a walking corpse—pale, trembling, seeing grandfather clocks in every corner of the newsroom.
She had only broken free by screaming the truth. By telling them. By shattering the secret.
And everyone had smiled. Everyone had hugged her.
Everyone except him.
"He's not coming, is he?" Y/N asked, her voice barely audible over the hiss of the grill.
Robin stopped rambling. She looked down at her boots, kicking at a patch of frozen grass. "I... I don't know, Y/N. I called him again an hour ago. It went straight to the machine. Again."
"It's been twenty-one days," Y/N whispered. She didn't need to look at a calendar. She felt every single one of those days like a physical bruise.
"I know," Robin sighed, frustrated. "Look, he's... he's spiraling. You know how he gets. He got fired from the video store—which is insane, by the way, Keith is a tyrant—and Henderson has been avoiding him because they got into that huge fight about Eddie, and now... with you leaving..."
"I didn't leave yet," Y/N cut in sharply. "I said I was considering it. And instead of talking to me, he vanished."
She looked at the empty driveway. Three weeks.
He had missed their goddamn anniversary. December 12th. Three goddamn years. She had sat in her living room, dressed in Steve's favorite blue sweater, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the BMW to pull up. She had waited until the sun came up the next morning, and the silence that filled the room was heavier than any monster from the Upside Down.
"He thinks you dumped him," Robin said softly, a pained grimace on her face. "Or... he thinks he's dumping you preemptively so you don't have to do it. It's the good ol' King Steve defense mechanism. Reject the rejection before it kills you."
"It's cowardly," Y/N spat, though her eyes burned with hot tears. "It's cruel. I almost died, Robin. I had that... thing in my head. And when I finally get it out, the person I wanted to hold me the most decides to play invisible man."
"He's an idiot," Robin agreed, shivering in her coat. "He is a capital-D Dingus. But... I think he's scared. He feels like he's losing everything. His job, his kids, his status... and you. You were the last steady thing he had."
Y/N wrapped her arms tighter around herself. The cold was seeping into her bones, but it wasn't the winter air. It was the absolute, crushing certainty that she was entering a new year alone. Not even alone, she doesn't care about that. But without him.
"Well," Y/N murmured, staring at the dark treeline of the woods bordering her backyard. "If he doesn't show up tonight... I'm taking the job. I'm accepting it tomorrow morning."
Robin's eyes went wide. "Y/N—"
"I mean it," Y/N said, her voice trembling but firm. "I can't stay here for a ghost. I already fought one ghost this year. I won't let another one haunt me."
"He loves you," Robin insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. She sounded worried. She sounded like someone who hadn't heard from her best friend in three weeks either.
"Then he has fifty-five minutes to prove it," Y/N said.
She turned away from the grill, away from the families laughing and eating, and stared at the digital watch on her wrist. The numbers blinked relentlessly.
11:05 PM.
It was a ridiculous thought, really. A cinematic delusion born from too many rom-coms and not enough REM sleep.
Y/N sat at the long dining table, staring down at a heap of potato salad that looked increasingly like grey sludge. The mayonnaise had formed a slight, translucent film on top, and the sight of it made her stomach turn over. Why would he come? Steve Harrington didn't do grand gestures anymore. He didn't drive across town in a blizzard to salvage things. Not anymore.
He was probably in Connecticut. Y/N knew his parents dragged him there for the holidays sometimes, to some sprawling, drafty estate with heated floors and crazy aunts who drank too much sherry and asked him why he wasn't a stockbroker yet. Or maybe he was at a massive blowout in Loch Nora, surrounded by absolute babes who didn't have Vecna's rot inside their heads, girls whose biggest problem was a run in their pantyhose, not the lingering psychological terror of a grandfather clock chiming in their worst nightmares.
He was probably flirting, laughing, holding a red cup, the memory of Y/N already fading like a polaroid left in the sun.
"This brisket is fantastic, Jim," Mr. Buckley, Robin's dad, said around a mouthful of food, oblivious to the tension radiating off the girl sitting next to his daughter. He wiped grease from his chin with a festive napkin. "Really. You outdid yourself. Is that hickory?"
"Secret is the brown sugar," Y/N's dad beamed, pouring more wine into everyone's glasses, the red liquid glugging loudly. "And a little bit of bourbon. Gives it a kick."
Robin sat next to Y/N, her leg bouncing nervously under the table like a jackhammer. She kept shooting Y/N side-glances, silently checking for cracks in the porcelain, trying to telepathically apologize for the existence of this dinner.
"So," Mr. Buckley said, leaning back and looking around the table. He swirled his wine, his eyes wandering aimlessly before landing, with terrifying innocence, on Y/N. "Speaking of bourbon and bad decisions... where is that boyfriend of yours? The Harrington kid?"
The air left the room instantly.
Y/N's hand froze halfway to her mouth. The fork trembled.
"Keith," Mrs. Buckley hissed softly, kicking her husband under the table.
"What?" Mr. Buckley blinked, looking around. "I just expected to see the famous hair tonight. Usually, you can't pry those two apart with a crowbar on New Year's. Is he running late?"
Robin choked on her water, slamming the glass down. "Dad, stop. He's—he's busy. With... charity. Orphan... things."
"He's not coming, Keith," Y/N's mother interrupted.
She didn't look up from cutting her brisket. Her knife scraped against the porcelain plate with a sound that set Y/N's teeth on edge. Her tone was brisk, practical, the same tone she used to discuss tax returns or dry cleaning.
"Steve and Y/N aren't together anymore."
Y/N felt her heart stop.
"Oh," Mr. Buckley blinked, looking genuinely awkward. "Oh. I didn't know. I'm sorry, kiddo."
"It's for the best, really," Y/N's mother continued, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the way Y/N's knuckles had turned white around her utensil. She took a delicate sip of wine. "With Y/N moving to San Francisco, long distance never works. It's a mercy killing, if you ask me."
"Mom," Y/N whispered, the word scraping her throat.
"What?" Her mother looked up, finally seeing Y/N's face. She sighed, a sound of maternal exasperation. "Oh, honey, don't look like that. Be realistic. You have this big new job! You have a whole new life waiting on the coast. You don't need to be tethered to Hawkins by a boy who can't even hold down a job at a video store."
"He was a good kid," Y/N's dad muttered into his wine, looking uncomfortable. "I liked him."
"We all liked him, Jim," Y/N's mother conceded, waving her fork. "But let's be honest. We all thought they'd get married eventually just by momentum. High school sweethearts, the whole cliché. But three years is a long time to invest in something that doesn't have a future. Better he broke it off now than dragged it out."
Broke it off.
Married.
The words hung in the air, toxic and heavy.
The mention of marriage felt like a physical blow. Y/N stared at the centerpiece, a candle flickering in a wreath of pine. She thought of the ring she had found in Steve's drawer six months ago, the one he thought she hadn't seen. She thought of the way he used to look at her when she fell asleep on the couch, like she was something holy.
And now, according to her mother, it was just a failed investment. A waste of time. A "mercy killing."
"I... I have to go," Y/N choked out.
She stood up so fast her chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor, toppling backward with a loud crash.
"Y/N?" Robin grabbed her wrist. "Wait—"
"I can't," Y/N gasped. The walls were closing in. The smell of the brisket was making her nauseous. The sound of her mother's voice was worse than the ticking of the clock. "I need air."
She ripped her arm from Robin's grip. She turned and sprinted out of the dining room, her vision blurring at the edges. She felt like she was back in the trance, back in the red smoke of her mind, running from something she couldn't see.
She fumbled with the lock on the front door, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely turn the latch. Finally, it clicked.
She burst out onto the front porch and slammed the door behind her, cutting off the warmth, the smell of food, and the sound of her life being dissected.
The cold was merciless. It bit at her exposed skin, instant and sharp, but she didn't care.
Y/N stumbled down the porch steps, her legs giving out on the bottom stair. She collapsed onto the concrete, pulling her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth.
The dam broke.
It wasn't a pretty cry. It was violent. It was the kind of sobbing that racks your entire body, where you can't catch your breath, where it feels like your ribs are trying to crack open to let the grief out. She buried her face in her hands, gasping for air, letting out three weeks of silence, three years of love, and months of terror.
She cried because she was leaving. She cried because she was alive when she almost wasn't. But mostly, she cried because her mother was right.
He wasn't coming. It was 11:45 PM on New Year's Eve, and she was sitting alone on a freezing porch step, sobbing into her hands, and Steve Harrington was gone.
The tears were freezing on her cheeks, turning into icy tracks that burned her skin.
Y/N sat huddled on the concrete steps, her body shaking so violently that her teeth chattered, a rhythmic, skeletal sound in the quiet night. She tried to stop. She tried to suck in a breath that didn't stutter in her chest, but the grief was a physical weight, pressing the air out of her lungs like a heavy boot.
Stop it, she told herself, digging her fingernails into her palms until she felt crescent-shaped stings. Stop crying. You have to stop. You know what happens when you get like this.
But she couldn't. The dam had broken, and she was drowning. She was drowning in three weeks of silence, three years of memories, and the crushing weight of a future she didn't want.
Then, the feeling changed.
It shifted from sorrow to something sharper. Something colder. Something wrong.
A sudden, piercing throb struck the base of her skull, not a headache, but a warning. It felt like a needle being pushed slowly, deliberately, into the soft tissue of her brain.
Y/N gasped, her hands flying to her head, gripping her hair at the roots.
The wind seemed to stop. The rustling of the bare trees in the yard ceased instantly, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence. The air pressure dropped, popping her ears. The darkness at the edge of the driveway seemed to thicken, curling inward like smoke, blotting out the streetlights one by one.
No.
Panic, icy and primal, flooded her veins, chasing away the cold of the winter night and replacing it with the deep, rot-scented chill of the Upside Down.
No, no, no. Not now. Not tonight.
She knew the rules. She knew how He worked. Vecna didn't come for the happy. He came for the broken. He came for the bleeding hearts and the guilty minds. And right now, sobbing on her porch in the dark, wishing she could disappear, Y/N was a beacon.
I'm doing it, she thought, terror seizing her throat, choking her. I'm calling him. I'm letting him in.
Tick.
The sound was faint, wet, like a clock gear grinding through mud.
Tock.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until she saw stars.
Go away, she pleaded mentally, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that felt like a bird trying to break a cage. I'm happy. I'm fine. I'm taking the job. I'm moving to California. I'm happy. Please, I'm happy.
She felt a tickle under her nose. A warm, wet sensation that slid over her lip. She wiped it with a trembling hand and pulled it away. Even in the dark, she knew what it was. Metallic. Sticky.
She curled into a ball, burying her face in her knees, waiting for the red smoke. Waiting for the voice to rasp her name. Waiting for the bones to snap.
CRUNCH.
A sound broke the silence.
It wasn't a clock. It wasn't wet. It was heavy. Physical. Real.
Footsteps. Running. Slapping hard against the pavement and then the snow-crusted grass. Not the slow, predatory walk of a monster, but the frantic, clumsy sprint of something desperate.
Heavy breathing. Ragged, wheezing gasps for air that sounded like a bellows working very overtime.
Y/N flinched, bracing herself for the monster, for the demobats, for anything. She squeezed her eyes tighter.
"Y/N!"
The voice wasn't deep. It wasn't distorted. It was breathless, high-pitched with panic, and beautifully, undeniably human.
Y/N's head snapped up.
She blinked, her vision blurry with tears and terror, expecting to see a rotting corpse.
Instead, she saw a disaster.
Steve Harrington was standing at the bottom of the porch steps.
He looked like he had run through a war zone. His hair was a mess, windblown and sticking to his forehead with sweat despite the freezing temperature. His face was flushed a deep, alarming crimson, and his chest was heaving so violently his polo shirt was clinging to his skin.
He was missing a shoe. He was standing in the snow in one white Reebok and one soaking wet sock.
In his left arm, he was clutching a bouquet of red roses so massive it was practically swallowing his head. It had to be three dozen flowers, the stems haphazardly wrapped in crinkling plastic that was fogging up from his body heat. Petals were trailing behind him on the driveway like breadcrumbs out of a fairytale.
Tucked precariously under his right elbow, threatening to slip at any moment, was a giant, heart-shaped box of chocolates, the cheap kind you buy at a gas station in a panic, currently being crushed against his ribs.
And in his right hand, gripped white-knuckled and shaking, was a small, rectangular box.
It was wrapped sloppily. The tape was uneven, bunched up at the corners. But the paper...
Y/N stared at the wrapping paper through her tear-blurred vision. It wasn't Christmas paper. It wasn't birthday paper. It was covered in little cartoon dogs. Tiny, long-bodied, floppy-eared dachshunds wearing Santa hats. Her favorite.
Steve didn't speak. He couldn't. He was bent over slightly, hands on his knees (or as close as he could get with the armful of stuff), wheezing, gasping for air like a man who had just run a marathon. He looked up at her, his eyes wide, wild, and terrified.
He took in her face, the tears, the terror, the streak of dark blood under her nose.
He stood there, one shoe in the snow, clutching the ridiculous bounty of apologies he had clearly raided a convenience store for, and stared at her with a desperation that sucked the air out of the yard. He didn't crack a joke. He didn't smile. He looked like he was about to cry himself.
"Steve?"
The name tore out of Y/N's throat, ragged and wet. She stared at him, blinking rapidly, trying to reconcile the terrifying hallucination of the clock with the messy, panting reality of the boy standing in front of her.
"What..." She wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "What are you doing here?"
Steve didn't answer. Not at first.
The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, the adrenaline crash hitting him visibly. He stepped carefully over a patch of ice, walked up the two concrete steps, and simply sat down next to her.
He didn't care about the snow soaking into his jeans. He didn't care about the cold biting at his exposed ankle. He placed the crushed box of chocolates and the massive, crinkling bouquet of roses on the step between them, building a wall of red petals and cardboard.
He stared straight ahead at the darkness of the yard, his chest still heaving, his hands resting limply on his knees.
"I'm not in Connecticut," Steve said. His voice was flat, devoid of the usual charm, stripped down to something raw and hollow. "My parents left this morning. They took the BMW. They took the luggage. They're eating roast duck in a dining room in Hartford right now."
He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet night.
"I didn't go. I told them I was sick." He laughed, a short, humorless sound that puffed out in a white cloud. "I didn't eat dinner, Y/N. I haven't eaten all day. I was just... lying on my bed. Staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks in the plaster."
Y/N watched him, her heart aching in a confusing, jagged rhythm. She hugged her knees tighter.
"I was just going to stay there," Steve continued, his words spilling out faster now, as if he couldn't stop them. "I was going to lay there and wait for the ball to drop and just... cry. I was going to cry about how I ruined the only good thing I've ever had."
He finally turned his head. He looked at her. He saw the tear tracks freezing on her cheeks. He saw the smear of blood under her nose, the undeniable sign of the curse he knew she carried.
His face crumpled. It was a look of pure, unadulterated self-hatred.
"I'm a goddamn asshole," Steve whispered, the words shaking. "I'm not just a bad boyfriend, Y/N. I suck. I know what you're going through. I know what the silence does to you. I know that thing in your head feeds on isolation. It feeds on you feeling unloved."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her knee but not daring to touch her, as if he felt he hadn't earned the right.
"I left you alone with it," he choked out. "For twenty-one days. I let you think I didn't care. I let you sit in the dark, scared out of your mind, thinking I had abandoned you. I could have killed you. If something had happened... if He had taken you..."
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. "I would never forgive myself. There is no version of this where I forgive myself. I promised to keep you safe. That was the one thing I was supposed to be good at."
The wind picked up, rustling the plastic wrap of the roses.
"I don't expect you to fix this," Steve said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "I don't expect you to take the flowers. I don't even expect you to look at me. I messed up, Y/N. I messed up so bad that I don't think there's a word for it. There's nothing I can do to fix this mess. I just... I had to see you. I had to make sure you were still here."
Y/N stared at his profile. She wasn't looking at the roses. She wasn't looking at the chocolates. She was listening to the sound of his voice.
It cracked.
It was a small sound, a fracture in the baritone, but it hit Y/N harder than the cold.
Steve doesn't cry.
She remembered the funeral for his grandmother two years ago. It had been raining. His mother was sobbing, his father was grim, but Steve had stood there in his black suit, dry-eyed and stoic, holding the umbrella over Y/N. He had held it together. He always held it together. He didn't do vulnerability.
But now...
Y/N leaned forward slightly, peering into his face.
Steve was biting his lip so hard it was turning white. His chin was trembling, a tiny, uncontrollable quiver. His eyes, usually so guarded, were swimming. Thick, heavy tears were pooling along his lower lashes, clinging there, shimmering in the porch light.
He was pouting. He looked like a little boy who had lost everything. He was fighting it with every ounce of strength he had, blinking rapidly, trying to force the tears back, trying to maintain some scrap of dignity, but he was losing the battle.
Steve Harrington was about to break.
The silence that stretched between them was fragile, spun from glass. Steve's tear finally fell, a hot, silver track cutting through the grime on his cheek, but before Y/N could reach out, the spell was broken.
The front door creaked open.
A slice of warm, yellow light spilled onto the porch, cutting across the darkness and illuminating the pathetic shrine of roses and chocolates Steve had built on the concrete. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses swelled from inside, a stark, jarring contrast to the frozen tableau on the steps.
"Y/N, honey!"
Her mother's voice was bright, frantic with festive urgency. She stepped halfway out onto the porch, clutching a glass of champagne, a party horn tucked behind her ear.
"Come on, sweetheart, you're missing it! It's almost—"
She stopped.
The words died in her throat as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. She saw her daughter, huddled in a coat that was too big, eyes red and raw. And then she saw him.
She saw Steve Harrington sitting on the bottom step. She saw the missing shoe. She saw the desperation etched into the lines of his face, the tears he hadn't managed to wipe away, and the absurd, heart-wrenching pile of gifts he had dragged through the snow.
For a second, nobody breathed. Y/N braced herself for a comment, for a scolding, for a reminder of the "mercy killing."
But her mother didn't say a word. Her gaze lingered on Steve—on the boy she had dismissed an hour ago as a waste of time—and something in her expression softened. She looked at the way he was looking at Y/N, as if he would tear his own heart out just to keep her warm.
Slowly, quietly, Y/N's mother stepped back. She caught Y/N's eye, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and pulled the door shut.
The light vanished. The warmth was cut off. They were alone again in the blue-black winter night.
And then, the world ended.
Or rather, it began again. The first firework tore through the sky above Hawkins. It was a massive, glittering chrysanthemum of gold that shattered the darkness, bathing the snowy yard in a brief, amber glow.
Then came another. And another. Blue, green, violent violet.
From inside the house, a muffled roar of cheering erupted. Y/N could hear the neighbors two doors down screaming, "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" screaming into the void, banging pots and pans. The entire town was vibrating with the collective relief of surviving another year.
But on the porch, it was quiet.
Steve didn't look at the sky. He didn't flinch at the explosions. He kept his eyes locked on his hands, watching the way the red light of a flare reflected off his knuckles. He looked defeated, waiting for Y/N to tell him to leave, to tell him it was too late.
Y/N watched the colors dance across his profile. She looked at the dachshund wrapping paper, damp from the snow. She thought about the silence of the last three weeks, the terror of the clock, and the letter from San Francisco sitting on her desk.
She took a breath. The air was cold, but for the first time in months, it felt clean.
"You know," Y/N whispered.
Her voice was soft, barely audible beneath the crackle of the fireworks, but Steve's head snapped up instantly.
"Robin says time is arbitrary," Y/N said, looking up at the explosion of red sparks fading into the clouds. "That we just decided tonight is the night everything resets. But... I think I like that. I like the idea of a zero point."
Steve watched her, his breath hitching. "A zero point?"
"A chance to wipe the slate," Y/N clarified. She turned her head, meeting his gaze. The fear was gone from her eyes, replaced by a steady, quiet resolve. "To stop counting the days we missed. To stop counting the mistakes."
She reached out. Her hand, trembling slightly, covered his freezing one where it rested on his knee. His skin was ice cold, but the moment she touched him, he flipped his hand over, intertwining their fingers with a grip so tight it felt like a lifeline.
"I'm taking the job, Steve," she said softly.
Steve's face fell, a fresh wave of pain washing over him. He nodded, looking down, accepting his sentence. "I know. You should. You deserve it. I won't stop you."
"I know you won't," Y/N squeezed his hand. "Because I don't want to go alone."
Steve froze. His eyes flew up to hers, wide and uncomprehending. The fireworks banged overhead, a rapid-fire finale of white strobes, but he didn't blink.
"What?" he breathed.
"I don't want to be in California alone," Y/N said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "It's a big city. It's scary. And apparently, I have a tendency to attract weird things."
She offered him a small, watery smile.
"I think I need a bodyguard. Or... a babysitter. Or just a guy who is willing to run through the snow with one shoe just to bring me chocolates." She paused, her voice turning serious. "New Year's is a possibility to start from zero, Steve. Maybe we could move places... together. Maybe we could start from zero there."
Steve stared at her. The information processed slowly, fighting through his guilt and his self-loathing. Together.
A tremor went through him. The tension that had held his body rigid for twenty-one days finally snapped.
A smile broke across his face. It wasn't charming or cocky. It was light. It was relieved. It was the smile of a man who had just been pulled back from the edge of a cliff.
"Yeah," Steve whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Yeah. I think... I think I could do that. I think I'd really like that."
He shifted, leaning toward her. He moved slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to change her mind.
But she didn't.
Under the canopy of fading sparks and drifting smoke, amidst the distant cheers of a town celebrating survival, Steve cupped her face with his free hand. His palm was cold, but his touch was impossibly gentle, treating her like she was made of the same fragile glass as the silence.
He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
Y/N closed her eyes, listening to the beat of his heart, loud and steady and here.
↳ summary: trying to get over her own feelings, y/n introduces mike to one of her best friends. they matched. and now, they forgot about her. well, maybe mike didn't.
↳ warnings: angst, jealousy, kissing, cheating.
↳ notes: i love sad fics sorry
word count: 6k
"You’re haunting your own life, Y/N."
Will Byers’ voice crackled over the phone line, soft but cutting. Y/N lay on her bed, staring at the intricate crown molding of her ceiling, a feature of the Montgomery estate that felt less like luxury and more like the lid of a very expensive jar.
"I'm not haunting anything," Y/N deflected, picking at a loose thread on her duvet. "I'm just... taking space. It’s healthy."
"It’s been two months," Will said. There was a shuffling sound on his end, the scratch of charcoal on paper. He was drawing. He always drew when he was telling the truth. "You haven't left your house for anything other than school. You didn't even go to the pep rally."
"Pep rallies are loud."
"Y/N," Will sighed. "Listen. I know what it’s like. To watch everyone else pair off. To feel like... like you’re the piece of the puzzle that fell under the table."
Y/N closed her eyes. Will knew. Of course, he knew. He was the only one who saw the way she looked at Mike. He was the only one who noticed when Mike stopped looking back.
"They didn't even call, Will," she whispered, the confession tasting like ash. "Not once."
"I know," Will said, and his voice held a shared, bitter weight. "Mike... he gets tunnel vision. He doesn't mean to hurt people, but he destroys everything in his peripheral view when he’s focused on something. And right now, he’s focused on... El."
"I set them up," she reminded him, a masochistic habit.
"And that was nice of you. But you can't punish yourself for their selfishness," Will said firmly. "It’s my birthday tomorrow. If you don't come, Mike wins. He gets to think you just faded away. Don't be a ghost, Y/N. Come to the party. And bring someone. Someone who actually sees you."
"A shield?" she asked.
"No," Will corrected. "A reminder. Remind him that you exist in color."
But the irony, sharp and metallic, was that Y/N had thought she was the architect of a love story.
She had grown up loving Mike Wheeler with the sort of bruised, quiet devotion that gets written into diaries and never spoken aloud. It was silent, forbidden. But even at twelve, she knew they were discordant notes. Y/N was Montgomery money—polished, poised, expected to be something great. Shit, the greatest. Her house had a ballroom; Mike’s house had a lazy-boy recliner. She was silk dresses and country club dinners; he was corduroy, stale cheetos, and shouting about demogorgons in a damp basement.
But she loved that basement. She loved the way his voice cracked when he got passionate about a campaign. She loved his loud, messy leadership. But she had always felt like a tourist there. She was too clean, too polished. She didn't fit the aesthetic of the party.
Then came Eleven.
When El had come back into her life, bruised and trying to find her footing in a normal world, Y/N saw it immediately. El was jagged edges. Mike was jagged edges. They fit together like two broken pieces of the same plate. So, Y/N had done the stupidest, most noble thing a girl in love could do. She played matchmaker.
To help those in need, and at the same time, herself. She had to get over it.
She invited El to the mall to buy clothes that Mike would like. She coached Mike on what to say when El was feeling depressed. She orchestrated the hangouts, smoothed over the awkward silences, and practically drew them a map to each other’s hearts, ignoring the way her own heart bled out with every step.
It’s fine, she had told herself, crying into her pillow at night while Mike told her about his first kiss with El over the phone. As long as they’re happy. I can just be the best friend. The rich, supportive best friend.
She didn't expect to be erased.
It didn't happen all at once. It wasn't a fight. It was a slow, suffocating fade. It started with the trio becoming a duo.
"I can't hang out Saturday," Mike would say, standing in her foyer, refusing to take off his shoes, looking everywhere but at her. He’d fiddle with his watch. "My aunt... Mildred. She’s... she’s back. Again. Mom says it’s mandatory family time. You know how she gets."
"I have to study," El would whisper over the phone the next day, her voice sounding terrified and rehearsed. "Hopper says... math is important. Grounded. Sorry."
Y/N nodded. She smiled. She pretended she didn't know aunt Mildred had died three years ago. She pretended she didn't know that El, who could move trains with her mind, wasn't actually grounded for getting a C in math.
They were lying to her. Not to be mean, but because she was an obligation. She was a chore they were trying to get out of.
Then came the County Fair.
Y/N hadn't meant to see them. She was there with Lucas Sinclair and Dustin Henderson, trying to ignore the empty spaces where Mike and El should have been.
The air smelled of diesel fumes, fried dough, and cheap perfume. The midway lights buzzed, turning the humid Indiana night into a neon-soaked fever dream.
She saw them near the ring toss.
They weren't studying. They weren't with aunt Mildred.
Mike was holding a giant, neon-pink stuffed bear by the ear. He was looking at El with an expression Y/N had prayed for, begged for, for years. It was a look of total, consuming adoration. He brushed a stray hair out of El’s face with a tenderness that made Y/N’s stomach drop to her shoes.
El laughed, a free, light sound, and pulled him down by the lapels of his jacket.
They kissed under the flashing lights of the ferris wheel. The crowd moved around them, but they were an island. They didn't look like they were missing a third friend. They looked like they had absolutely no room in their universe for anyone else.
Y/N had stood there, holding a half-eaten funnel cake, and realized the truth. She wasn't just a third wheel. She was vestigial. She was a part of their past that they had outgrown.
She turned around and walked three miles home in her sandals, blistering her feet. She didn't cry. She just felt herself turning transparent.
-
Y/N sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection, but she wasn't really seeing herself.
She applied a faint coat of lip gloss, her hand trembling just slightly. She wasn't dressing up to make a point. She wasn't trying to be a femme fatale to make Mike Wheeler jealous. This was just... her. The emerald silk slip dress was simply what was in her closet; the polished hair was just habit.
But beneath the silk and the perfume, she felt heavy. Just get through the night, Y/N told herself, pressing her lips together to stop the tremble. It’s Will’s birthday. Don't ruin it.
When the doorbell rang, she took a shaky breath, smoothed her dress, and went downstairs.
Patrick McKinney was waiting on the porch. He looked quite solid. He was wearing a nice button-down shirt tucked into khakis, looking like every polite boy in Hawkins. When she opened the door, he smiled, an easy, unforced expression.
"Hey," Patrick said. He didn't whistle or stare. He just nodded appreciatively. "You look beautiful, Y/N."
"Thanks, Patrick," Y/N said softly, stepping out into the cool air. "You look nice too."
They walked to his car in silence. Patrick opened the door for her, and she slipped into the passenger seat, grateful for the barrier between her and the rest of the world.
As he started the engine, Patrick glanced over. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, looking a little sheepish.
"I gotta be honest," he said, pulling out of the long driveway. "I was kinda surprised you called."
Y/N looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "Why?"
"I don't know," Patrick shrugged. "I mean, you’re a Montgomery. I’m just... me. I figured you usually hung out with the..." He trailed off, trying to find a polite word for nerds. "With Wheeler’s crew."
Y/N felt a pang in her chest at the name.
"I just didn't want to go alone," she admitted quietly, her voice vulnerable. "And I know you're friends with Lucas. I figured... you'd be safe. Reliable."
Patrick softened. He seemed to understand that "reliable" was exactly what she needed right now.
"I can do reliable," he said kindly. "Don't worry. We’ll just say hi to Will, eat some cake, and if it gets weird, we bail. Sound good?"
Y/N managed a small, real smile. "Sounds perfect."
The drive to the Byers' house was short. When they walked up to the front door, Y/N could hear the music thumping inside. Her anxiety spiked, her stomach turning over. She instinctively moved a little closer to Patrick, not for show, but for balance.
The Byers' living room was warm and cluttered. Jonathan was changing the tape in the stereo. Dustin was arguing with Steve about hair products. Y/N scanned the room, looking for Will. She spotted him by the snack table and felt a wave of relief.
But then, her gaze drifted to the center of the room. She couldn't help it.
Mike and El were on the beige sofa. They looked... comfortable. Mike was saying something, using his hands to emphasize a point, and El was listening with that intense, focused gaze she always had for him. They looked like a closed loop. A completed sentence.
She turned to Will. "Happy Birthday, Will!" she said, forcing warmth into her voice.
Will looked up and beamed. He rushed over, pulling her into a hug. "You came! I’m so glad you came."
"I promised, didn't I?" Y/N pulled back, smoothing his hair affectionately. "This is Patrick. I think you guys know each other?"
"Yeah, hey Patrick," Will said, shaking his hand.
At the sound of the new voices, the bubble on the couch finally burst.
Mike turned his head. He looked casual, happy. And then he saw her.
The smile slid off his face. He blinked, as if he wasn't sure he was seeing it right. He hadn't seen Y/N in sixty-one days. He was used to Y/N in the background, Y/N who was always just there.
He wasn't used to this Y/N, the one who looked effortlessly beautiful in green silk, standing tall next to the captain of the basketball team.
Mike scrambled to stand up, his movements clumsy. El looked up too, sensing the shift in his mood. But he didn't say a single word.
Beside him, El stood up. She smoothed her skirt, looking unbothered, almost breezy. She smiled at Y/N, a bright, easy expression that felt like a slap in the face.
"Y/N!" El said, stepping around the coffee table. She sounded light. Innocent. "Hi! Oh my god, I haven't seen you in so long."
The casualness of it tore through Y/N’s chest. So long. As if it were just a coincidence. As if they hadn't actively dodged her calls for sixty-one days. As if Y/N hadn't been screaming into the void while they played house.
"Hi, El," Y/N said, her voice steady, though she felt brittle as dried leaves.
"You look..." El tilted her head, scanning Y/N’s outfit, her makeup, her hair. She paused, searching for the word. "Different. Pretty."
The compliment landed like a soft, wet stone in Y/N's stomach.
Different. Pretty.
It made Y/N’s skin prickle with a strange, defensive heat. It wasn't just a nicety; it felt like a revision of history. As if the Y/N who wore jeans and oversized sweaters, the Y/N who sat on the floor of Mike's basement eating stale chips, the Y/N who had been their best friend... hadn't been pretty.
"Thanks," Y/N whispered, the word tasting like vinegar.
She looked past El, her eyes finding Mike. She wanted him to say something. She wanted him to roll his eyes and say, El, she always looks like that, or make a sarcastic joke, or simply acknowledge that she was still Y/N.
But Mike just stared at her. The shock on his face hardened into something unreadable. He looked at Patrick, then back at Y/N, and then he shut down.
He visibly recoiled, his jaw clenching tight. He didn't say hello. He didn't say she looked pretty. He didn't say anything. He just sank back onto the couch, grabbed his red solo cup from the table, and took a long, aggressive sip, pointedly looking away from her, staring at a stain on the rug like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
He was ignoring her.
The silence from him was louder than if he had screamed. It was a rejection so absolute, so petulant, that Y/N felt her face burn.
Patrick shifted beside her, sensing the odd energy radiating off the trio. He cleared his throat, breaking the tension.
"Happy Birthday, Will," Patrick said again, loud and friendly, trying to bridge the gap.
Will, looking panicked by Mike’s behavior, jumped in. "Yeah! Thanks, man. Come on, drinks are in the kitchen. I think Jonathan made some... uh... special punch."
"Lead the way," Patrick said. He placed his hand gently on the small of Y/N’s back. "Y/N?"
Y/N tore her eyes away from Mike’s slumped, silent figure. She lifted her chin, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"I'm coming," she said softly.
She walked past the sofa. She walked past the boy she had blindly loved since kindergarten, the boy who couldn't even look her in the eye, and followed Patrick into the kitchen, leaving the silence behind her.
The kitchen was brighter than the living room, the fluorescent overhead light humming with a harsh, clinical buzz. It made everything feel sharper, more exposed.
Patrick handed Y/N a red solo cup filled with Jonathan’s "special" punch. "Here. Liquid courage."
"Thank you," Y/N murmured, taking a long sip. It tasted like cheap fruit juice and gasoline, but the burn was more than welcome.
She barely had a moment to breathe before El drifted into the kitchen. She wasn't holding a drink. She was just floating, looking around with wide, curious eyes until they landed on Y/N again.
"The music is so loud," El stated, leaning against the counter next to Y/N. She smiled, that same vacant, happy smile. "Hopper says loud music melts your brain. But I like it."
Y/N gripped her cup tighter. "Yeah. It's nice."
"We missed you at the arcade last week," El continued, oblivious to the fact that she hadn't invited Y/N to the arcade in three months. "Mike got the high score on Dig Dug. He was very happy."
Y/N felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. "That’s... great, El. I'm happy for him."
"Yes," El nodded, satisfied. "We are very happy."
It was excruciating. Y/N looked around for Patrick, for Will, for a trapdoor in the floor, anything to escape this one-sided conversation where El rewrote their history in real-time.
Then, a girl with frizzy hair—one of Will’s distant cousins from the city—squeezed past Patrick to get to the cooler. She stopped when she saw El.
"Oh my god," the cousin gushed, pointing a pretzel stick at El. "You're the girlfriend, right? Mike's girl?"
El blushed, ducking her head with a shy smile. "Yes. I am El."
"You two are literally the cutest thing I've ever seen," the cousin sighed, shaking her head. "I saw you on the couch earlier. It’s insane. It’s like... I don't know, like the universe just dropped you two together perfectly. Like destiny. You were definitely meant to be."
Y/N felt the blood drain from her face.
It wasn't the damn destiny. It wasn't the universe. It was Y/N.
It was Y/N dragging El to the mall to buy that yellow scrunchie because Mike liked yellow. It was Y/N coaching Mike on how to ask a girl out without stuttering. It was Y/N sitting in the middle of her bedroom floor, surrounded by fashion magazines, planning their first date because she loved them both enough to break her own heart.
But to the world? Y/N didn't exist. She was just a footnote in their epic romance.
"Yeah," El beamed, looking toward the doorway. "Destiny."
As if summoned by the word, Mike appeared.
He walked into the kitchen, looking sullen and moody, until he saw El. He moved straight to her, ignoring Y/N completely, ignoring Patrick, ignoring the random cousin. He slid his arm around El’s waist, pulling her flush against his side in a possessive, territorial gesture.
"Hey," Mike mumbled, his voice softening only for her.
"She says we are destiny," El told him, looking up with adoring, glistening eyes.
Mike looked at El. A small, genuine smile broke through his grumpy mood. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek—loud, wet, and lingering.
"Yeah," Mike whispered against her skin. "We are."
Y/N felt bile rise in her throat. The room spun. The sight of them, wrapped up in each other, celebrating a love she had built, while she stood three feet away like a ghost, was too much. Overwhelming. The emerald dress felt like it was strangling her.
"Excuse me," Y/N choked out.
She didn't wait for a response. She set her full cup down on the counter with a thud.
"Y/N?" Patrick called out, surprised.
"Bathroom," she muttered, pushing past him. "I just need a minute."
She fled the kitchen. She navigated the crowded living room, keeping her head down, dodging Jonathan and Argyle, and practically ran up the stairs to the second floor.
The hallway was quieter. Y/N made a beeline for the bathroom at the end of the hall. She needed cold water. She needed silence. She needed to not scream.
She pushed the door open, stepped inside the small, tiled room, and turned to slam it shut, eager to lock the world out.
The door swung, but it didn't click.
A hand, large and pale, slammed against the wood, blocking it from closing.
Y/N gasped, jumping back, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The door was pushed open.
Mike Wheeler stood in the doorframe. He was breathing hard, as if he had run up the stairs after her. His hair was messy, his face flushed, and his eyes were blazing with a mix of anger, confusion, and something desperate.
Y/N stared at him, her hand frozen mid-air. "Mike?" she whispered, the shock cutting through her panic. "What are you doing?"
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the small, tiled bathroom was the harsh, ragged sound of Mike Wheeler breathing.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stood there, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles were stark white, blocking her escape like a sentry. His chest heaved, rising and falling in sharp, jagged rhythms, as if he had sprinted up the stairs just to stop her from closing a wooden door.
He stared at her. It wasn't a romantic stare. It was a frantic, consuming gaze. His dark eyes darted over her face, her hair, the slip of her shoulders, searching for something he couldn't seem to find. He looked like his brain was misfiring, smoke coming out of his ears as he tried to process the emerald dress, the silence between them, and the last sixty-one days all at once.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The harsh fluorescent vanity light buzzed overhead, casting shadows under Mike’s eyes, making him look wild and desperate.
Y/N shifted her weight, pressing her back against the cold tile wall, clutching her elbows. She didn't know what to do with his silence. It felt dangerous. It felt volatile.
"Mike?" she asked again, her voice tight, barely a whisper. She gestured vaguely to the toilet behind her, the absurdity of the situation making her dizzy. "Do you... do you need to use the bathroom? Is that it? I can wait outside."
The mundane question seemed to snap a rubber band in Mike’s head.
He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if waking up from a trance, his face contorting. "What? No! No, I don't need to—God, no!"
He let go of the doorframe, stepping fully into the small room. He ran a hand through his messy, dark curls, looking like he was about to vibrate out of his skin.
"God, Y/N," he huffed, a nervous, spazzy laugh bubbling out of his throat, completely devoid of humor. "It's just... it's been a long time, hasn't it? Like, a really long time. I haven't seen you since... well, since before."
Y/N stared at him, baffled by the sheer inadequacy of his words. Her heart was pounding a bruise against her ribs.
"Since before you stopped talking to me?" she corrected, her voice trembling. "Yeah. It has."
"Right, yeah," Mike nodded quickly, too quickly, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding hers. He was fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his long limbs knocking against the towel rack. "And you look... you know. Different. The dress. It's very... green."
"It is green," Y/N agreed slowly, her brows knitting together. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive shield against his frantic energy. "Mike, seriously. Why are you talking to me?"
Mike faltered, looking hurt. "What?"
"Downstairs," Y/N said, her voice dropping, trembling with suppressed hurt and rising anger. "You wouldn't even look at me. You acted like you didn't know who I was. You looked at me like I was a stranger. What is this?"
Mike opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked trapped. He looked at the floor, then back at her, his expression twisting into a knot of frustration and guilt that he clearly didn't know how to handle.
"I wasn't—I didn't know what to say!" Mike exploded, the words tumbling out all at once, overlapping and messy. "You just walked in looking like that—like some... some movie star or something—and you were with him and I just—I didn't expect it, okay? I thought you were... I don't know! I thought you were home!"
"I was home!" Y/N snapped, stepping forward, her own anger finally cracking the surface. "I was home for sixty-one days! Waiting for my best friend to call me back! Waiting for anyone to remember I existed!"
Mike flinched as if she’d slapped him. "I was busy! Things have been crazy, with El, and school, and—"
"Stop," Y/N whispered, holding up a hand. "Just stop lying."
Mike’s jaw clamped shut. He looked at her, breathing hard. But then, the hurt in his eyes hardened into something else. Something darker. Something ugly and possessive.
He took a step closer, invading her personal space, looming over her with a sudden, frantic intensity.
"Are you dating him?" he blurted out.
Y/N blinked, whiplash hitting her hard. "What?"
"Patrick," Mike spat the name like a curse word, his face twisting in distaste. "Are you dating him? Since when? Is that why you didn't call me? Because you were too busy hanging out with the basketball team to remember your real friends?"
Y/N was so stunned by the sheer audacity of the question that she couldn't speak. He was the one with the girlfriend. He was the one who had "destiny" waiting downstairs. And he was cornering her about Patrick?
"You think I didn't call you?" Y/N asked, incredulous. "Mike, I called you seven times in—"
"I mean, seriously, Y/N? Patrick McKinney?" Mike barreled over her, not listening, his voice rising in pitch as he started to pace the tiny space between the sink and the door. "I saw you guys walk in. I saw him touching your back. I saw him whisper in your ear like he... like he owns you or something. Is it serious? Are you guys like... a thing?"
He spun around to face her, his eyes wild. "Are you in love with him?"
"Mike!" Y/N shouted, shocked. "What does it matter to you? You have El!"
"It matters!" Mike yelled back, his hands flying up. "Because he's an asshole!"
The word rang off the tiles. Mike stepped closer, dropping his voice to a harsh, desperate whisper, leaning down until he was inches from her face. He looked at her with intense, desperate seriousness, his eyes burning into hers.
"I'm serious, Y/N. I know guys like him. He's a total jerk. He's arrogant, he's a tool, and he... he doesn't get you," Mike insisted, shaking his head rapidly. "He doesn't know you. He doesn't know what you’re like when you’re tired, or what music you listen to, or how you get when you’re stressed. He just sees the... the dress. He just sees the Montgomery money and the face."
Mike reached out, almost touching her arm, then pulled back. He looked agonized.
"I don't think you should be with him," Mike said, his voice cracking, thick with a jealousy he had absolutely no right to feel. "You shouldn't be with a guy like that. He’s not... he’s not right for you."
Y/N stared at him, her mouth slightly open, the words dying in her throat before they could even form.
"What?" she whispered.
She wasn't yelling anymore. She wasn't even angry. She was just... profoundly, deeply confused. It felt like the world had tilted on its axis. Here was Mike Wheeler, the boy who had ignored her for sixty-one days, the boy who had just declared his girlfriend was "destiny" downstairs, standing in a bathroom, definitely hyperventilating, telling her she shouldn't date Patrick McKinney because he didn't know her.
"Mike," she stammered, shaking her head as if trying to clear water from her ears. "You... you aren't making any sense. You’re talking about me like... like I’m yours. But I’m not. You have El. You guys are happy. You just said—"
"I know what I said!" Mike groaned, looking tortured. He ran a hand down his face, dragging the skin. He looked just as confused as she was, terrified by the words vomiting out of his own mouth. "I know! I just... I don't know why seeing you with him makes me feel like I’m going to throw up, okay? I just know he’s wrong. He’s wrong for you."
"You don't get to decide that," Y/N breathed, stepping back until her shoulder blades hit the tile.
Mike opened his mouth to argue, to plead, to say something else entirely irrational, but then—
Footsteps. They were heavy and deliberate, coming up the stairs.
"Y/N?"
It was Patrick’s voice. He was coming to check on her.
The sound hit Mike like a physical blow. Panic, raw and white-hot, flared in his eyes. He looked at the door, then at Y/N, his fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive. If Patrick opened that door, if he saw them arguing... the reality of the downstairs world would crash in.
He couldn't let the world in. Not yet.
Mike moved before he thought.
He lunged forward, grabbing Y/N by the shoulders. He shoved her backward, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to propel her fully into the corner of the bathroom, away from the door's line of sight.
"Mike, what are you—"
He didn't let her finish. He kicked the door shut with a slam that rattled the frame and pinned her against the cold tile wall with his own body.
"Quiet," he gasped, his eyes wild.
And then, his brain short-circuited completely.
He looked at her—her wide eyes, her parted lips, the flush on her cheeks—and the jealousy that had been eating him alive for the last twenty minutes boiled over. He didn't think about El. He didn't think about Patrick. He didn't think about consequences.
He just needed to stop the distance.
Mike crashed his mouth down onto hers.
It wasn't a movie kiss. It wasn't soft or sweet. It was frantic, messy, and desperate. His hands tangled in her hair, gripping her skull to hold her in place, tilting her head back as he kissed her with a starving intensity, trying to devour the space that had grown between them. He pressed his hips against hers, trapping her against the wall, trying to brand her, trying to prove that he was the one who knew her, he was the one who mattered.
But Y/N didn't move.
She stood frozen against the tile, her arms pinned to her sides. She didn't close her eyes. She didn't kiss him back.
She just stood there, paralyzed by the shock of it, her lips still under the assault of his, feeling the heat of his body and the frantic rhythm of his heart against her chest.
This wasn't the kiss she had wanted for years. This wasn't love. This was panic. Jealousy. This was Mike Wheeler realizing someone else wanted his toy, and trying to snatch it back before he lost it.
He kissed her harder, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat, begging her to respond, to melt, to be the Y/N who always followed his lead.
But she remained stone.
The kiss lasted three seconds too long. Then, Y/N’s paralysis broke.
She shoved him. She didn't just push him; she slammed her palms against his chest with enough force to send him stumbling back into the sink. And then, before he could regain his balance, she swung.
CRACK.
The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek was louder than the music downstairs. It was a sharp, sickening whip-crack sound that instantly silenced the room. Mike’s head snapped to the side. He froze, his hand flying up to cup his cheek, his eyes wide and shocked, the haze of adrenaline shattering instantly.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Y/N hissed. Her voice was shaking, trembling with a rage she hadn't known she possessed.
She backed away from him until her spine hit the door, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold. Her chest was heaving.
"Y/N, I—" Mike started, his voice small, terrified.
"Don't," she choked out. Tears were stinging the corners of her eyes, hot, angry tears that she refused to let fall. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in her life, she didn't see the boy she wanted. She saw a mess.
"You don't get to do that," she whispered, the words ragged. "You don't get to ignore me for two months, pretend I don't exist, and then corner me in a bathroom and put your hands on me just because you're jealous."
"I'm not—I just realized—" Mike stammered, stepping forward, looking desperate. "I realized I made a mistake! Seeing you with him, I just... Y/N, I think I—"
"Stop!" Y/N screamed, the sound raw. "Do not say it. Do not you dare say it."
She took a shaky breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to scrub the feeling of his lips away.
"I loved you, Mike," she confessed.
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Mike’s face softened, a flicker of hope lighting his eyes.
"You... you love me?"
"No," Y/N corrected him sharply, her voice breaking. "I loved you. Past tense. I loved you for years. I loved you when we were twelve. I loved you when you were obsessing over D&D. I loved you so much it physically hurt to look at you sometimes."
Mike’s face fell, the hope draining out like water.
"But I don't anymore," she lied—or maybe she didn't. Maybe the slap had knocked it out of her. "Because I grew up. And you..." She looked at him with a pity that hurt worse than the slap. "You’re just selfish."
She pointed a shaking finger at the door. "You have a girl downstairs. A girl who thinks you are destiny. A girl who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars just for her."
Y/N’s voice wavered, threatening to crack completely. "El has been through hell, Mike. She has been hunted... and tortured, and locked away. She has lost everything. And she loves you. She trusts you."
She glared at him through blurry eyes. "How could you do this to her? How could you be this person?"
Mike looked destroyed. He slumped against the sink, the red handprint blooming on his cheek, shame flooding his features. He had no defense. He had no excuse.
"Y/N..." he whispered, a plea for forgiveness she couldn't give.
"Move," she said coldly.
Mike didn't move fast enough, so she stepped around him, unlocking the door with fumbling fingers.
"Wait," Mike croaked.
Y/N opened the door. She paused, looking back at him one last time.
"Go back downstairs, Mike," she said, her voice hollow.
She stepped out into the hallway, closing the bathroom door on him, and finally let the first tear fall as she hurried toward the stairs.
Y/N found Patrick in the hallway, looking for her. She didn't explain. She just grabbed his arm with a grip that was almost painful and dragged him down the stairs, away from the bathroom, away from the memory of Mike’s desperate mouth and the sound of her own hand striking his face.
"Y/N?" Patrick asked, concerned, steadying her as she stumbled on the last step. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I need a drink," Y/N said, her voice brittle. "I need another drink. Right now."
She didn't wait for him to agree. She marched into the kitchen and refilled her red cup with Jonathan’s freaky punch. She drank it like it was water. Then she poured another.
Time became a blur. The sharp edges of the evening began to soften, smeared by the alcohol and the thumping bass of the music. Y/N stayed close to Patrick, using him as a physical anchor, leaning her head on his shoulder, laughing a little too loudly at jokes she didn't hear.
It was an hour later when Mike finally came downstairs.
Y/N felt him before she saw him. The air in the room seemed to curdle. She was leaning against the wall by the stereo, slightly swaying, when she saw him emerge from the crowd.
He looked wrecked. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, and there was a faint, angry red mark high on his cheekbone that the dim lighting couldn't quite hide.
He didn't look for Y/N. He walked straight to El.
Y/N watched, paralyzed, sipping her drink to hide her trembling lips. She saw Mike touch El’s elbow. He whispered something. El’s face fell—her smile vanishing instantly. She nodded, looking worried, and allowed him to lead her into a quiet corner near the bookshelf, away from the dancing bodies.
Y/N couldn't look away.
They stood close together, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Mike was doing most of the talking. He looked agitated, his hands moving jerkily, his posture slumped in defeat. He looked like a man confessing a crime.
El was still. Too still. She just stared up at him, her eyes widening, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs, faster and faster. He’s telling her, she thought, panic rising like bile. He’s telling her about the bathroom.
Then, Mike stepped back. He looked at El one last time, a look of profound misery, and then he turned on his heel. He walked straight to the front door, pushed it open, and disappeared into the night. He didn't look back.
El stood alone in the corner.
"Y/N?" Patrick asked, sensing her shift.
"I have to go," Y/N mumbled, pushing off the wall.
She abandoned Patrick. She weaved through the crowd, her vision tunneling. All she could see was El. She was shaking. Her hands were clutching her stomach, and tears were streaming down her face in silence, glistening under the party lights.
Y/N reached her, breathless and terrified.
"El," Y/N gasped, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Guilt crashed over her like a tidal wave. This was her fault. She had come here... she had looked pretty, and she had let Mike corner her. "El, oh my god."
El looked up. Her face was wet, her eyes broken.
"Y/N..." El whimpered.
"I'm so sorry," Y/N blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. Tears burned her own eyes. "El, I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want him to—I tried to stop him, I swear. I didn't want to hurt you. I’m so sorry."
El blinked, confusion cutting through her grief. She sniffled, wiping her nose.
"What?" El asked, her voice trembling. "Why... why are you apologizing?"
Y/N froze. Her mouth stayed open, but the words died.
She doesn't know.
"He..." El choked on a sob. She stepped forward and collapsed into Y/N, burying her face in Y/N’s emerald silk dress, her small body shaking with the force of her crying.
Y/N instinctively wrapped her arms around her best friend, holding her up as El wept.
"He broke up with me," El sobbed into Y/N’s shoulder, her voice muffled and thick with pain. "He left. He said... he said he did something terrible. He said he did something unforgivable and that he... he can't be with me anymore."
El pulled back just enough to look at Y/N, her eyes searching Y/N’s face for answers she didn't have.
"He said he doesn't deserve me," El whispered, fresh tears spilling over. "Y/N... what did he do?"
Y/N stood there, holding the girl she had tried so hard to protect, the girl Mike had chosen and then destroyed. The weight of the secret, the kiss, and the lie settled on Y/N’s shoulders, heavy as a tombstone.
She pulled El back into the hug, resting her chin on top of El’s head, staring blankly across the party at the empty front door.
"I don't know, El," Y/N whispered, closing her eyes as a single tear slid down her cheek. "I don't know."
↳ summary: while trying to kidnap derek turnbow, things go south. when steve harrington goes into the turnbow house to help erica, he gets kidnapped by derek’s hot, annoying older sister.
↳ warnings: bullying, reader is very overprotective with derek, handjob (male receiving).
↳ notes: this is a scrap!!!
word count: 6.2k
The Turnbow dining room was a riot of aromas: the rich, savory heft of pot roast and, lingering stubbornly in the corners of the air, the unmistakable funk of Derek’s unwashed feet. Y/N Turnbow, freshly twenty-one and just home from her junior year of college, sat at the scarred wooden table opposite her brother, Derek. Between them lay a plate of vibrant green peas and a tall glass of water for the third sibling, Tina. Y/N and Derek’s mission was delightfully petty: toss as many peas into Tina’s glass without being caught. So far, she was winning.
Y/N’s lips curved into a serene, practiced smile while she subtly jammed her heel into Derek’s ankle under the table.
“Ow! MOM!” he squealed, his fork clattering against his plate. “Y/N is ASSAULTING me.”
“Snitch,” Y/N hissed, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a single, careless motion.
Across the table, Tina poked at her peas as if they were unwelcome intruders on her plate. “You’re disgusting,” Tina muttered, voice low but venomous. She didn’t meet Y/N’s eyes; instead she studied her plate, the bright green peas bobbing in a sea of gravy. “It’s a shame God gave you the face of a Victoria’s Secret model and the soul of a truck stop bathroom.”
Y/N rocked back in her chair and bared a mouthful of half-chewed potatoes with gleeful abandon. “Jealousy gives you wrinkles, Teeny-Tina. Besides, Derek thinks I’m funny. Right, D?”
Derek, still rubbing his ankle, managed a grunt. “You’re pretty decent. For a girl.”
“High praise,” Y/N purred, sliding across the table to swipe a fresh dinner roll from his basket. “Love you too, Stinky.”
Just then, the doorbell chimed.
“I’ll get it,” Tina declared, perking up immediately.
Moments later, the hallway filled with dramatic wailing. Y/N and Derek exchanged a suspicious look charged with silent sibling telepathy: that conversation sounded fake as hell.
Tina returned, guiding a sniffling Erica Sinclair inside by the hand. Erica clutched a tin-foil–wrapped dish so tightly it crinkled with every step. Her cheeks were stained with tear marks, her voice pitched in a performance worthy of an award.
“I just… I felt so bad!” Erica wailed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I know I was mean, Tina! I wanted to apologize! My mom made her special Apple Rose Pie as a peace offering!”
Tina, ever the gullible lamb, beamed and enveloped Erica in a hug so enthusiastic it nearly flattened her. “It’s okay, Erica. Stop crying! Look, Mom, Erica brought dessert!”
Mrs. Turnbow’s eyes lit up like sunlight through stained glass. “Oh, how sweet! Put it on the table, dear. Why don’t you join us for a slice?”
Erica’s sharp eyes flicked around the room, calculating. “I couldn’t impose… well, maybe just a small slice. To make sure you guys like it.”
Y/N’s gaze sharpened.
“I’m gonna get some ice,” she announced, sliding her chair back and ruffling Derek’s hair as she passed. “Don’t eat my roll, or I’ll hide your lizard in the dryer.”
“Don’t touch He-Man! ” Derek howled after her.
Y/N slipped into the kitchen, closing the door softly behind her. She moved to the fridge, but as she passed the window that looked out onto the street, she paused.
A van was parked three houses down.
It was an ugly, rusted thing. The engine was off, but the interior light flickered for a split second. Y/N leaned closer to the glass, squinting through the darkness.
The driver was holding binoculars, trained directly on the Turnbow dining room. The passenger shifted, and the streetlight caught a flash of unruly curly hair and a very distinctive trucker hat.
Dustin Henderson.
Y/N’s mind, habitually reserved for college finals and dorm-room dramas, snapped into focus. Dustin was one of Lucas Sinclair’s bestest friends. Lucas was Erica’s brother. Erica was currently in the other room, force-feeding her family a "peace offering."
A spike of protectiveness jolted through Y/N’s chest. Something was off. Very, very off.
Y/N moved fast. She opened the medicine cabinet near the pantry—where her dad kept his insomnia meds—and grabbed the liquid sleep aid. She poured a generous amount into a glass, topped it off with Dr. Pepper and ice, and stirred it with her pinky finger. Then she poured a second glass of just soda for herself.
Rejoining the dining room, she smiled an angel’s smile. She slid the drugged glass toward Erica. “Here we go,” she chirped. “Seeing you here takes me sooo back. Remember when you were a kid and fought over who got the last Dr. Pepper? I thought we could bury the hatchet. Cheers.”
Erica’s ego won out. She smiled, thinking she had outsmarted the "dumb older sister." After a tense second, her smirk knotted with triumph. “Thanks,” she said, lifting the soda in a victorious slurp.
Mrs. Turnbow passed around Erica’s gleaming Apple Rose Pie. Y/N accepted her slice, made polite yummy noises, then slyly crushed a massive chunk into a soft paste in her napkin before tucking it into her pocket. “Wow,” she murmured, closing her eyes in faux bliss. “Tastes like… forgiveness.”
Within ten minutes, the plan unfolded perfectly. Mr. Turnbow groaned, mid-bite, then collapsed face-first onto the carpet. Derek loudly laughed at the scene. Then, Mrs. Turnbow swayed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and joined him in unconsciousness with a gentle thud into the mashed potatoes. Tina’s eyes fluttered, then glazed over, and she slumped forward, mouth open in a sudden, soft snore. Derek’s head lolled; a thin ribbon of drool glistened at the corner of his lips.
Y/N swooped in, cradling him as he twitched against the plate. “It’s okay, D. Sleep it off. I got you.”
Erica lurched to her feet, triumphant—then blinked as the drug crept in. She managed “Well, Y/N, Good ni-… Good…” before her eyelids fluttered shut, and she collapsed in a heap.
Silence settled over the dining room, thick as gravy. Y/N’s heart hammered.
She rose and padded into the kitchen on bare feet. She lifted the heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack. Solid, reliable, perfect.
Outside, the van door slid open with a hushed scrape. Footsteps crossed the pavement, firm and deliberate. Y/N flattened herself against the wall by the front door, knuckles whitening around the skillet’s handle.
A soft click heralded the deadbolt sliding open. The door creaked. A figure slipped inside, moving with cocky stealth, a flashlight in one hand. He wore a too-tight Harrington jacket and hair sculpted to impossible heights.
“Erica?” he whispered. “Coast clear? The eagle has landed?”
He stepped fully into the entryway, closing the door softly behind him, turning his back to Y/N to lock the deadbolt.
"Man," he muttered to himself, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror and fixing a strand of hair. "I am too good at this. Basically a ninja."
Y/N didn’t hesitate. She stepped into view and raised the skillet like a tattered banner.
“Hey,” she whispered.
Steve Harrington spun around, eyes widening as he registered pajama-clad Y/N poised to strike.
“Wait—!”
CLANG.
Steel met skull in a resonant thunk that echoed through the quiet house. Steve staggered, eyes crossed, his trademark hubris drained instantly. “P-p-preeeetty…” he mumbled, swaying, then crumpled to the floor in a soft, defeated heap.
Y/N stood over him, breath ragged, the skillet spinning loosely in her grip.
“Suck a fat one,” she muttered. “Idiot.”
-
Consciousness returned to Steve Harrington in a series of throbbing, painful waves.
The first thing he registered was a dull, rhythmic pounding in his left temple that synced perfectly with his heartbeat. The second thing was the smell, not the pot roast from earlier, but something sweeter. Strawberry shampoo.
He groaned, his head lolling forward. "Ow..."
"Rise and shine, dipstick."
Steve forced his eyes open. The kitchen was bright, too bright. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurry spots in his vision. He was sitting on the linoleum floor, his back pressed into the corner where the cabinets met the fridge.
He tried to move his hands to rub his aching head. He couldn't.
Steve looked down. His wrists were bound tightly together with... was that an extension cord? And his ankles were secured with duct tape.
"What the..." Panic spiked in his chest. He jerked against the restraints, but they held fast. "What the hell is this?"
"That," a voice drawled from above him, "is what happens when you break into the Turnbow residence. We’re very big on security."
Steve looked up.
Y/N was sitting on the kitchen counter directly across from him, legs swinging casually. She looked perfectly at ease, like she wasn't currently holding a hostage in her kitchen. The heavy cast-iron skillet—or the murder weapon—was resting lazily in her lap. She was nonchalantly inspecting her fingernails.
"You tied me up?" Steve rasped, shifting uncomfortably on the cold tile.
"Obviously," Y/N said, looking at him like he was slow. "I wasn't going to let you wander around stealing the silverware. Or any member of my family."
She hopped off the counter, the skillet clanking ominously as she gripped the handle. She took a step toward him, looming over his seated form.
"Now," she said, her voice dropping the bored act and sharpening into something dangerous. "Start talking, Ninja. Why are you and the Sinclair brat drugging my family? And don't lie, or I'll ring your bell again." She tapped the skillet against her palm. Thwack.
Steve winced, instinctively pressing his head back against the fridge. "Look, okay? I can explain. It’s... it’s complicated."
"Complicated," Y/N repeated flatly. "You poisoned a pie."
"It wasn't poison! It was just... heavy-duty sleeping meds! They'll wake up just fine," Steve insisted, trying to use his 'charm' voice but sounding mostly desperate. "We just needed to borrow Derek. It’s a... safety thing."
"Borrow Derek?" Y/N raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Like a damn library book? You were going to check out my idiot brother?"
"Yes! No! Look... you don't understand!"
Y/N leaned down, getting right in his face. She was stunning, sure, but in the same way a velociraptor was stunning.
"Here's what I don't understand, Harrington," she said, her voice dripping with judgment. "I know who you are. You're 'King Steve.' You're like... twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three?"
"I'm twenty-one!" Steve defended weakly. "Almost twenty-two."
"Right," Y/N sneered. "So explain to me why a grown-ass man is crawling around the suburbs with a ten-year-old girl."
Steve blinked. "What?"
"Erica," Y/N clarified, tilting her head. "She's a child. You're an adult. Why are you hanging out with her? Did all the women your own age reject you? Did you run out of prom dates to disappoint, so now you're recruiting from the elementary school?"
Steve’s mouth fell open. The accusation hit him like a physical slap. He had expected her to call him a criminal, a thief, maybe even a murderer.
He did not expect pedo allegations.
"Whoa!" Steve shouted, his face flushing a deep, horrified red. "Whoa, whoa, whoa... Stop! It is not like that. Jesus Christ!"
"Then what is it like?" Y/N asked, crossing her arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the leader of a very weird, very tiny cult. Is the trucker hat kid involved too? Is he your deputy?"
"Dustin is my friend!" Steve sputtered. "And Erica is... a colleague. We work together."
"Actually, yes!" Steve yelled, then immediately regretted it. "I mean—no! Look, I can't tell you the details. It’s classified. It’s for the... the greater good. The fate of the world, okay? It sounds crazy, but I am trying to save your life. And your brother's life."
He took a breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He was Steve Harrington. He had fought Demodogs. He had fought Russians. He wasn't going to let female Derek Turnbow bully him.
"You have to trust me," Steve said, lowering his voice to a serious whisper. "There are things happening in Hawkins that you don't know about. Big things. Dangerous things."
Y/N stared at him for a long beat. She looked him up and down—the tight jeans, the frantic eyes, the hair that remained perfect despite the concussion.
Then she burst out laughing.
"Oh my god," she wheezed, wiping a tear. "You are so dramatic. 'The fate of the world.' You sound like Derek when he’s trying to explain why he failed a math test."
Steve slumped against the fridge, his ego taking a massive hit. "I am serious!"
"I'm sure you are, dingus," Y/N grinned, patting his cheek patronizingly with her free hand. "But until you give me a real answer that doesn't sound like a boring-ass, uncreative comic book plot, you're staying right there."
She stood up and walked back to the counter, hopping up to sit again. She grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry and popped one in her mouth, crunching loudly, watching him struggle like he was reality TV.
Steve shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard tile, but paused. He frowned. There was something... annoying. A tickle. A slight, sticky weight right in the center of his forehead that fluttered every time he exhaled.
He tried to ignore it. He tried to focus on the fact that he was tied up by a lunatic. But the sensation was maddening.
"What..." Steve muttered, scrunching up his face. He wiggled his nose. "What is on my face?"
Y/N stopped chewing her chip. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. She didn't say a word; she just watched him with glittering, mocking eyes.
"Is there a spider?" Steve panicked slightly, jerking his head. "Is it a bug? Get it off!"
"It’s not a bug," Y/N chirped, looking delighted. "Shake it off, ninja."
Steve scowled at her, then shook his head violently, whipping his hair back and forth like a wet dog.
The offending object peeled loose and fluttered down, landing perfectly face-up in the cradle of his crossed legs.
It was a neon yellow post-it note.
Steve looked down. He squinted.
Drawn on the paper, in thick, black Sharpie ink, was a penis.
It wasn't even a medical diagram. It was a crude, third-grade-bathroom-stall masterpiece. It had veins. It had little motion lines. It was, unmistakably, a dick.
Steve stared at the drawing in his lap. He stared at the spot where it had been stuck to his forehead for the last ten minutes, during his entire, heartfelt speech about saving the world.
He slowly looked up at Y/N.
She was losing it. She wasn't laughing loudly anymore; she was shaking silently, her face buried in her hand, her shoulders trembling with the force of her own amusement. She looked like she had just pulled off the greatest prank of the century.
Steve closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly through his nose, and let his head fall back against the fridge with a hollow thump.
"Goddamn," Steve whispered, the words heavy with exhaustion and defeat. "You are so childish."
"It's art, Harrington!" Y/N wheezed, finally letting out a snort. "It’s symbolism! It represents your ego!"
"You drew a dick on my head while I was unconscious," Steve said flatly, opening one eye to glare at her.
"It’s funny!" Y/N argued, wiping a tear from her eye. "Admit it. It’s fucking funny. Derek would have loved it."
"Yeah," Steve grumbled, looking down at the neon square in his lap like it was a curse. "That’s the problem. You are exactly like him. You're just... taller. And prettier. Which makes it so much worse."
Y/N stopped laughing. She gave him a flat, unamused look. "Don't try to flirt your way out of this, Harrington. To me, you are as attractive as unwashed cheeks."
Steve groaned, banging his head gently against the fridge door. "I hate this family."
Y/N let him stew, popping one chip after another in her mouth. She stared at him with the lazy contempt of a cat watching a mouse thrash in a glue trap. She licked her thumb and pressed it right on the drawing’s tip, leaving a greasy Cheeto print.
“You know, I think you might actually believe this,” she said, voice syrupy as cough medicine. “You actually think you’re, like, a secret agent or whatever. That’s even funnier than the dick.”
Steve gritted his teeth. “I’m telling the truth.”
“Oh, for sure.” She fanned herself with another post-it. “Like, you ‘saved the world’ so hard you got demoted to having preteen colleagues?”
He tried to twist his wrists, but the extension cord only dug deeper. “You’re not listening. There’s stuff out there. Bigger stuff than you can imagine. You think Erica and Dustin are a joke, but they're the only reason anyone in Hawkins is even alive right now. They're—"
"—your secret assistants, got it," Y/N interrupted, chip bag crinkling in her lap. "But let’s circle back to the main course: the fact that you, an adult man, are spending your Friday night breaking and entering with a preteen. You see how that looks, right? If I called the cops right now, you’d be so deep in the registry you’d get jury duty as Exhibit A."
Steve stared at her, mouth open, brain scrambling for a defense. She could almost see the hamster wheel spinning behind his eyes, the little rodent getting winded. He settled for a wounded, "Erica’s, like, super mature for her age. She blackmails people for fun. She's probably smarter than you!"
Y/N clapped her hands, slow and sarcastic. “Wow, you’re right. I’m quaking in my boots. Tell me more.”
Steve looked away, jaw flexing. He focused on the counter above her head, at the way her oversized t-shirt hung off one shoulder. It was tie-dye, faded from too many washes, with some band logo he couldn't make out. When she hopped off the counter again, just because, maybe to see if she could make him flinch, the shirt shifted with her movement. His face flushed. The hair on his arms stood at attention.
She planted herself right in front of him, arms folded across her chest. The shirt had slid further down her shoulder, revealing the strap of what looked like a sports bra. He tried to look away, honest to God, but it was like a tractor beam. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
"So." She leaned in, the scent of strawberry shampoo got stronger, and Steve's train of thought disintegrated. He could picture her, in some parallel universe, slapping a "kick me" sign on his back in homeroom and getting away with it.
She dropped into a squat, bare knees popping, and peered right into his face. The shirt gaped at the neck, and the whole upper half of her body went blurry for a split second. Steve's eyes snapped downward, then up, then downward again. He couldn't help it. There was a glimpse of collarbone, the cotton strap of her bra, a sliver of shoulder smooth as a peeled apple.
"Are you seriously checking me out right now?" she said. Each word dropped with the precision of a guillotine. "You've got a head injury, man. Don't your brains have, like, safeguards? Like a failsafe that says, 'Hey, let’s not hit on our captor while semi-concussed?'"
Steve’s skin burned. He tried to focus on her knees, on the floor tiles, but every time he blinked, he smelled strawberries and saw the shimmer of her mouth. Her lips were pale, slightly chapped at the corners, glossy with chip salt. He had a fleeting, insane desire to taste the salt from her tongue.
She was so close now, close enough that if he leaned forward he’d knock his forehead into hers. Close enough to take in fully the color of her eyes, how her mascara smeared faintly at the outer edges. He felt warm all over, chest and neck, and lower, deep in his groin. Embarrassment or something meaner.
He grinned, tried to play it off. "You’re, uh, a little intimidating, you know that?"
She didn't move. A slow, predatory grin curled her lips. "You keep staring at my collarbone, Harrington. It's just a bone. You act like you've never seen a girl before."
He opened his mouth to retort, but she was right. He couldn't stop. His skull buzzed; there was a secret heat crawling through him, a kind of static charge. Something about the way she talked to him, the way she stared him down with a challenge in her eyes, made him feel fourteen again, awkward and desperate and desperate not to look desperate.
When he shifted his hips, an uncomfortable pressure announced itself. He looked down—oh, shit. Not just pressure. There was a tenting issue, a major, catastrophic tenting issue, right at the junction of his jeans. He panicked, tried to shift his legs, but all he accomplished was a more visible display.
She doubled over, laughter detonating out of her in a snort so loud he was sure the neighbors heard it. “Dude,” she gasped, “is that… are you—” She pointed, lost her train of thought, and cackled harder, slapping the kitchen tile for balance. “You are! Oh my god—”
Steve’s face went from vanilla to cherry in under a second. “No, I—shut up. It’s not—” He tried to fold himself in half, knees up, but the cord cut off every escape route. His dick, traitorous and oblivious, went full flagpole. Heat crawled up his neck, suffocating. “It’s just a physical reaction! That’s what happens with concussions sometimes, okay?”
“Holy shit, you are actually hard!” She was crying now, real tears streaking down her cheeks. “This is amazing. You’re just, like, permanently thirteen, aren’t you? You’re—” Another snort. “It kinda makes sense.”
He ground his teeth, trying not to die on the spot. “Can you not? It’s a medical condition.”
“It’s a medical condition that makes you horny for your own hostage?” She wiped her eyes, nose a little pink, mouth twisted in a delighted sneer. “Classic case, Harrington. Textbook.”
Steve glared at the floor. There was no point in dignity anymore. He looked up, met her gaze, and gave her the most withering stare he could manage.
Which was hard, considering the circumstances.
She crouched again, chin in hand, and studied the line of his spine, the curl of his shoulders around the bundle of cord. “You’re actually embarrassed,” she said, “which is, like, a million times funnier than if you’d tried to be proud of it. I mean, I knew you were sensitive, but this is next-level.”
He pressed his forehead to the cool fridge. Static in his skull, plus the clang of his pulse in his temples, plus the slow, volcanic churn of humiliation behind his ribs. He could barely form a sentence, but she just kept going.
“You used to be the shit, right?” she said, voice all fake-casual. “King Steve, all the pep rallies and hair gel you could eat, captain of the basketball team, right?” She flicked a chip crumb at his knee. “Now look at you. You’re, like, a retired mascot. Your greatest accomplishment is probably learning to multiply.”
He made a noise, half groan, half laugh, because it was true. Once upon a time he was a king, or at least a prince, and now he was a has-been with a concussion, and a raging erection in the kitchen of someone he barely knew. And treated him like absolute shit.
The worst part was, she didn’t let it drop. Every time he tried to look anywhere but at her, she’d make a low whistle and mutter, “You need a cold compress, Harrington?” or, “Should I call 911? Tell them you have an erection lasting longer than four hours?” She’d laugh so hard she’d nearly choke, and each time, Steve’s shame dug deeper, until it felt like he was being peeled with a potato peeler, layer by layer.
When she finally got bored, she flopped onto the kitchen linoleum right next to him, so close he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She stretched her legs out in front of her, feet bare and reckless. She wiggled her toes. He watched, tried not to, but did.
She picked a chip from the bag, spun it between her fingers, slid it into her mouth. Her tongue darted out to swipe the crumbs from her lips. She looked at him, then at the kitchen ceiling, then back again. The whole time, her mouth never lost that curve, sly and mean and a little bit pretty.
“Hey,” she said, voice low like a dare.
Steve looked up, wary. “What?”
“Just thinking,” she said, stretching her toes until they popped. “I’m bored. Maybe you could use a hand with your little… situation.”
His heart stuttered. He tried to laugh, but it came out like a wheeze. “Funny. I doubt you’d do anything to help me.”
She grinned wider. “No, really. You look uncomfortable. It’s honestly sort of sad.” She turned, planted her elbow on her knee, and propped her chin on her hand. “I mean, what if you died right now? Would you want your last memory to be this? Sitting on my kitchen floor with a boner and a head wound and a deeply subpar hostage situation?” She flicked her gaze meaningfully down, then back up, eyebrows raised in silent challenge.
He tried to summon some retort, but his brain was a salted slug under her stare. Every nerve ending in his body vibrated, raw and exposed. If she touched him, even as a joke, he might actually pass out.
“Don’t worry,” she said, putting her empty chip bag down. She scooted closer until her crossed ankles brushed the outside of his calves. “I’m not a monster. I’ll be gentle.”
He almost choked. “Oh—Oh my—” Every muscle in his body tensed.
She reached between them and, in a move so casual it was disrespectful, gently tapped the outline of his erection through his jeans. It was barely more than a graze, knuckle brushing denim, but the effect left him out of breath, like she’d short-circuited every wire in his body. He braced for her to pull away, to laugh at him again, but she didn’t.
Instead, she let her hand linger, palm hovering over his zipper, not quite touching, the nearness of it making him ache in ways he wasn’t proud of. The extension cord bit into his wrists as he flexed against it, desperate not to give her the satisfaction of seeing how badly he wanted her to close the gap. But she saw it anyway. She could read him like a children’s book.
Y/N dipped her head, voice gone sly and soft: “You want something, Harrington?”
He opened his mouth, but the words jammed in his throat. He wanted to say, ‘Yeah, let me the fuck out,’ but what came out was a broken little sound, needy as hell. She grinned, liking that.
“Use your words,” she said, like she was talking to a toddler with a full diaper. “Tell me what you want.”
His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He tried to swallow, but it made the dryness worse. He could taste the faint bitterness of panic and something sweeter, like a mouthful of strawberry chapstick. He didn’t even know if he could physically say it, but the look on her face said she was not going anywhere until he did.
“I—” he sputtered, voice breaking in two. He couldn’t move his arms, but every molecule of his body vibrated with want. He shut his eyes, felt the shame and the need crash together. “I want—”
“Yeah?” She leaned in, lips almost grazing his ear. “Say it, King Steve. Or are you gonna let your crown slip?”
He could smell her, the plain sleep-shirt cotton and the ghost of shampoo and chips and breath. “I want you to do it,” he said, barely audible to her. “I want you to help.”
Y/N’s breath shivered down the side of his neck. It took her a second, she could admit it, because underneath the performance, underneath everything, she’d expected him to try and weasel out, to turn it into a joke or a dare or maybe even beg for his release, forfeit his pride and take a powder. But Steve Harrington, to his credit, did not. He wanted. He looked at her with those stupid, soft eyes, pupils blown so wide they looked black, and waited for her to decide if she’d let him.
Every part of the next ten seconds was a dare.
She slid her hand higher, dragging the knuckles up his zipper, and watched his head tip back, jaw hollowing out like he was about to start speaking in tongues. She didn’t have an exact map for how to do this, because no one taught you how to give a handjob to a guy who was tied up with an extension cord in your kitchen, but she did her best. She pressed her palm down, letting the heat of her hand soak through the denim, and worked the heel of her hand in slow, taunting spirals. Each pass made him twitch, made his breath stutter, made his face line with fresh humiliation.
“Holy shit,” he said, voice gone raw. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore, the way his hips flexed forward, the wild, hopeful look in his eyes. Y/N could’ve stopped at any moment. She could’ve left him throbbing and blue, just for the sport of it. Maybe that was her first instinct. But there was something about the way he looked at her, desperate and ashamed and almost grateful, that made her want to see what happened if she pushed him right to the edge and kept him there.
So she slowed down, almost to nothing, just the barest ghost of pressure. His thighs tensed. His mouth hung open, just a bit. The effect was so earnest, like he’d never even considered holding back, never learned to disguise how much he wanted something. It made Y/N feel, in some deep-down bone place, like the only grown-up in the room, the only person who knew how to drive the car and keep hands to herself at the same time.
She let her palm drift away, leaving a heat shadow that almost pulsed. He whined, not even bothering to hide it, and rolled his forehead hard into the fridge door. Maybe hoping to bash the urge out of himself.
“Jesus, you’re needy,” she said, unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. She could see why people called him King Steve, if not for the swagger then for this: a kind of petulant entitlement, like the world’s physical laws should adjust for his comfort. The way he just… expected things to go his way, even now, tied up waiting to be touched, to be cared for, and to get exactly what he wanted, right now. She’d never admit it, but that particular brand of selfishness was weirdly… endearing.
She reached, slow and deliberate, for the hem of her t-shirt. It was a cheap thing, soft but pilled, the band logo faded to pale blue. She peeled it off in one motion, arms crossed, and watched his face as she tossed it onto the counter behind her. She wore nothing underneath, no bra, just bare skin, the slope and curve of her breasts exposed in the bright, savage light of the kitchen.
Steve's breath caught. A hiccup of awe, not lust, not yet. Just the raw animal shock of seeing her, shoulders sharper than he’d guessed, the lines of her body right there, on display as if she’d forgotten what it meant to care, or never cared to begin with. He was hypnotized, plain and simple, a moth at the windshield.
Y/N laughed, but not unkindly, and bent forward so her breasts hovered right in his line of sight, nipples gone tight in the chill of the kitchen. It was stupid, the way it made her feel, the power in it, the flush of control, but also, she had to admit, a little flattering. He was looking at her like she was the moon.
“You’re drooling,” she said. It was almost true.
He shook his head, but it wobbled. His focus narrowed to a pinpoint: the gentle bounce as she braced one hand on his knee, how her chest shifted with her breathing. He could see the curve and motion and every detail, and the more he tried not to look, the hotter his face got, until he was surprised he didn’t burst into flames.
She pressed her palm against his jeans and rolled her wrist, slow and deliberate. The friction started up again, this time more pointed, less a tease than a promise. He was already so close it was a joke, two more passes and he’d be toast, and the worst part was, she obviously knew it.
She threw her hair over her shoulder, leaned in even further so her tits jostled against each other, the left one pressing against the smooth skin of her arm as she worked him over with the right. Steve’s gaze tunneled to that one detail: the way her chest bounced, the soft curve, the faint color of her nipple. He tried to catalog every second, burn it into his memory, because there was no way in hell he’d ever get a repeat performance.
Her palm was relentless. She planted the heel of her hand right where he ached, then rubbed it in tight circles, not gentle, not cruel, just businesslike, like she’d figured out the perfect equation for how to break Steve Harrington. He started panting, quick little gasps, and his whole body strained forward, bound wrists flexing so hard the cord creaked.
She didn't stop. Not when he went red from hairline to jaw. Not when the first tremor hit, or the whimper slipped out of his throat. Not even when, with a stuttering jerk, he lost it—right there, against the tight seam of his jeans, the stain blooming dark and immediate. His head snapped back, and he slammed it into the fridge again, but he didn't seem to notice the sound. A wet patch soaked through, spreading under her palm, sticky and hot, and for a split second, he looked blissed-out, almost religious, eyes fluttering shut.
Then the shame hit, hard as a slap. He sagged, breathing ragged, and the flush in his cheeks went full nuclear. He had come in his jeans.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Y/N lost it, completely and violently. Air shot out of her nose in a squeal, and then a real, undignified honk, like a goose getting its foot stepped on. She toppled off her haunches, sprawled flat on her back, and let the laughter rattle out of her like a broken xylophone. Her bare tits shook with the effort, vibes so undomesticated she could have powered a small county fair with the kinetic energy.
Steve’s vision fuzzed at the edges. He wanted to die—no, he wanted to crawl into a hole, line the hole with concrete, then die. He could feel the warmth leaking from his own body, the splotch rapidly darkening at the front of his jeans, the wetness cooling in the kitchen’s dead-bright light. And the only person who could possibly witness his humiliation was currently rolling on the floor, shrieking so loud he worried the cops would come anyway.
She finally rolled onto her side and, with a long, deep inhale, pulled herself upright. Her eyes were red at the corners from crying, but her gaze was sharp as a box cutter.
“God,” she said, voice hoarse, “you’re the most tragic fucking sight I’ve ever seen.” She raked a hand through her hair and snagged her t-shirt off the counter, not bothering to put it back on. She used it like a rag to mop the tears from her cheeks.
“Okay, Romeo,” she said, voice half-laugh, half-ultimatum. “Show’s over. I’m giving you exactly thirty seconds to pick yourself up and get the fuck out of my house, or I’m calling the cops and telling them you tried to kidnap my brother with your little girl gang. And if they find you still sitting there, leaking like a broken Slurpee, I promise—You will be going to jail.”
Steve stared up at her, face shining, neck wet with sweat, still blinking the last of the aftershocks from his eyes. He tried to say something, but he honestly didn’t know what. Thank you? Sorry? Please tie me up again? His mouth just hung open, soundless, as she gave him a once over with a kind of clinical disinterest, the way you might check for signs of life in a roadkill opossum.
Steve stayed frozen, wrists still cinched together, pants uncomfortably plastered to his skin, heart somewhere below the baseboard. He waited for her to put her shirt back on, maybe for her to look even a little bit sheepish, but instead she just planted a bare foot on his thigh and started unspooling the extension cord.
The pressure left his wrists, and blood rushed back in, a dozen sharp pins and needles, and he let out an involuntary, embarrassing whimper. Y/N rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corners.
"Get up," she said, giving him a none-too-gentle kick for emphasis. "You are not dying on my kitchen floor. Not until you wash your hands and leave. Go, go. Chop chop."
She opened the back door, held it for him, and pointed at the yard like she was letting out a hyperactive dog after a thunderstorm. Steve shuffled past her, every step a lesson in humility. The door slapped shut behind him.
Outside, the air was damp, the moon so bright it made his skin look blue. He could hear the van’s engine idling a few houses down, muffled by shrubs.
How could he possibly explain to anyone what just happened? Not even considering that nearly everyone was still passed out in the Turnbow house. And would be for a few more hours.
The silence inside Mike's beige sedan was heavy enough to crush bone.
Ten minutes ago, the windows had been opaque with heat, desire, and pure love; the air thick with the scent of vanilla perfume and the humidity of bodies pressed too close. Now, the condensation was fading in streaks, leaving cold glass that offered a blurry, unforgiving view of Hawkins passing by in the dark.
The massive bouquet of red roses slid sadly across the dashboard every time Mike took a turn too sharp. The crinkle of the plastic wrapping sounded deafening in the quiet of the car.
Mike gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles looked like they were about to punch through the skin. His leg was bouncing nervously, his knee knocking against the plastic console in a rapid, irritating staccato—tap-tap-tap-tap. He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror as if he expected a government convoy (or worse, Dustin) to be tailing them.
Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, smoothing the ruined pleats of her cheer skirt. The adrenaline of the game, the high of the performance, and the electric thrill of the parking lot were draining away, replaced by a creeping, cold dread.
She watched him. He looked like he was vibrating apart.
"Mike," she said softly, breaking the radio silence. "Hey. Mikey, breathe."
He flinched, as if she'd shouted. He didn't look at her. "I'm breathing. I am breathing. I'm just... thinking. Calculating."
"You're spiraling," she corrected gently, followed by a delicate giggle. She reached out to touch his arm, but he shifted gears at that exact moment, unintentionally dodging her hand. She pulled back, a cold knot starting to form in her upper stomach. "It's not the end of the world, Mike. So.. they saw us. We were going to tell them eventually, right?"
"Not like that! " Mike exploded.
The words burst out of him, sharp and panicked. He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like that! It was supposed to be... controlled. A conversation. Not... not Dustin banging on the window while your legs were..." He trailed off, his face flushing a deep, mortified red in the dashboard glow, but the panic didn't subside. It snowballed.
"This is a disaster," he muttered, his voice speeding up, the classic Wheeler panic-mode engaging. "You don't understand the chain reaction, Y/N. Lucas knows. Which means within the hour, he's going to tell Erica. And Erica Sinclair isn't just a child, she's a federal wiretap. If Erica knows, the entire town knows by breakfast. My mom will know. Your mom will know."
"My mom likes you," Y/N argued, though her voice was getting smaller.
"And Dustin!" Mike barreled on, staring wildly at the road, his eyes wide. "Dustin is going to tell the Hellfire Club. He's going to tell Eddie. Do you know what they're going to do? They're going to roast me alive. I'm the Dungeon Master dating the Head Cheerleader. I'm a cliché! I'm an 80s movie villain! They're never going to let me live this down."
He ran a hand through his chaotic hair, tugging at the curls.
"And Will," Mike added, his voice dropping just a fraction, losing some of the manic energy and replacing it with genuine stress. "Will was right there. He saw everything. And Will talks to Jonathan. And Jonathan talks to Nancy."
He sighed, a long, frustrated sound, shaking his head.
"And if Will knows, he's going to tell El. Obviously."
The name landed in the car like a physical blow.
Mike didn't even notice he'd said it. He kept talking, his eyes fixed on the stop sign ahead. "I just... I haven't told her yet, you know? We barely talk as it is, and I didn't want her to find out like this. From Will. It's just going to be... awkward. A total mess. She's going to think I'm rubbing it in her face or something."
He kept muttering about phone calls and damage control, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Well, her oxygen.
Y/N went still.
It wasn't a rant. It wasn't a confession of undying love for his ex. It was worse, in a way. It was a reflex.
In the middle of his panic about their relationship being exposed, his mind had gone instinctively to her. To El. To how she would feel. To protecting her feelings.
Y/N stared out the window, her vision blurring instantly. The streetlights smeared into long, watery lines of orange.
She knew about El. Everyone knew about El. The girl who moved away. Mike's first love. The girl who was super intense and special and had a bond with him that Y/N could never touch. For six months, Y/N had told herself that Mike's secrecy was about him being a nerd and her being popular. She thought he was afraid of the bullies.
But as she sat there, listening to him worry about an upcoming "awkward" phone call with his ex-girlfriend while Y/N sat right next to him, the illusion shattered.
He's not protecting himself, she realized, the thought icy and sharp. He's protecting her.
Even now. Even after the roses. Even after the way he touched her in the car. He was still tiptoeing around Eleven.
Y/N felt her heart squeeze so tightly it was painful to breathe. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, willing the tears not to fall. She told herself she was being dramatic. She told herself he just cared about his friend. But the insecurity was a loud, ugly voice in her head: You're just the distraction. You're the normal high school experience before he goes back to the girl who matters.
Mike turned into her driveway and killed the engine. The sudden silence was murdering her.
"I just need to figure out how to spin this before school Monday," Mike sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt, finally calming down now that the car was stopped. He turned to her, looking for reassurance, a plan, anything. "We just need a strategy. Right? Y/N?"
He saw her face.
The motion sensor light from the garage illuminated the interior of the car unforgivingly. It caught the wet, shiny tracks of tears sliding down her cheeks. It highlighted the red rimming her eyes and the way her lips were pressed together in a trembling line.
Mike froze. The panic about Lucas, and Dustin, and whoever evaporated instantly, replaced by a much colder, immediate confusion.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder. "Wait. Why are you crying? Did I... did I say something?"
Y/N let out a shaky, wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. She unbuckled her seatbelt with trembling hands, desperate to escape the small space.
"You said enough, Mike," she whispered.
"What?" Mike blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "No, I was just—I was just explaining the fallout! I wasn't saying I didn't want to be with you. I just..."
"You're worried about her," Y/N said, finally turning to look at him. Her voice was quiet, devoid of anger but full of hurt. "We've been together for six months, Mike. Six months. And your biggest fear about us coming out isn't that I'll get teased, or that your parents will be mad. It's that your ex-girlfriend might feel bad."
Mike's mouth opened, but he faltered. He looked stricken, like a deer caught in headlights again. "Y/N, no. That's not—she's my friend. It's just complicated history, I didn't mean—"
"Maybe you were right," she interrupted, grabbing the door handle. "To keep it a secret."
"What? No, I never said—"
"Because if you're this terrified of her finding out," she whispered, "then maybe you're not ready to be with me."
She pushed the door open and scrambled out.
"Y/N, stop!" Mike shouted, scrambling to undo his own seatbelt.
She ran up the walkway, her cheer skirt swishing, the cool night air biting at her tear-stained skin. She heard Mike's car door slam, heard his Converse slapping against the pavement as he chased after her.
"Y/N! Wait!" Mike shouted, catching up to her at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed her wrist, gently, but desperate. "You're misunderstanding! Please, just listen to me!"
She spun around.
Mike stood there under the yellow porch light. He looked pale, disheveled, and horrified. The hickey on his neck, the one she had put there with so much pride an hour ago, stared back at her like a mockery.
"Go home, Mike," she choked out, pulling her wrist free.
"I'm not leaving," he pleaded, stepping closer. "Not like this. I wasn't thinking about her like that. I was just panicking! I'm an idiot when I panic, you know that!"
"I just want to be with someone who's proud to be with me," she said, her voice breaking. "You are the first and only person who has ever been scared to be seen with me."
"I am proud of you!" Mike insisted, his voice cracking. "I bought you roses! I came to the stupid game!"
"And then you spent the whole ride home worrying about El."
The silence that followed was brutal. Mike didn't have an immediate answer, and that hesitation was all Y/N needed.
"Leave me alone," she whispered, stepping up to the door and unlocking it. "Maybe for tonight. Maybe forever."
"Y/N, don't say that—"
She stepped inside and slammed the door.
Outside, on the other side of the wood, Mike stood in the silence. He stared at the closed door, his chest heaving, the faint smell of vanilla still clinging to his t-shirt, realizing exactly how badly he had just screwed up the best thing that had ever happened to him.
The weekend didn't just pass; it dragged Mike Wheeler behind it like a corpse attached to a bumper.
By Monday, Mike had spent seventy-two hours in a state of psychological self-flagellation that would have impressed a medieval martyr. He felt physically ill... A hollow, gnawing nausea settled deep in his gut, making food look like barf and sleep impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain projected a high-definition replay of the car ride: the smell of vanilla turning sour, the look of absolute betrayal in Y/N's eyes, and his own voice, high-pitched and frantic, saying the only name he should not have said. Why the fuck had he done that?
Mike tortured himself with the question. He wasn't in love with El. He hadn't been for a long time. She was his friend, a special fragment of his history, a scar on his timeline. But definitely not whatever Y/N had thought. Y/N was the girl who made his hands shake and his brain quiet down. Y/N was the one who had straddled him in a parking lot and looked at him like he was the only guy on planet earth.
He had driven to her house five damn times. Five times, he had parked his beige sedan down the street, because pulling into the driveway felt like trespassing now, and shyly walked up to her porch in the drizzle. He had knocked until his knuckles were raw. He had stared at the white wood of her door until his vision swam, begging the universe to let the handle turn.
It never did.
Once, on Saturday afternoon, he saw the curtains in her upstairs bedroom twitch. He had frozen, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, lifting a hand in a pathetic, pleading wave.
The curtains had snapped shut instantly.
By Monday morning, Mike looked... drained—like he had been reanimated from the dead. Deep, violet circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His skin was pale and clammy. His hair was a tragic disaster that refused to be tamed, and he walked into Hawkins High at an inconvenient hour feeling like his bones were made of lead.
He found the party at their usual picnic table outside the cafeteria. They were arguing about Star Wars, but the conversation died instantly when Mike slumped onto the bench, dropping his bag with a heavy, defeated thud.
"Jesus, man," Lucas observed, staring at him. "You look like hell. Did you sleep in a dumpster?"
"Thanks," Mike croaked. His voice was wrecked. "She dumped me. Or... I think she dumped me. She won't talk to me. It's radio silence."
"Because you got caught?" Will asked gently, looking concerned.
"No," Mike whispered into his palms, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. "Because I'm a fucking catastrophic idiot."
He told them everything. He didn't spare himself. He dragged his own dignity out into the sunlight and shot it. He told them about the panic attack in the car. He told them about the rant, the one damn rant that ruined it all. He told them how, in the middle of Y/N tearing up about their relationship being unfairly exposed, he had started hyperventilating about how Eleven would react to the news.
The silence at the table was profound. It was the silence of people watching a car crash in slow motion.
Then, the explosion.
"You did what!? " Lucas practically shouted, slamming his juice box down so hard juice squirted onto the table. "Mike, are you fucking brain-dead? You talked about your ex-girlfriend? While your current girlfriend... who is literally a cheerleader, not even any cheerleader, but THE girl any guy in this damn school would die to date—was crying over you?"
"I was panicking!" Mike defended weakly, lifting his head. "I was just thinking about the chain reaction! I didn't want El to get hurt!"
"So you hurt Y/N instead?" Dustin looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust mixed with awe at the sheer stupidity. "Mike, that is... that is historically dumb. That is a level of fumbling that needs to be studied by scientists."
"I know!" Mike groaned, the guilt crushing him. "I know, okay? I hate myself enough for all of us. I just... I need to fix it. I need to talk to her."
"Good luck with that," Lucas scoffed, shaking his head. "If I were her, I'd have keyed your car and then backed over it."
"You have to do something big," Will said, his voice quiet but serious. "You can't just apologize, Mike. You made her feel second best. You confirmed exactly what she was afraid of. You have to prove she's first."
"I will," Mike said, a sudden frantic energy seizing him. He stood up, his heart rate spiking along with his confidence. "I'll do anything. I just need to find her. Have you guys seen her? Is she even here?"
He scanned the sea of students, all the denim jackets, the bright colors, the cliques huddled together. He was looking for her green and gold cheer uniform. He was looking for her sad face. He was prepared to crawl on his knees in front of the entire school if he had to.
Dustin, who was facing the parking lot, suddenly went stiff. His eyes widened. He grimaced, looking back at Mike with pity.
"Uh, Mike," Dustin said, his voice dropping. "Sit down."
"What?" Mike was still scanning, standing on his tiptoes. "Do you see her?"
"Mike, seriously," Lucas added, following Dustin's gaze and looking equally pained. "Don't look over there. Just sit down."
"Why?" Mike frowned, panic tightening his throat. "Is she crying? Is she okay?"
He turned. And then he wished he hadn't.
Fifty yards away, near the entrance to the gym, stood Y/N.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't wearing her cheer uniform. She was wearing a soft, baby-blue sundress that fluttered in the wind, looking devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
And of course, she wasn't alone.
Leaning against the brick wall next to her, looking like he had just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial, was Jason Carver. The annoying captain of the basketball team. The King of Hawkins High. The guy who was everything Michael Wheeler wasn't: blonde, muscular, rich, and painfully charismatic. And over everything, a fucking asshole.
Jason was saying something to her, his head tilted down, that perfect, blinding white smile plastered on his face. He was doing that thing jocks do, leaning into her personal space, creating a little intimate bubble that excluded the rest of the world, radiating a confidence that Mike had never possessed in his life.
And Y/N? She threw her head back and giggled.
It wasn't a polite laugh. It was a genuine, bright sound that carried across the courtyard like a bell. She reached out and playfully swatted Jason's arm, a touch that looked casual, comfortable, and terrifyingly flirtatious.
Jason caught her hand. He didn't let go immediately. He held it for a second too long, his thumb brushing her knuckles, saying something else that made Y/N duck her head, biting her lip to hide a smile.
She looked happy. She looked light. She looked like she belonged there, standing next to the Golden Boy, in a world of sunshine and popularity that Mike had dragged her out of for six months.
"Oh my god," Mike whispered. The nausea was back, violent and sharp.
It wasn't just jealousy. It was a deep, corrosive sense of inferiority. Seeing them together was like seeing the world correct a mistake. That was the couple that made sense.
"I told you not to look," Dustin muttered, shaking his head.
"She's... she's flirting with him," Mike said, his voice hollow, stripping raw. "It's been three days. Three days, and she's already replaced me."
"Jason has been trying to get with her since freshman year," Lucas pointed out unhelpfully. "He probably smelled the breakup in the water. Like a shark in a polo shirt."
"Look at him," Mike despaired, watching Jason run a hand through his perfect blonde hair. "He looks like he was made in a lab to destroy me."
"I mean..." Dustin grimaced, watching Jason laugh. "Can you blame her? Look at the upgrade, Mike. The guy has actual deltoids. You have... elbows."
"Dustin!" Will hissed, elbowing him.
"What? I'm just stating facts! It's a harsh statistical reality!"
Mike felt like he was going to be sick right there on the pavement. He watched Y/N smile at Jason one last time, then turn and walk into the school building, Jason following close behind her like a loyal, varsity-jacket-wearing guard dog.
Mike sank back onto the bench, defeated, burying his face in his hands.
"She hates me," Mike muffled into his palms. "She actually hates me. And now she's dating the mouth-breather version of Captain America."
"Well," Lucas patted him on the back, offering zero comfort. "At least you still have your D&D campaign. Jason can't take that away from you. I think."
The bell rang, signaling the start of the worst week of Mike Wheeler's entire life.
-
Wednesday arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.
Mike Wheeler had officially reached rock bottom. He had spent two days watching Y/N walk through the hallways with Jason Carver, a visual torture that was slowly turning his brain into soup. He needed a Hail Mary. He needed a miracle.
He got Dustin Henderson instead.
"Operation: Phoenix is a go," Dustin whispered aggressively, sliding a crumpled piece of notebook paper across the library table.
Mike stared at it. It was a crude drawing of the gymnasium, several arrows drawn in red marker, and a stick figure holding what looked like a stick of dynamite.
"Is that... a bomb?" Mike whispered back, horrified. "I'm not blowing up the school, Dustin."
"No, it's love, you idiot," Dustin hissed. "It's the fire alarm. Look, we've analyzed the data. You can't just talk to her. Jason has established a defensive perimeter. We need to force a localized gathering of the entire student body where you have the floor."
"You want me to commit a felony?" Mike asked, his voice cracking.
"It's a misdemeanor at best!" Lucas argued from across the table. "Look, Mike. You fumbled the bag. In fact, you willingly dropped the bag into a volcano. If you want her back, you have to go big."
"We pull the alarm," Will explained. "Protocol says everyone evacuates to the gym because it's pouring rain outside. Principal Higgins will try to use the PA system to organize everyone. That's when you strike."
"I strike?"
"You take the mic," Dustin grinned maniacally. "And you win her back. Or you get suspended. Either way, it's memorable. And you'll prove you are not scared of the exposure."
Mike looked at the drawing. He looked at his friends. He thought about Y/N's laugh in the courtyard, directed at a guy whose biggest problem in life was deciding which varsity jacket to wear.
"Okay," Mike exhaled, terrified. "Let's do it."
At 1:45 PM, the alarm screamed.
The sound was ear-splitting. Hawkins High erupted into controlled chaos. Students poured out of classrooms, grumbling about pop-quizzes being interrupted, and the entire student body began the wet, shuffling migration toward the gymnasium.
It worked exactly as predicted. Because of the torrential downpour outside, the administration herded everyone into the massive basketball court. The air instantly filled with the smell of wet denim, teen spirit, and confusion.
Mike stood in the shadow of the bleachers, heart hammering against his ribs. He was sweating... heck, even his ass was sweaty. He felt like he was about to throw up his entire digestive system.
"Go," Lucas shoved him hard. "Higgins is distracted yelling at a freshman. The mic is open. Go!"
Mike stumbled forward. He dodged a math teacher, sprinted up the three steps to the center podium where the AV setup was abandoned, and grabbed the microphone.
He didn't think. He just acted.
He tapped the mic.
The feedback wailed through the gym speakers, a high-pitched sonic boom that made six hundred teenagers cover their ears and wince. The noise in the gym died instantly. Everyone froze. Principal Higgins spun around, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.
"Is this thing on?" Mike's voice boomed through the speakers, shaky and breathless. "Yeah. Okay. Uh.. Great."
He looked out at the sea of faces. He saw the Hellfire Club looking terrified. He saw the basketball team looking confused. And then, he saw her.
Y/N was standing near the center, next to Jason, of course. She looked startled, her hands over her ears, her eyes wide.
"I'm looking for Y/N!" Mike announced. His voice echoed, bouncing off the rafters. "I know you're down there."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.
"Mr. Wheeler!" Principal Higgins roared, starting to charge toward the podium. "Step away from the microphone immediately!"
"I have the floor!" Mike shouted back, panic giving him a weird, manic confidence. "I have a permit! Sort of!"
He turned back to the crowd, gripping the mic stand with white knuckles.
"Y/N!" he yelled. "Listen to me! I know I'm an idiot. A dumbass. I know I messed up on Friday. I know I panicked and said the wrong things and acted like a total coward."
He took a ragged breath. The entire gym was dead silent. Even the teachers had stopped moving, too stunned by the odd spectacle to intervene.
"It's been..." Mike checked his Casio watch, his hands shaking so hard the watch face blurred. "It's been a hundred and forty-four hours. And fourteen minutes. Since I last talked to you. And I'm losing my mind."
He looked directly at her. She hadn't moved. She was staring up at him, her expression unreadable, cheeks slightly flushed.
"I haven't slept," Mike rambled, the words spilling out faster now. "I haven't eaten. I tried to eat a bagel yesterday, and it tasted like Dustin's mom's food. I'm miserable. And I know you think I'm not over the past. I know you think I'm still hung up on... on history."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"But you're wrong. You're the only person I want to be with. You're the only person who makes sense to me. You're smart, and you're funny, and you're the only person who understands why Return of the Jedi is flawed but essential viewing!"
A few nervous titters rippled through the crowd.
Mike's eyes drifted to the person standing next to her. Jason Carver. The Golden Boy was glaring at Mike with confused hostility, his arms crossed over his chest.
"And I know," Mike said, gesturing aggressively at Jason with the microphone. "I know he's... him. Look at him."
Mike scoffed, the sound amplifying through the gym.
"He looks like he was created in a lab to sell orange juice! It's so damn suspicious! Look at his hair! It hasn't moved an inch since freshman year! It literally defies physics! I bet if I touched it, my hand would bounce off!"
Mike was panting now, leaning over the podium, fully unhinged.
"He looks like the stock photo that comes inside a new wallet! He's too symmetrical! I bet he irons his socks, Y/N! Who irons their socks? Psychopaths, that's who!"
The gym went quiet. A tense, heavy silence hung in the air. Mike froze. Had he gone... too far? Was this it? Was he going to get expelled and rejected in the same breath because he accused the basketball captain of being a psychopath?
He stood there, panting, sweating, looking like a disheveled mess in front of the entire school.
And then, a sound broke the silence.
It started small. A snort. Then a giggle. Then, it erupted.
Y/N threw her head back and laughed.
It was the same laugh she had given Jason earlier, but this time, it was louder. It was uncontrollable. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, shaking with laughter. The sound echoed through the silent gym, bright and clear and forgiving.
She looked up at Mike, tears of mirth in her eyes, ignoring Jason who looked deeply offended and was checking his socks.
Mike felt his knees go weak with relief. He slumped against the podium, a goofy, breathless grin spreading across his face.
-
The price of romance, Mike Wheeler discovered, was approximately three days of out-of-school suspension and a permanent record that now included "Misuse of Emergency Equipment" and "Public Defamation of a Student’s Hosiery Choices."
It was Friday night. The Wheeler house was quiet, the kind of hollow silence that usually drove him insane, but honestly, Mike was too exhausted to care.
He hadn't spoken to Y/N since Wednesday. And he felt okay about it.
After the gym incident, the laughter, the applause, and the subsequent hauling away by Principal Higgins, he had made a choice. He hadn't chased her down. He had made a grand gesture, he had humiliated her new boyfriend in front of six hundred people, and he had proven that he wasn't afraid to look stupid for her.
But he also knew she needed space. He had crowded her, then he had ignored her, then he had embarrassed her. If she wanted him, she knew where to find him. He was done being a coward, but he was also done forcing things. He was going to wait, even if it felt like his chest was being compressed by a vice.
So, he was cooking.
"Cooking" was a generous term. He was standing in the kitchen, wearing gray sweatpants and an old, thin The Clash t-shirt, stirring a pot of Kraft Mac & Cheese with a wooden spoon. The radio was playing softly in the background, filling the empty air.
He stared at the neon orange pasta. It looked radioactive.
She’s probably out with Jason, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Jason probably eats organic pasta. Jason probably makes his own sauce from tomatoes he grew in a garden fertilized with his own perfect charisma.
Mike sighed, scraping the bottom of the pot. "Shut up," he muttered to the empty kitchen.
He was just reaching for the milk when three sharp knocks rattled the front door.
Mike froze.
He checked the time. 8:15 PM. It was probably Henderson, coming to mock his culinary skills (ironic), or Lucas coming to update him on the gossip mill.
"It’s open!" Mike shouted, not looking up from the stove. "If you're here to make fun of my suspension, take a number, Henderson!"
The door didn't open.
There was a pause, and then three more knocks. Louder. More insistent. Urgent.
Mike groaned, turning off the burner. "Alright, alright! Keep your trucker hat on."
He wiped his hands on his sweatpants and trudged down the hallway. He unlocked the deadbolt, prepared to give Dustin hell for making him walk fifteen feet.
He swung the door open. "I swear to God, if you—"
The words died in his throat.
Standing on his porch, illuminated by the yellow bug light and breathing hard, was Y/N.
Mike blinked, his brain buffering. "Y/N? I thought—"
She didn't let him finish. She didn't say a word.
She stepped forward, grabbed the front of his t-shirt in both fists, and yanked him across the threshold.
She slammed her mouth against his, kissing him with a wild, frantic energy that nearly knocked him backward into the hallway wall. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the slow, sensuous heat of the car. This was a collision. It was desperate, unpolished, and starving.
Mike gasped, the sound swallowed by her mouth, and his hands flew up instinctively to catch her. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into the soft cotton of her tank top to steady them both as she pressed him back.
She kissed him like she was trying to memorize the taste of him, her lips moving feverishly against his, open and wet and demanding. There was a clash of teeth, a tangle of tongues, a raw release of three damn days' worth of misery. She tasted like her usual cherry chapstick and rain.
She pulled back just an inch, barely enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his, her eyes wide, dark, and shining.
"Hi," she whispered between kisses, biting his lower lip, a frantic little sound escaping her throat.
"Hi," Mike managed to choke out, his heart hammering a hole in his chest, his brain short-circuiting in the best possible way.
She smiled against his lips, a real, dazzling, messy smile that he could feel more than see, and then, without breaking the kiss or letting him go, she lifted her leg and kicked the front door shut behind her.
↳ summary: mike wheeler is a loser. big time loser. and he’s dating the cheer captain. the only problem is that they’ve kept it a secret long enough.
↳ warnings: characters are 18, making out, slight voyeurism, dry humping.
↳ notes: wrote this on my phone at the airport not too much on me.
word count: 2.5k
The Hawkins High gymnasium’s smell was awful. It smelled like a lethal mix of floor wax, sweat, stale popcorn, and enough Axe body spray to tear a new hole in the ozone layer. It was the night of the Senior Championship game—or in other words, the holy grail of high school social hierarchy—and the noise was absolutely deafening.
Mike Wheeler sat sandwiched between Will Byers and a very aggressive tuba player from the marching band, his knees pressing uncomfortably into the back of a freshman. He looked miserable. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. He wanted to punch someone.
"Statistically speaking," Dustin shouted over the thumping bass of We Will Rock You, spraying pretzel crumbs onto Lucas's shoulder, "this is a gross misappropriation of our time! Our teams’ defensive line has the structural integrity of a wet napkin. We could be running the Vecna's Revenge campaign right now. I had the map ready! But instead, we are watching grown men chase a ball."
"It's our last semester, Henderson!" Lucas yelled back, wiping pretzel dust off his jacket. He was wearing face paint that was already sweating off in the humidity. "It's called social integration. Try it sometime! We're seniors! For fuck’s sake!"
"I am well integrated!" Dustin gestured wildly to his Hellfire Club t-shirt. "I am a leader of men! I just don't see the appeal of—"
Will nudged Mike hard in the ribs. "You okay? You look like you're going to throw up."
Mike was staring fixedly at the sidelines, his face pale, gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "I'm fine, Will.” he squeaked. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "I'm great. Go Tigers. Yay sports."
Nobody knew.
It was the absurdity of the century. It was a glitch in the matrix. It was the best-kept secret in a town famous for government conspiracies and horrendous interdimensional monsters.
The secret had a name, and that name was Y/N, his sweet little girlfriend.
It had started back in October, senior fall, on a rainy Tuesday that smelled of damp leaves and ozone. The AV Club room was Mike's sanctuary, the one place he could escape the pressures of senior year. He had been alone that afternoon, covered in black toner, cursing creatively at the large-format poster printer which had decided to jam for the third time that week.
He heard the door creak open. He expected Mr. Clarke. He expected Dustin.
He did not expect the Captain of the Hawkins High Cheer Squad.
Y/N had walked in, closing the door softly behind her. She wasn't wearing her uniform; she was in a soft, oversized cashmere sweater and jeans, looking like she had just stepped out of a catalog. Mike froze, his hands stained with ink, waiting for the usual mockery. He waited for her to ask where the "cool people" were, or to make fun of his D&D shirt.
Instead, she looked around the messy room with a sigh of relief. "Is it quiet in here?" she asked, her voice soft. "The library is full of freshmen."
"Uh," Mike had managed, eloquent as ever. "Yeah. Usually."
She held up a leather-bound notebook. "I just need somewhere to write. Journaling. I can’t do it with people behaving like animals."
She didn't leave. She sat on a desk, legs swinging, and watched him fight the printer. And then, shockingly, she helped. She rolled up her expensive sleeves, got ink on her perfect hands, and helped him dislodge the paper tray.
They spent three hours talking. And not the superficial stuff Mike expected. They talked about fears. About the crushing pressure of perfection. About how they both secretly thought Return of the Jedi was the weakest of the trilogy. Mike was a rambling, nervous mess, his hands shaking every time she looked at him with those big, intelligent eyes, but she just laughed—an overly warm, genuine sound that made his chest ache.
By the end of the day, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The rain was hammering against the windows, sealing them in their own little world. Mike had been staring at her lips, paralyzed by his own insecurity, convinced he was misreading the signals. Because girls like Y/N didn't look at guys like Mike Wheeler. Not like that.
"You're going to pass out if you don't kiss me, Wheeler," she had whispered, leaning in close enough for him to smell her sweet, edible vanilla perfume.
Mike had stopped breathing. "I just... I didn't think..."
"Shut up," she had smiled.
She grabbed him by his shirt, yanked him down, and planted a kiss on him that effectively rebooted his operating system. It was soft at first, then hungry, and Mike had realized with a jolt that the coolest girl in school was actually trembling just as much as he was.
Now, six months later, they were keeping it secret. Mike insisted on it. He told himself it was to protect her.. Well, obviously, dating a very active member of the Hellfire Club wasn't exactly a status booster for a cheer captain. He didn't want to be the anchor that dragged her down the social ladder.
But tonight? Tonight, Y/N had other plans.
"I'm doing a toe-touch jump right at the 50-yard line," she had told him last night, her voice husky over the phone as he lay in bed staring at his ceiling. "And if you aren't there to see it, I'm, so seriously, breaking up with you. I'm tired of hiding, Mike. I want to show you off."
Show me off, Mike thought, feeling dizzy. She's fucking insane.
Back in the gym, the buzzer sounded for halftime. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight hit center court.
"Oh, look," Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Pompoms. My favorite part of the evening. Wake me when the game starts again."
"Shut up, Henderson," Mike snapped, instantly alert. He sat up straighter, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The music kicked in, something rhythmic and loud, vibrating through the bleachers. The squad moved in perfect synchronization, a sea of green and gold pleats and white sneakers. And there she was.
Y/N.
She was absolutely mesmerizing, as always, Mike thought. She flew through the air in a basket toss, soaring higher than anyone else, her ponytail whipping like a lash, her smile dazzling enough to blind the front row. She hit every beat with a sharpness that commanded attention. She looked powerful, beautiful, and completely, utterly out of his league.
Mike felt a surge of pride so intense it nearly choked him. That's my girl, he thought. His and only his. The words felt reckless and golden in his head. The girl everyone is staring at? She kisses me. She likes my nerdy ass rants.
The routine ended in a pyramid formation. Y/N was at the very top, arms raised in a V, chest heaving, glitter catching the overhead lights. The crowd went feral.
But Y/N didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at the judges.
She turned her head and locked eyes with the specific section of the bleachers where the band geeks and the Hellfire Club sat.
She found Mike. Even from this distance, he felt the weight of her gaze. It was a look of pure, terrifying possession. A smile curled the corner of her lips; soft, intimate, and knowing.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she raised two fingers to her glittery lips and blew a kiss.
It was a direct hit.
The bleachers around them erupted in confusion.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Lucas grabbed Dustin's arm, nearly dislocating it. "She looked right at me! Y/N just blew a kiss at me!"
"You're hallucinating, Sinclair!" Dustin scoffed, frantically smoothing his curly hair under his hat. "She was looking at the hat. Chicks dig the trucker hat energy. That was clearly for me! It was a signal!"
"In your dreams! Why would SHE blow a kiss at you?"
"Why would SHE blow a kiss at YOU!? You're wearing face paint like a damn toddler!"
"Guys," Will started, looking at Mike. "I think—"
But Mike didn't say a word. He couldn't. His face was burning so hot he thought he might spontaneously combust. He stood up abruptly, his metal chair clattering back loudly. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost, or maybe God.
"I have to go," Mike choked out. "Stomach. Bad pretzel. Need air."
He bolted before they could ask questions, scrambling down the bleachers, tripping over people's feet, fleeing the scene like a criminal.
Twenty minutes later, the game was dragging into the third quarter. The crowd was roaring, but the party was distracted.
"He's been gone a while," Will frowned, looking at the empty seat next to him.
"He's probably crying in the car because the noise was too loud," Lucas rolled his eyes, though he looked concerned. "Or he went to 7-Eleven for a slushie and didn't invite us."
"Let's go get him," Dustin decided, standing up. "This game is a blowout anyway, and I refuse to watch the Tigers lose by thirty points. Let's go."
The three boys trudged out into the cool night air, leaving the roaring, sweaty gym behind. The parking lot was a sea of metal, quiet and still under the buzzing streetlights. The distant sound of the announcer echoed eerily.
"There's his car," Dustin pointed to Mike's beat-up, beige sedan parked way in the back, under the shadow of a large oak tree. "I bet he's asleep. Grandpa Wheeler strikes again. Probably taking a nap."
As they got closer, weaving through the rows of trucks and vans, Lucas slowed down. He squinted.
"Hey... is it just me, or are the windows... wet?"
The car windows weren't just wet. They were opaque. Completely fogged up with heavy condensation, obscuring everything inside like that one scene from Titanic.
"Weird," Will murmured. "It's not that cold out."
Dustin marched up to the driver's side, a mischievous grin on his face. "Watch this. I'm gonna scare the soul out of his body." He raised his fist to bang on the glass.
Then, through a small clear streak in the condensation, his eyes adjusted to the interior.
Dustin's hand froze in mid-air. His mouth dropped open so wide a damn demogorgon could have crawled in and set up camp.
Inside the car, illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of the dashboard lights, was a scene that defied every law of the high school social universe.
Mike's seat was pushed all the way back. And Mike wasn't sleeping.
He was buried.
Y/N was straddling his lap, facing him. Her green and gold cheer skirt was hiked dangerously high, gathered at her waist, the pleats fanning out over Mike's denim-clad legs. Resting on the dashboard, next to a half-empty bottle of water, was a massive, expensive-looking bouquet of red roses with a card that screamed CONGRATS, LOVE <3 in bold marker.
But nobody was looking at the flowers.
Mike Wheeler, the lanky nerd who argued about dice rolls and refused to dance at prom, had his head thrown back against the headrest, his mouth devouring hers.
It wasn't a polite high school peck. It was feral.
Y/N had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her fingers tangled deep in Mike's messy black curls, holding him in place as she ground her hips down into his lap. And Mike... Mike looked like a man starving. His hands were gripping her waist with a desperation that turned his knuckles white, his long fingers digging into the bare, soft skin of her thighs just below the hem of her skirt.
Y/N broke the kiss for a split second to gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting their lips, and Mike chased her immediately. He didn't let her pull away. He groaned something against her throat, a low, vibrating sound that was audible even through the glass, and buried his face in her neck.
He kissed the sensitive cord of her throat, open-mouthed and wet, his hand sliding up from her waist to palm the curve of her hip possessively, dragging her closer until there was zero space between them.
She whimpered, her head falling back, exposing her throat to him. She grabbed the collar of his Hellfire Club t-shirt, yanking on the fabric so hard the neck stretched. She bit his lower lip, hard, pulling it between her teeth, and Mike surged up to meet her, his other hand tangling in the back of her cheer uniform.
It was messy. It was frantic. It was the hottest thing any of them had ever seen, and it involved.. Mike. Jesus Christ! The Mike Wheeler.
Lucas looked like he had been slapped in the face with a wet fish. Will looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.
Dustin just stood there, his brain unable to process the data. Mike? With Y/N? Making out like they were trying to invent a new form of fusion energy?
The cognitive dissonance was too much.
Inside the car, Y/N shifted her weight, pressing down harder into Mike's lap, arching her back. Mike let out a rough sound and moved his hand higher, his thumb grazing the skin of her inner thigh, his face flushed, eyes squeezed shut in pure, agonizing bliss. He looked powerful. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Dustin couldn't take it anymore. The universe was collapsing.
He didn't tap politely. He banged on the window with the force of a SWAT team.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The reaction inside was explosive.
Y/N shrieked, a high-pitched sound of terror, scrambling backward and hitting her head on the rearview mirror. Mike practically jumped out of his skin, his limbs flailing as he tried to cover Y/N and locate his own dignity at the same time. His elbow hit the dome light, flooding the car with unforgiving brightness.
Mike whipped his head toward the window.
He looked wrecked. His black hair was standing up in every direction. His lips were swollen, red, and slick. His t-shirt was twisted. And on his neck, blooming in vibrant high-definition, was a fresh, purple hickey right above his collarbone.
He looked at Dustin with eyes the size of dinner plate; terror, shame, and fury all mixing together.
Dustin stood there, illuminated by the sudden flash of the interior light. He looked at the disheveled cheerleader trying to smooth her skirt down over her hips. He looked at the giant bouquet of love roses. He looked at Mike, whose hand was still instinctively resting on the thigh of the most popular girl in school.
Dustin threw his hands up, gesturing to the entire tableau, his voice rising to a screech that echoed across the parking lot.
↳ summary: steve's mood has been horrible lately. while working his boring shift at the family video, he crashes into the most angelic, innocent girl he has ever seen. he's sure he has never wanted someone more, even more than any other bimbo he has ever hooked up with.
↳ warnings: explicit smut, dirty talk, corruption. lots of stuff.
↳ notes: not proof-read. I have no words.
word count: 10.8k
The fluorescent lights of Family Video buzzed with a low, persistent hum that sounded suspiciously like a dying wasp; it set Steve Harrington's teeth on edge. This was his personal purgatory.
Outside, Tuesday's humidity pressed against the windows in heavy waves. Inside, the air felt thick enough to chew, damp with the scent of old popcorn, industrial floor wax, and a musty undertone from decades of old VHS cases. In the back office, Keith, the annoying ass manager, sat behind a desk with the door ajar, tearing through a bag of Cheetos. Each crunch echoed like a distant gunshot, annoying Steve even more.
Steve stood alone in the Horror aisle, gripping a wobbling stack of The Evil Dead tapes. The cardboard spines crinkled under his fingers, red and black, blood-splashed, a woman's face frozen in a silent scream. He stared at that cover art as though it spoke directly to him, felt a spiritual kinship with the terror it depicted. He fucking hated this job. He hated the scratchy, unfashionable green vest strangling his chest, the way it clung to his sweat-slicked skin. Most of all, he hated how his life had capsized in the last six months.
He was supposed to be "The King" of Hawkins High, worshiped by status, cruising in his BMW convertible, in command of every hallway. Instead he was restocking dusty VHS tapes for minimum wage, while Nancy Wheeler roamed around town smooching with Jonathan Byers, the camera-click weirdo who stalked his ex–girlfriend from behind bushes. The thought of Jonathan Byers left a bitter tang in Steve's mouth, like he'd just swallowed battery acid. It made no damn sense. Nancy had abandoned his beautiful hair, nice car, and great status for a guy who wore flannel and photo-bombed squirrels.
In response, Steve had turned into a living fortress of cynicism. His once-fluid charm had ossified into jagged spikes of sarcasm. He was mean. He snapped at customers, brushed off Robin's entertaining chit-chat, and dated a rotating roster of bimbos he didn't care about—just to prove there was still something dangerous and untouchable under that perfect hair.
"Steve!" Robin's voice sliced through the quiet, coming from the front counter. "Stop glaring at inventory! If you melt the plastic with your frown, Keith's taking it out of your paycheck."
Steve clenched his jaw until his molars clicked. He didn't bother looking up. "Shut up, Robin! I'm working. Or I would be, if you'd stop barking orders across the store like a sea hag!"
"A fishwife?" Robin chuckled, leaning against the counter with a raised eyebrow. "That's a new one. Watched that in a movie you never rented?"
His chest tightened. "I'm going to kill her," he muttered under his breath.
Steve spun on his heel, the Evil Dead tapes tiled in his arms. He barreled down the aisle without looking ahead, every muscle braced for confrontation.
Crash.
The impact was a solid thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. Tapes flew from his grip, boxes scattering and skittering across the floor in a thunder of plastic. A spine cracked off, flopping like a fallen bird.
Steve's temper ignited, wildfire in his chest. "Jesus Christ! Watch where you're fucking—"
His insult died on his tongue. He froze, mid-snarl, his voice strangled off by a sudden absence of hostility. Because he wasn't looking at an overweight negligent kid ready for a shove. He was looking at an angel.
She lay on the floor, having tumbled backward among the wreckage of horror franchises. Her legs were splayed, one knee grazing a cassette labeled Evil Dead II. She wore a sundress of pale pink, its fabric soft and flowing around her calves. Her hair fell in gentle, natural manner.
Then Steve's gaze dropped to the wreckage beside her: her glasses. One lens lay shattered, its cracks fanning out like spider legs. The slender wire frame was twisted at a grotesque angle.
He stood there with his mouth half-open. The girl scrambled to her knees, but didn't scream. Didn't demand a manager. Instead, she looked up at him with a soft, devastated gasp.
"Oh my god," she breathed, voice ringing like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't looking—I turned too fast and I didn't see you!"
Every defensive and asshole-y instinct dissolved in the warmth of her apology. He tried to form words. "I..." His brain had ground to a halt.
She reached forward, slender fingers trembling as she hovered over the scattered tapes. "Did I break them? Please tell me I didn't break them. I can pay for them. I'm so clumsy.."
The sight of her worry ripped something open inside him. Without thinking, he knelt down beside her, bringing himself to her level with a thud of denim-covered knees.
"No," he blurted, voice cracking and rising an octave. He cleared his throat violently. "It's... the tapes are fine. Plastic. Garbage. Total garbage. Don't worry about it."
His hand shot out at the same moment hers reached for a tape. Their fingers brushed. Her skin was warm and smooth, carrying a faint scent of vanilla and strawberries, a sublime, relieving contrast to the stale popcorn and waxed floor.
She looked from the tape to his hand, then back up at his face, teeth nibbling her lower lip. "Are you sure? You look... angry. I didn't mean to make you angry. You were yelling so loud."
He swallowed hard, breath ragged. "I... I'm not mad." His chest fluttered with panic and something else, something like hope. "I'm Steve."
Oh god. "I'm Steve," he repeated in his head, mentally slapping himself. Real smooth, Harrington.
The girl's lips curved in a gentle, apologetic smile that softened the panic in her eyes. "I'm Y/N."
"Y/N," he echoed, tasting the name on his tongue. It fit her, very delicate, beautiful.
Y/N glanced at the broken frames in her hand, guilt washing over her face. "Oh. My glasses."
Steve's gut wrenched. "I... I broke them. I stepped on them. I ran into you."
She shook her head, tucking her hair behind one ear. "No, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't have dropped them. And they were so ugly, I never liked wearing them." She squinted at him without her lenses, brow furrowing in earnest concern. "You look a bit blurry, Steve. But a very tall blur... with great hair, I think."
Her compliment, shrugged off so casually, sent a jolt through Steve's chest. He cleared his throat. "Right. Hair." He shifted awkwardly. "I—uh—can help with the titles. If you want. Since you can't see."
Her eyes lit up, radiant as sunrise. "Would you? That would be amazing. I'm looking for The Princess Bride. I promised my little sister we'd watch it tonight."
"Right, yes.. Princess Bride," he muttered, standing and offering her a hand. She placed her palm in his.. it felt small, trusting. He hauled her upright with a gentle tug. She stumbled forward, her chest brushing against his vest. A wave of strawberry-vanilla warmth surged through him again, and he had to step back, as if burned.
"It's over here," he said, voice tight, leading her to the Romance section. His steps were stiff, nervous as burning hell, heart hammering against his ribs. He pointed to a shelf lined with pastel-colored spines and frilly script. "Here."
She stepped close, attempting to read the label, then pressed the tape to her chest like a treasure. "Perfect," she sighed. "Thank you, Steve. You're a lifesaver."
She turned and drifted toward the front counter, her pink dress brushing the floor in whisper-soft folds. The bell above the door jingled a bright farewell, and then she was gone.
Steve remained rooted in the aisle for a full ten seconds, staring at the empty space where she'd stood. His mind raced. It felt as though a freight train had plowed through his chest, in the best possible way.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair.
He squared his shoulders and marched to the front. Robin stood at the register, ringing up Y/N's purchase. The girl was counting out change with a careful precision. Once the bell tinkled and Y/N stepped into the humid afternoon, Robin slowly turned and fixed Steve with a flat, knowing stare.
Steve collapsed against the counter, arms crossed, picking up a magazine as a feeble cover. "What?"
Robin pointed a pen at him like a rapier. "What was that?"
He flipped a page without reading it. "I was helping a customer. It's called customer service, Robin. Maybe you should try it sometime, might keep Keith from breathing down your neck."
"Customer service?" Robin's laugh was soft but mocking. "You looked like you were about to bust on the spot. You were stuttering—'I'm... Steve?' 'Right... hair?' Seriously, are you having a stroke?"
Heat blossomed in his ears. "I didn't stutter. She broke her glasses. I felt bad. That's all."
"Uh-huh," Robin said, leaning forward so her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hiss. "Last time you looked that sweaty and desperate, Nancy Wheeler was carrying a tray of tater tots across the cafeteria."
Nancy's name was like a slap to his face. His jaw snapped shut, mean-guy Steve crashing back in. "Shut up," he growled, yanking a pricing gun from the counter and slamming it down so the spring clicked. "Don't say her name."
Robin shrugged. "Just saying, for a guy who claims he's done with 'feelings' and 'romance,' you looked like a puppy who found a new owner. It was funny, Harrington."
"I said shut up, Robin!" Steve barked, jabbing a finger at her. "She's not my type. At all. Did you see what she was wearing? I would rather kill myself."
"Right," Robin said, rolling her eyes and swiveling back to the register. "The clothes. That's the problem. Maybe you should quit the bimbos and find someone a bit more.. genuine."
Steve glared at her retreating back, then couldn't resist a glance toward the door where Y/N had vanished into the afternoon haze.
He turned back to his work, ripping pricing labels off the roll with more force than required, each tear echoing the tingle still burning in his palm where she'd touched him.
It hit him, thirty seconds late, just as he slapped the last sticker on a battered copy of The Exorcist: he'd broken her glasses. Steve Harrington, destroyer of eye wear, unapologetic meathead, had trampled some sweet, helpless girl's only way of seeing the goddamn world. And she hadn't even gotten mad. She apologized to him.
What the actual fuck was wrong with him.
He tossed the pricing gun onto the counter, sending it skittering into the register, and scanned the store for Robin. She was half-buried behind a cardboard standee for The Lost Boys, scribbling a crossword.
He didn't slow, just pushed past her, mumbling, "Hold the fort," and sprinted for the door. The bell shrieked as he exploded onto the sidewalk, heat smacking him in the face, sweat instantly beading upon his forehead.
He caught sight of Y/N immediately, she was only halfway down the block, walking fast but definitely not in a straight line. The broken glasses swung from her hand, their bent arms splayed obscenely, and for a split second he saw himself from above, a total asshole, standing there, letting her walk away with the proof of his idiocy dangling from her fingers.
Robin's voice followed him out, thin and incredulous. "Dude, where are you—"
"Just, hold on!" Steve hollered, not looking back. He jogged, then full-on sprinted, sneakers slapping the hot sidewalk, lungs filling with the soupy, bug-thick air.
"Y/N!" he shouted, and she turned, hair catching on the static of her shoulders.
She smiled, the kind of smile that made his stomach go rigid, like bracing for a punch. "Hi again," Her voice was so gentle it made him anxious.
He took a step closer, then another, until he was well within her personal space, sweat leaking down the side of his face. He tried to remember the apology he'd rehearsed in his head, but the words jumbled together, heavy and awkward.
"Hey," he said, and winced at how breathless it sounded. "I'm sorry. About earlier, I mean..I ran you over, and then I broke your glasses, and you apologized to me, which is, like, insane. I mean, not that you're insane. It's just... You should be yelling at me, not being nice. I was a total jerk. I'm sorry."
Y/N opened her mouth to protest but Steve barreled on, the words tumbling out faster than he could shape them.
"Let me pay for your glasses. Or replace 'em. Or, like, whatever. You don't even have to let me, but if you want, I can do that—" He stopped, realizing he was babbling, and raked a wet hand through his hair. "Look, I can drive you to the mall or wherever you get new glasses, I can pay. Also, if you want, and it's completely up to you, I could take you out to dinner, like, as an apology, not that you'd want to spend more time with a guy who's already concussed you, but, uh—" He heard himself and wanted to die.
Y/N's head tilted, the way a bird's might: curious, gentle, maybe a little wary. She blinked at him, the world fuzzy behind the cracked lens she held up, and said, "Dinner?"
He nodded, too quickly. "If you want. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or nothing at all," he said, and realized with horror that he was being cringy as hell. "Just, yeah. Sorry."
Y/N held the broken glasses with both hands, her smile turning wry. "My mom is going to kill me. She says I break everything I touch." She shifted her weight, swaying a little in the sticky heat.
He groped for something, anything, to redeem himself. "Hey, you know what?" He reached into his back pocket, fished out a pen, and scrawled his number on the inside cover of her rental box. "If you need to call me about the glasses, or, you know, if you just want to prank call a jerk, that's my direct line. And—" He stopped, uncertain, then plunged ahead. "There's this party Friday? My friend's throwing it. Robin. The girl at the rental. She's actually not the worst, and her parties are kind of legendary, and if you want to go, you're invited. By me. I mean, by Robin too, but, uh, mostly by me."
She took the box from his hands, eyes squinting down at the large, blocky numbers. "Are you always like this?" she asked, a smile threading through her voice.
He grinned, self-deprecating because it was the only move he had left. "I'm trying not to be."
Y/N gave the faintest nod of approval, then tucked his number into the side pocket of her dress. She said, "Friday sounds good. If I don't trip and die before then."
"You won't. I'll make sure of it," he blurted, more earnest than he intended.
She laughed, a short, enthusiastic sound, then turned and walked away. She didn't look back, but Steve stayed locked on her silhouette, smacked by a sensation he refused to name.
Behind him, the bell over the Family Video door shrilled again; Robin leaned halfway out, arms folded, forehead shining with sweat and suspicion. "You good, Harrington?" she called, her tone full of mockery.
He wiped his palm on his vest and sauntered back toward the store, forcing a lopsided grin. "Totally good. Just, uh, customer appreciation. You know how it is."
Robin lifted both brows. "Is that what they're calling stalking now?" She retreated into the cool dimness of the store, letting the door wheeze shut behind her.
-
When he got home, Steve dumped his keys on the counter, grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge, and retreated to the couch, where he could commit himself fully to the task of hating himself. He sprawled, legs splayed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Every ten seconds, his brain replayed the moment in Family Video, like an especially cruel home movie, her voice, the way it had trembled around an apology, her smile when he handed her the tape, the goddamn way his hands wouldn't stop moving. He groaned and wedged the heel of his palm into his forehead. He was a lost cause.
A little after eleven, just as he was deciding whether to risk another beer or just wallow in his own self-loathing until he passed out, the phone rang. The ancient cordless rang from its wall-mount by the kitchen.
He wiped his hand on his sweats, then grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, hello?"
A pause, soft static. "Um. Hi."
He instantly straightened up, bracing his forearm against the counter's edge. "Y/N?"
A nervous little laugh, like she was holding her breath. "Sorry, it's late. Is this the right number?"
"Yeah.. yes, hey. It's Steve," he managed, catching his voice before it cracked. He could see himself in the dark panel of the microwave. He leaned into the counter, "You, uh, made it home okay?"
A deep breath on the other end. "Yeah. I just closed my eyes and pretended I was a bat. Bats can't see, but they don't bump into things. Except I did bump into three trash cans." She giggled, a tiny, delighted sound that seemed to ripple along the line. "But I found the front door, so it's a happy ending."
He had to grip the receiver tighter to keep from fidgeting. "Glad you survived."
On the other end, Y/N's breath shivered, like she was afraid to exhale in case it made a sound. "I'm calling because I wanted to... Well, I thought you deserved closure."
Steve blinked. "Closure?" He wasn't sure if she was mad at him or just had a dramatic way of phrasing things. Either way, it tied a knot in his stomach.
"Yes." A pause, then a rush of words: "I wanted to let you know I successfully watched The Princess Bride, and my little sister didn't even notice my glasses were broken, because she's seven and she thinks I'm Wonder Woman. Or Batgirl. Or... Do bats have a girl?" The words tumbled out, crowded together like they were jostling for the same seat.
Steve pressed the phone close, knuckles whitening and a ridiculously big smile peeking. "There's gotta be a Batgirl. Hang on, I'll check the encyclopedia." He heard himself and cringed. Encyclopedia? Like he was some kind of dad. "Or, uh, the next comic book section at the store. I'll let you know."
He could feel her smiling through the wire. "That's considerate," she said. "I'm just glad I didn't break your nose. My mom says if I ever do something like that, they should take away my library card."
He laughed, too loud, then muted it with a cough. He really wanted to ask what her mom would say about fucking an ex-prom king instead, but that sounded like a total HR violation, so he just said, "Glad your sister liked the movie."
"Yeah," Y/N replied. Her voice thinned, like she was backing away even as she talked. "I don't want to keep you, I just... well, never mind. I'm probably being nosy."
He said nothing for a moment, trying to read the silence like it was a clue in a murder case. Sometimes the trick was to just wait people out; sometimes it made everything weirder. "What is it?"
Y/N inhaled, a sound like static. "Do you—would it be okay if we still did the party? On Friday?" She spit it out so fast it took him a second to catch up. "I mean, you don't have to be my handler or anything, but if you wanted to, like, go with me. To the party. Or not. Or—" She laughed.
He almost let it ride out. He almost let her off the hook. But something in her voice, the soft tremor, the way she said "still" as if he'd ever wanted to back out, tripped a switch inside him. "Yeah. Of course. Friday," he said, swallowing back the urge to sound too eager. "I'll pick you up. What time?"
A pause, then: "You don't have to do that. I can walk."
He pictured her, clumsy and careful, weaving through Hawkins' cracked sidewalks with her broken glasses in her pocket and a VHS tape in her hands. He was seized by a sudden, ridiculous urge to follow her around town, and punch anyone who looked at her weird.
"I want to," he said, and felt his heart slamming against his ribs. "It's a date. Or, like, whatever." He winced at the sound of it, but Y/N didn't seem to mind.
"Okay," she said, laughter lilting up through the receiver. "But don't judge me when I wear the ugly glasses. I will glue them tonight. I might look like a bug."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She lingered, her breath a delicate hush. "Thanks for helping me today. You really didn't have to."
His brain stuttered. The old Steve would've brushed it off. The new one, raw-nerved and jumpy as a stray cat, just nodded into the phone like an idiot. "Yeah, well. You were, um. You were different."
He meant it. He'd spent too many years with girls who only spoke in hyperbole, who clung to be heard, who wore their ambition like lipstick, who never second-guessed. He'd thought that was what he wanted: friction, competition, the thrill of conquest. But Y/N seemed softer, sculpted from contradictions, and it drove him fucking insane.
It wasn't just attraction, it was hunger. Maybe it had been too damn long since he felt real attraction. He didn't even realize how parched he'd been until she filled the air with those shy, trembling giggles.
He wanted to hear it again.
He found himself grinning like a moron into the receiver. "I'm glad you called, actually," he said, letting his voice go lower, smoother. "I didn't even have a panic attack over it," he said, and immediately regretted voicing it, but Y/N's laugh shimmered across the line.
"You were so calm," she said. "I figured I was the one making you nervous." A pause, as if she couldn't believe she'd said it.
He ran his thumb along the coil of the phone cord, every nerve ending singing. "Yeah, well. Guess I'm not as cool as I look." The words came out before he could fence them in, and he felt the heat crawling up his neck.
A beat. Y/N's breathing, shallow and then steadier, like she was pacing the length of her own bedroom. "I wouldn't know what you look like. You were just this.. shape. And a lot of hair." Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it, and it thrilled him. "I'd say you seemed... nice, if that's not weird to say."
"You can say it," Steve said, and then instantly cringed at the desperation in his own voice.
Y/N hesitated, and for a moment all he heard was the faint squeak of her shifting the phone. "You just... you smelled so good," she finally said, a little breathless.
The line went quiet.
He gripped the receiver hard enough to blanch his knuckles, suddenly aware of everything, the sweat on his neck, and the faint aftershave he'd swiped from his dad's medicine cabinet and probably overdone. It was one thing to be told you had nice hair, or that you were tall; "you smelled so good". He'd never had a girl say that to him. Not with that nervous little edge, like she was embarrassed it slipped out. There was a not-small part of him that wanted to say, "What did I smell like?" just to make her say it again, but the rest of him froze.
He felt himself harden instantly. Fuck. Steve had been through enough late-night calls with girls to know the drill, where way naughtier things were said, but no one had ever short-circuited him like this. He was glad, suddenly, for the darkness in the kitchen, the half-dead bulb over the sink, the heavy blue spill of TV light. He cleared his throat, tried to get his head back under control. He squeezed the phone tighter, his other hand sliding to his lap, fingers pressing hard into the seam of his sweatpants. The muscle at his jaw flexed. This was insane. He was a grown man—well, a legal adult, anyway—yet here he was, tenting his sweats because some girl said he smelled good. Not even a girl he knew, not really. Not even a real compliment; just an innocent slip.
He tried to focus on the conversation, to keep his voice level. "So, uh, do you want me to bring anything? Like, for the party?" His hand moved again, a little firmer. He could feel himself swelling under his palm, heat pooling low and heavy. Jesus. This was like eighth grade, getting off to the smell of his math teacher's perfume, only now it was a real girl, with a name and a phone number and a laugh he could jerk off to for a week. Which, judging from the slow, insistent throb under his fingers, he probably would.
He gripped himself, squeezing through the thin cotton in a way that was half relief, half punishment. The second he did, it hit him: he was getting hard on the fucking telephone. This sweet, innocent girl who was barely an acquaintance, was talking to him about her mother and glasses, and meanwhile he was palming his own dick like a complete pervert.
For a second the thought made him want to slam the receiver down and punch himself in the face. He let out a shallow, shaky breath, and when Y/N spoke again, her voice sounded closer. She said, softly, "Steve, are you still there?"
He swallowed, pulling the phone away an inch to catch his breath, then pressing it close again. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, and the words came out a little raspy, a little too tender. He felt his whole body flush with a guilty excitement, like he'd just gotten away with something.
He wanted to stop, to will himself back into the cool, detached version of himself he'd be, but he let himself drift on the current, following the impulse deeper. He pressed down, slow and careful, then slipped his hand under the waistband to grip bare skin. The sensation was so intense he almost gasped. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting to keep his breathing normal.
"So, um," Y/N said, and there was a barely-there tremor in her voice, "I was wondering if maybe you knew what the dress code is. I mean, I don't want to show up looking like a dork." She laughed, then seemed to shrink from it, muffling the sound with her hand.
Steve squeezed himself, thumb circling along the slick of pre-cum already leaking at the tip. He stroked, slow and shivery, letting the friction build there. He imagined her biting her lip, hugging a pillow, all excited and flustered talking to him on the phone. He jerked himself slowly, the tip already wet in his grip.
He should hang up.. He should hang up, take a cold shower, and never speak to a woman again.
Instead he said, "Honestly, just... be yourself. Robin won't even notice. I'll be the one looking like an idiot."
Y/N made a noise, a soft hum that curled under his ribs. "I doubt that," she said. "You don't seem like you'd ever look stupid."
He suppressed a groan by clenching his teeth, rolling his hips against his palm. He was fully hard now, pressing the receiver to his ear with his shoulder and his hand down his pants.
He muttered, "You'd be surprised," and nearly choked on it. His cock was hot and slick in his grip, already throbbing as he worked it slow, careful to keep his breathing steady, lower than the rush in his own ears. He palmed the head, squeezing out another slippery bead and spreading it with his thumb, the wetness making every stroke a little easier, a little more dangerous.
On the other end, Y/N breathed, "Are you okay?" She sounded closer, like she'd moved the phone to her shoulder to free her hands for something else. He tried not to picture her touching herself. But he couldn't help it.
He stroked, wrists sticky and breath going ragged, but he forced it down, shoulder tensed so hard it cramped. "Listen, Y/N, I—uh." He nearly lost it then, teeth clamping together. "I should let you go. Big day tomorrow at the, uh, video store." His hand jerked once, hard. He needed this to end before he did something really, truly pathetic.
"Oh, okay," she said, and he heard the letdown in her voice, but also relief, like she'd been holding her breath. "I'll see you Friday? Or maybe before."
He grunted, "Yeah. Friday." He wanted to say something more, to reestablish the cool, but his voice was barely holding on. "Okay. Good night," he managed, and slammed the phone onto the cradle. The plastic clatter echoed in the empty house.
He just stood there, hand still wedged tight in his sweats, a pulse in his neck going crazy. His fingers worked in rough, desperate strokes, no rhythm, just a hard, mean need to erase the last five minutes of his own miserable performance. He pictured her, heard her voice, the way she'd said "you smelled so good"—and that was it. He came in his hand, thick ropes of cum, mess pooling sticky on his knuckles and the inside of his waistband. He grunted, shuddered, then pressed his forehead to the cold laminate counter.
He spent most of the next day trawling the mall for something, either flowers, a bearable cologne, maybe a cool watch, anything that would make him seem like he wasn't the kind of guy who jerked off to phone calls. He needed to feel like his old, nonchalant self. By Thursday, they'd talked again and again, for hours. If Wednesday's call was bad, Thursday's was a war crime. He'd called her after his shift, voice gruff with fatigue, and had lasted all of four minutes before she'd said his name in that soft, seducing way and his hand was back down his pants. He'd managed to keep his voice steady this time, mostly, but the last five minutes were a blur of raw nerves and half-gasps. When he'd finally let go of the receiver he'd been dizzy with relief and shame. He started to worry that she knew. That she could hear it in his voice, or in the way he went off the rails or got quiet at the wrong moment. That she could sense, through the wire, that he was a freak. Maybe she was just too polite to call him out. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she was doing the same thing, on the other end, tucked under sheets with her legs pressed together and her breath going shaky whenever he said something almost nice.
He showed up at her house on Friday at 6:59 p.m. sharp. He'd spent an hour circling the neighborhood, he didn't want to be early, didn't want to look overeager, but he also didn't want to risk being late. The BMW gleamed, detailed and waxed within an hour of neurotic spit-polishing; the windows practically blinded him, the interior smelled like a cologne commercial and fresh vinyl. His hair was perfectly arranged. He'd changed shirts three times, landed on a navy blue polo under his favorite blue Members Only jacket. The second he parked in front of her house, his heart rate tripled.
The place looked like every other house in Hawkins. He checked his breath in the mirror, popped a Certs, then killed the ignition and strode up the walk as if he wasn't five seconds from throwing up on her doorstep.
The door swung open before he hit the bell. And then she was there.
Steve's mouth went dry. For a horrible, vertiginous second, he didn't recognize her. She had on a white dress, he'd say it was a dress, but really, it was more like a white t-shirt with ambitions. It hung soft and tight and criminally short, the hem grazing her thighs in a way that made his mouth water. Her legs were bare, her feet in strappy, off-white sandals, and all her toenails were lacquered a pale pink.
"Sorry I'm late, my mom decided she had to interrogate me about my entire life. Also, I got contacts instead!”
He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, maybe a joke or a dumb comment about her dress, but nothing came out. All he could think was: I want to fuck her, I want to ruin her, I want to destroy her. He felt it low, a throb in his stomach, the old animal urge he used to channel so easily in the backseats of cars, in tiny bathrooms at parties, but now he was so nervous, and oh, so fucking horny. He tried to play it cool, shoved his hands in his pockets, offered a lopsided, "Hey, yourself."
For a half-second, they just stared at each other. Steve couldn't stop cataloging the details: the line of her collarbone, the shimmer of sunscreen on her shoulders, the way she hid her hands behind her back, unconsciously pushing her tits his way.
He couldn't help it. His brain, greedy and abject, went right for the worst version of the memory: her sprawled on the Family Video linoleum, legs tangled in the soft pink dress, one knee bare and the skin above it flushed and perfect; the way her hands had trembled, the way her voice had snagged on every word. He imagined her like that now, only with the white dress rucked up around her hips, hair shaken loose, glasses somewhere on the ground. He pictured himself over her, holding her narrow wrists to the carpet while she gasped and arched up and said his name, and it was so real it hurt. He wanted to fuck her until she went breathless, until she cried, until she clawed for something to hold and found only him. He wanted to wreck her, to own her, to pin her down and never let another guy touch her again.
Fuck, he was in for it. Steve Harrington was losing it.
The party was already in full swing when they rolled up to Robin's place. Buckley's had always been the perfect party spot, part because Robin's parents were "emotionally divorced" and spent weekends at their separate condos in Indy, and part because the street was just far enough from downtown Hawkins that no one called the cops unless someone pissed in the neighbor's mailbox. Steve parked three blocks away, pretending it was for the exercise, but really buying himself time to get his pulse under control.
The windows pulsed with sub woofer light, and somewhere on the second story a window had been kicked open so hard the frame hung at a 15-degree tilt. The porch was already packed with bodies—everything from lacrosse guys, a few art-school kids, Robin's friends from the rental store, a handful of dropouts and even some of the bimbos Steve had been on dates with weeks ago.
The house was a haze of moving limbs and spilled liquor. Someone had popped every light bulb in the living room except the Christmas stringers, which pulsed an eerie green over a forest of red solo cups. The air reeked of weed, tobacco smoke, and the tang of spiked punch.
Robin found them immediately. Her hair was in pigtails and she'd drawn a blue star on her cheek with Sharpie, like she was the host of a dystopian game show. Robin flung her arms wide, "Harrington!" she crowed, then, with a conspiratorial wink, "And... the girl from today! Come. Come come come."
She summoned them into the epicenter, ignoring the way Y/N clung to Steve's arm like a life preserver. "You made it!," Robin said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You look—" She paused, eyeing Y/N dress, then Steve's jacket, then Y/N's face again. Steve could see the calculation in Robin's eyes, the way she was already rewriting the evening's narrative to squeeze the most juice from it. "It's perfect for you. Love your dress by the way,"
Y/N blushed, reached for Steve's hand automatically. "It's a little much, sorry—"
"No, don't," Robin said, looping an arm through Y/N, dragging her into the kitchen with a confidence that brooked no rebuttal. "It's perfect. Harrington, take notes—you're in the minor leagues now." She winked, then plucked a bottle of tequila from the counter, held it aloft like she'd just landed the Olympic torch.
Steve lagged a step behind, almost tripped by his own shoelaces. He saw as Y/N let Robin pour her a solo cup of poison.
Steve watched the tequila slosh, the way Robin over poured "to the brim, for luck," and then topped the cup with a wedge of lime. "We're doing shots, obviously," Robin declared, "but not, like.. normal ones. This is a party, not church. We are going to do body shots, like God intended."
Steve choked on his own breath. "Uh, no, we're not. We don't even have salt. Or limes. Or... bodies," he blurted. He could feel his face going red even as everyone else just grinned and cheered like this was Christmas come early.
Robin grinned, her teeth sharp in the light. "Wow, Harrington's suddenly shy," she announced to the kitchen, and then, to Y/N: "But his abs are, statistically, the eighth wonder of modern Hawkins. We're doing this." She slammed the tequila down, seized a salt shaker from the back of the stove, and produced a lime from some pocket of chaos. With a flourish, she arranged everything on the counter top: salt, orange plastic shot glasses, a tangle of cut limes. "Y/N, sweetie, you ever done a body shot?"
Y/N blinked, looked at Steve, then at the counter top, then back at Steve. "I don't know," she said, voice small but not scared. "I mean, no. Not really."
"Great!" Robin crowed. "Harrington, shirt off."
The kitchen went insane.
Steve's stomach dropped, but he couldn't back down. Come on, this used to be his usual. But he felt nervous, especially with Robin grinning like the devil and Y/N standing there, blinking up at him like he was some sort of Greek God. He steeled himself, hooked his thumbs under the hem of his shirt, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Cold air licked his skin. A few people in the back whistled and some girls whispered to each other ungodly things. He tossed the shirt at the counter, flexed without meaning to.
Robin lined up the first shot. "Rules are simple," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows at Y/N: "Lick, sip, suck. Steve, you're the body. Y/N, you're—well. You're about to have a life-changing experience."
He watched Y/N's face as she nodded, eyes huge and glassy in the Christmas lights. She stepped forward, standing close enough that Steve could see the flush working its way up her chest, blotting her collarbone pink under the white dress. Robin handed Y/N a shot glass. "You know the drill," Robin said, voice dropping to a private register. "Salt, lick, drink, suck. Start on the abs. Go low."
Y/N's face went up in flames, but her hands were steady as she took the salt shaker. Robin leaned in, whispering something, then dusted a thin, crystalline line just below Steve's ribs, right above the waistband of his jeans. Steve felt the cold grit hit his skin, felt every eye in the room burn into him. His cock stirred against the denim, as alive as it can be. He tried to think unsexy thoughts, but every time he looked at Y/N, the urge came back, harder now—he wanted to toss her over his shoulder, carry her to some unused corner, and bite her neck until her knees gave out. He gripped the counter top and waited, heart in his throat.
Y/N stepped closer, squinting at the salt line as if she needed to do it right, even as Robin and half the kitchen hooted and egged her on. She bent at the waist—fuck, her hair smelled like warm vanilla—and pressed her lips just below his navel, tongue darting out to lap the salt. Her mouth was soft and wet on his skin, and something primal in Steve's gut snapped. He barely heard the cheers. The sensation ricocheted straight to his cock, which flexed up against his zipper so hard it hurt.
Next was the shot. Y/N tossed it back, half the tequila spilling down her chin. She softly coughed, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then, as if on cue, she reached for the lime wedge Robin had wedged in the waistband of Steve's jeans, right above the button, just on the V of his hipbone. Her fingers grazed the skin, feather-light, but the cold rush of citrus and the heat at her touch sent a current through his entire spine. For a split second her knuckles pressed into the base of his stomach. He bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek he tasted blood. She took the lime in her teeth, and for a second lingered there, her face inches from his cock, breath warm on his skin, before she popped upright, giggling out the sour, sticky juice.
The kitchen howled. Steve's head swam, everything bright and stat-icky. He couldn't move; his abs were still flexed, hard, salt stinging where she'd licked him. He'd never felt more like a hunk of meat, and he'd never been more ready to let someone eat him alive.
It was supposed to be a goofy party trick. But obviously, it wasn't. He watched her, dazed, as she licked the last of the salt from her upper lip, then met his gaze and innocently smiled with a wet, trembling mouth.
Robin cackled and slammed her palms on the table. "See? That wasn't so bad! Who's next?" The kitchen erupted, a dozen hands shot in the air.
He barely noticed. He was too busy watching Y/N, with her cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and wild and overwhelmed by the heat working up her throat and into her face. She still had the taste of salt and Steve's skin on her tongue, and it was making her knees weak in a way she'd never admit.
Robin pulled Y/N her into a hug, sweat and tequila and vanilla and strawberry gluing them together in a messy, giggly tangle. "You're a natural!" Robin whispered in her ear. "And for the record, everyone in this room wishes you'd licked them instead."
Robin's grip loosened just enough for Y/N to stagger back into Steve's orbit. The music churned to a new song, the kitchen crowd already drifting to the next spectacle, but Steve couldn't break eye contact with her if he tried. She glowed, skin shiny with sweat, plump lips parted, breathing shallow.
He didn't remember deciding to do it. He leaned in, bringing his lips close to her ear, his stomach still sparking from where she'd licked him, and said, "You want to try one?" The words barely made it past his throat, he was so hard he felt like he might black out.
Y/N's eyes darted up to his, wide and momentary, and she nodded. No hesitation, just a hungry little nod like a dare.
He watched her hands. She gripped the edges of the counter behind her, squeezing so tight her knuckles shone through the skin. He heard himself say, "Where do you want it?" and when she didn't get it, Robin, ever the provocateur, elbowed her in the ribs and said, "Salt line goes wherever you want, babe. Classic is the cleavage shot. If you're brave."
Y/N's gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked to Robin, then to Steve. The tips of her ears went scarlet. She squared her shoulders and, in a motion at once hesitant and absurdly decisive, yanked the front of her dress down an inch, baring the soft valley between her breasts. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and said, "Let's do it."
He heard the word in triplicate, echoing in his chest. Robin was already at her side, fingers quick and businesslike, shaking a thin bead of salt between Y/N's tits, her hands surprisingly gentle. Y/N's skin flinched under the touch, but she didn't pull away. She kept her chin tucked, her mouth pressed in a line so tight her lips nearly vanished.
Robin glanced at Steve, raised her eyebrows, and telepathically told him good luck, Harrington, and then poured the shot, steady, "Go," Robin whispered, and faded back into the kitchen, already shouting for the next round.
Steve blinked. He had done this before, a hundred times, but never like this. Fuck, never, ever like this.
He bent down, drew her in with a hand at the small of her back, and licked the salt like he meant it, slow and hot, just at the base of her cleavage. The taste hit him all at once—skin, salt, and the faint edge of her yummy perfume—and for a second, he thought he might actually lose control right there in front of the whole kitchen. He reached for the shot, eyes locked on hers, and tossed it back. The tequila burned, bright and immediate, and then he went for the lime wedge dangling between her knuckles.
She held it up, pinched between thumb and finger, but her hand was barely steady. He didn't just bite the lime, he let his lips graze her fingers, tongue flicking over her skin for one illicit, hungry moment.
He barely registered the kitchen cheering, the sting of tequila in his throat, the sticky neon of the Christmas lights. There was nothing but her.. the salt-sweat on her skin, the lime braced between her fingers, the way she breathed when he leaned in. He wanted to press his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck and taste every inch of her, slow.
Robin was gone, the kitchen crowd surging elsewhere, the party's center of gravity shifting. Steve and Y/N stood together at the edge of the counter top, two empty shot glasses and a wedge of lime between them. For a moment neither of them moved.
Steve watched her. Her body quivered with leftover adrenaline, and her eyes, ringed with tears from the lime, locked on Steve's with a naked, hungry intensity that caught him very off guard.
He tried to say something. Anything. His brain coughed up only static. She just stared at him, jaw set, wet mouth parted, like she was daring him to move first. She swayed a little in place, the white dress clinging to her, and Steve saw—he knew, with the certainty of a thousand locker room stories—what she was feeling. She wanted. It was so obvious he felt it like a punch in the kidney. His own body responded, vicious and instant.
He tracked how her legs shifted, how she squeezed her thighs together, how her breaths got short and fast, and how she held his gaze so steady he couldn't look away. Every instinct screamed at him to grab her. Every instinct screamed at him to move.
Instead he stood there, paralyzed, heart slamming so hard he felt it in the tops of his feet.
Y/N blinked, once, slow, then reached for him. Her palm landed flat against his chest. No testing, no hesitation. She pressed, and he yielded, letting her push him back against the fridge. The handle jabbed into his hip. The cold tightened something in his gut. He waited. He was trembling and trying to hide it, and she leaned in, so close her breath hit his mouth. She didn't kiss him. Not yet.
"Steve," she said, so quietly he barely caught it over the kitchen's noise. He blinked at her, trying to focus, to re-calibrate. Her hand slid up, fingers splayed against his bare chest.
She leaned in. Her lips didn't quite touch his ear, but her breath was hot on his jaw. "I need to get out of here."
He nodded, a violent jerk, already reaching for her wrist. He was ready to drag her straight out the front door, but she only pressed closer, voice a tremor: "I'm sorry, I just—" She laughed, a nervous, biting little sound. "I think I'm a bit.. wet."
Steve's brain short-circuited. For a half-second he was back in his kitchen, clutching the phone with one hand and his cock with the other, hearing her say his name, the way she'd whispered "Steve" like it was a secret. But now her voice was pressed to the side of his face, and her body was mashed up against every inch of him, and he was so fucking hard it felt like his cock was going to slice through his jeans.
He didn't ask where. He didn't have to. Steve took her hand and wove through the crush of bodies in the living room, the kitchen, the stairs, as if they were conjoined at the wrist. He made for the only place in Robin's house that wasn't already stuffed full of people, or garbage, or the smell of weed and spilled soda. The bathroom: second floor, back left, the one with the broken lock.
He shouldered the door open, nearly knocking the loose towel rack off its screws, and barely got it shut before Y/N was crowding in after him, her face alive with raw and startled need.
The bathroom was as ugly as Steve remembered: green shag rug, crusted toothpaste in the sink, a single 40-watt bulb casting headache shadows across the yellowed linoleum. They barely fit inside it together. But as soon as the latch clicked, Y/N was on him, hands fisted in the waistband of his jeans, mouth searching. She kissed with the frantic, open-mouthed hunger. Steve bent down, kissing back, nipping her lower lip, tasting tequila and salt and the faint trace of her lip gloss. He pressed her against the lip of the vanity, hands greedy as a mugger, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him until he saw stars.
He tugged her dress up—she made a sound, half gasp, half laugh, and let him, until the fabric bunched around her waist and her bare legs pressed hard against his hips. The pink cotton panties under the dress were already soaked through, and when he slipped his hand between her thighs she shuddered, digging her short, painted nails into his back. He was barely thinking at all.
She pushed his hand away, palms flat and insistent, then dropped to her knees so fast it knocked the air out of his chest. For a second he just stared at her, holy fucking stunned—does she even know how to suck a guy off? Steve thought. She bit her lip, looked up at him, breath ragged. "Can I?" she said, so quietly he almost missed it.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He hooked a hand behind her skull, not rough, just needing to feel the shape of her, the weight of her, the way her neck tapered to her shoulder, and tried not to shake as she yanked his jeans and underwear down below his ass.
Y/N's fingers wrapped around his cock, and the heat of it almost undid him. She stared, close enough he could feel the air from her nostrils, and for a second he thought she might just hold it and look, but then her lips parted, tongue flicking out, tasting from the base up to the tip with a steady lap. Her mouth was warm and greedy, lips slicked with spit, tongue raking the underside, and then she just fucking swallowed him—no hesitation, just took the head right between her lips and held him there, eyes shut, cheeks hollowing. Steve's vision blacked out for a second. She wasn't careful, wasn't slow at all, and he could feel every inch of her: the edge of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, the wet smack of her lips, the crazy little noises she made in her throat.
Steve always considered himself picky with blowjobs. But saying he was surprised it's an understatement. Y/N seemed a full-blown maniac for the way she used her tongue, the way she pressed her nails into the backs of his thighs, the way she kept eye contact even as her mascara started to run. Steve couldn't breathe; his hands clamped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went bloodless.
He'd never seen anything like it. Her cheeks hollowed, jaw flexing, and she went deeper, then deeper again, until the flare of his cock head pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, but instead of stopping she growled, an inhuman sound, and he nearly came right then. He looked down at her, her lips stretched, her hair falling in her eyes, her hands working in a twisting rhythm at the base—and she looked right back at him, her lashes wet, daring him to lose it.
He tried to last. He really did. He thought of dead dogs, of geometry, of the ugly ass green shag rug under his sneakers, but her mouth was relentless. She sucked him with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, using her hand to twist and squeeze while her tongue lashed and teased and licked. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing, then sliding back to stroke the strip of skin behind. He almost yelped when she did that, the jolt so raw and bright he had to bite the inside of his wrist to keep from howling. She paused, eyes glittering, and then went down again, deeper than she had any right to. She pulled off just as he felt himself tipping over,and she let him nearly fall into it: the head of his cock pulsing, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crack. He shoved her off, just in time,.
Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, knees wobbly, mouth open. He pressed her to the sink, back to the mirror. It was feverish, uncoordinated. His hands found her ass, fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh beneath the hem of her dress, and then he was hoisting her up, perching her right on the edge of the counter.
He didn't ask. He couldn't have, even if he'd tried. The cotton went slick between his fingers when he pulled them aside. Y/N let out a whimper, her thighs spreading obediently. She was shaking, but not from cold; she arched her back, and looked up at him with a hunger that made his knees buckle.
He wanted to make her say his name again.
He gripped his cock, the tip still glossy with spit, and ran it against the damp, slippery entrance of her pussy. She was so wet it was almost stupid. He lined up, pressed the head into her, and she hissed, nails raking his forearm as he pushed inside. She was tight, impossibly so, and he had to pause, just for a second, to keep from sliding in all at once and blowing straight past the edge of control. Y/N clamped around him so tight he almost lost it—her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, her hands grabbing at the mirror behind her so hard he heard it creak. He went forward, every thrust rougher, rougher, until her head banged the glass and she gasped his name with every ragged exhale.
Steve braced his palms on either side of her hips, pushing her higher on the counter so the cold porcelain pressed flat to her ass, and he fucked up into her, mean and perfect, desperate to fill her, ruin her, make her remember this every time she looked in the goddamn mirror. He was panting, sweat already slicking across his chest, her knees bruising his ribs.
Steve couldn't stop. The slap of his hips against her bare skin echoed in the little bathroom. He wanted her to hear it, wanted anyone passing in the hall to hear it. He wanted them to know she was fucking the shit out of this beautiful girl.
He found himself talking, words tumbling out, low and rough, nothing like his usual jokes or sarcastic, mean lines. "You like being fucked where anyone could hear you?" He pistoned harder, watching her face go slack, mouth open and wet. "I bet you've never been fucked like this, huh? No, didn't think so."
His own voice got him off, got her off too—she clenched around him, a tremor starting in her thighs and then up her spine, lips shiny and parted and begging for more. He felt her body clamp down, so tight he couldn't move for a heartbeat; she was shaking, trying to ride the edge. Steve pressed his face to her neck and growled. "You want to come? I'll let you if you say you want it."
She tried to answer, but it came out as a sob, a hiccup, a choked, "Steve—" and he shoved in harder, grinding her against the mirror. He could feel her nipples through the thin cotton, hard as diamonds, and he wanted to bite them, wanted to mark her everywhere. He thought about pulling out and flipping her over, fucking her from behind so she could see herself in the glass, but he didn't trust his legs to hold him. He had to finish like this, deep inside, buried so far every time she walked she'd feel it for a week.
He heard himself again: "Do you feel that? Every time I fuck you, I can feel your pussy clutching me like it's hungry—like you want me to fill you up," He was almost shouting, didn't care if the whole party heard. He drove into her harder, the tip of his cock punching her cervix, and Y/N gasped, head thudding back against the mirror.
"You want me to fill you up, come inside this tight pussy, pretty girl ?"
Y/N's nails dug into his arms. Her head shook back and forth, helpless, but she was moaning, clenching, gasping with every ragged thrust. She was falling apart, coming undone, and he wanted to watch it happen. He was, indeed, ruining the sweetest girl he had met a few days ago.
Steve wrenched the top of her dress down with one hand, the neckline giving way with a violent little rip. Her tits tumbled out, flushed and perfect, nipples hard and shining with sweat. He stared, unable to help himself, and then grabbed both, squeezing, watching the way they bounced every time he railed into her. He wanted her to see what she did to him, wanted to brand the image into her skull the way he knew he'd never erase it from his own. He fucked her harder, faster, felt his own orgasm boiling up from somewhere below his spine, but he fought it back, desperate to see her finish first.
He pinched the tight pink bud, twisted and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and she almost shrieked. Her hips jerked, heels slipping, breath bursting wet and hot against his neck. He bit and sucked and tongued her until her voice went high and stretched, until she was frantic and wild with it, so desperate for more she almost sobbed. Her hands fumbled at his hair, pulling him closer. He let go, ran his tongue slow and flat down the valley between her breasts, lapping at the sweat, and she arched up, rubbing against him, so desperate for friction she nearly threw him off balance.
"God," she panted, voice gone sharp and raw. "Please..Steve," She clawed at his shoulder. "Harder." Her breath hitched, lips plush and wet, eyes glazed with everything she was afraid to say. "Fuck me harder.. please, please, please, I need—"
He grabbed her by the hips, fingers digging deep enough she'd see the marks tomorrow, and rammed forward, burying himself as far as he could go. She screamed, the sound muffled against his neck where she clamped her mouth to keep from shattering. He knew she was close, so close, and he wanted to keep her right there, teetering. He lifted his head just enough to see her face: Y/N was gone, all sense evaporated, eyes huge and glassy and wet, mouth open and working for air.
She moaned, low and helpless up from her chest, then higher, until she made a sound so high-pitched and mortified he thought for a second she'd started crying. But she wasn't crying. She was coming, hard, every muscle in her thighs clenching so tight he could barely move. He watched her try to hold it in, watched her eyes dart to the mirror and see herself split open, hair wild, her own breasts marked up and jiggling, his cock jack-hammering in and out of her. She saw it and came again, her whole body seizing, mouth in a perfect O of disbelief. Steve had never seen anything so hot in his life.
That was it for him. He went feral, lost to the world, slamming into her with a speed that bordered on mean. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes but he didn't stop. He wanted to carve her into memory. Her pussy milked him, clutching tight as a fist, and the friction lit him up from the inside. He was past dignity, past restraint, past the point of pretending he was in control. His hips went wild; he felt it start in the soles of his feet, the heat climbing up his legs, then pooling in the base of his spine, then roaring forward, unstoppable. He lost his words; all he could do was grunt her name, low and guttural, as his cock twitched inside her, the first thick spurt hitting so deep her whole body flinched.
He kept going, aftershocks making his muscles seize and spasm, until she was shaking, spent, her head collapsed on his shoulder, arms limp at her sides. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and just breathed, sweat slick on both of them, her hair matted and sticky against his mouth.
They stayed tangled like that, sweat and spit and salt drying between them, until the bright noise of the party outside filtered back into Steve's ears. The air in the bathroom was thick—humid, almost soupy, every surface fogged and slippery. Steve's hands were numb from gripping Y/N's hips so hard. She still shivered in aftershocks, arms looped around his neck, ragged breath cooling the bite marks on his shoulder. She was a mess. He was a mess. He loved it.
He let her down slow, careful, both of them testing their legs like foals on new ice. Steve tucked his cock away, awkward, the zipper fighting every inch, but Y/N didn't seem to notice. She only giggled, this high, brittle sound that made something low in his chest turn over. She tried to pull the top of her dress up, but it was hopeless. Steve watched her fumble with the neckline, then reached out and helped, trying to smooth the fabric back into shape. It was stretched, the seam a little torn, her bra hopelessly lost somewhere in the tangled mess of the skirt, but she let him fuss over her anyway, standing barefoot on the green shag with the ruined dress half off her shoulders. Her face glowed, feverish under the bathroom lights.
He studied her, searching for something clever to say, but the only words in his head sounded like they'd been ripped from a fortune cookie. He wanted to tell her she was incredible, or that he'd never wanted someone the way he wanted her, or that he might actually die if she ever left this bathroom without promising to see him again. But he was Steve Harrington, and the best he could do was stand there, tongue in cheek, grinning like a fucking idiot while she wiped her face on the back of her hand, trying to mop up the sticky gloss of his orgasm from the corners of her mouth.
He said, "Sorry if that was—" and then stopped, because it was the worst possible thing to say when you'd just fucked someone this hard.
But Y/N only laughed, wiping her chin, her whole body humming with aftershocks. Her dress was wrinkled all to hell, and there was a dark, thumbprint-sized stain spreading across where he'd palmed her hip, and her hair was coming down in wet, tangled ropes. She looked up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes and said, "Don't apologize. That was, uh.. amazing."
Steve grinned. He couldn't help it. The sight of her, so messy, so alive, so fucking pleased, made him want to laugh out loud, or maybe punch the air, or maybe just wrap her up and never let her go.
He watched her fix her hair in the mirror, mesmerized. She caught his gaze in the reflection and went shy, covering her face with both hands and then peeking out through her fingers. "That was so embarrassing," she whispered.
He shook his head, still a little winded. "No," he said, and meant it. "No, it was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. I think you out-charmed me."
She peeked at him, fingers still spread. "Are you lying?"
"Fuck no," he said, a little breathless.
He realized he was telling the truth and it stunned him. Because, holy hell, he'd never felt like this over someone before.
↳ summary: fresh from yale and colder than ever, hawkins' princess returns to bury the past, only to find mike wheeler refusing to stay as a bad memory.
↳ warnings: aged up characters! making out, fingering, oral (female receiving), angst.
↳ notes: first time writing for stranger things but omg mike wheeler my beloved.
word count: 5.6k
The silence of the Henderson household was a stark, almost jarring contrast to the cacophony of New Haven. For the better part of a year, Y/N's auditory landscape had been dominated by the boring intellectual posturing of lecture halls, the ceaseless hum of the library, and the nocturnal heavy bass of dorm parties. Now, standing in the center of her childhood kitchen in Hawkins, the silence felt.. heavy, to say the least.
It was late afternoon, the sun slanting through the blinds in beautiful thick, dusty beams of gold. Y/N leaned against the granite counter, waiting for the kettle to scream. She had arrived only an hour ago, and her suitcases were still standing like sentinels in the hallway. Incredibly, it had been one full, round year since the last time she had put foot on Hawkins.
—and one full, round year since she had been brutally rejected by one of Hawkins biggest losers, as well.
Y/N had changed immediately. The act of shedding her boring travel clothes felt like shedding skin she didn't want to be seen in. She'd rather be caught dead. Yale surprisingly had hardened her, sharpened her edges, and refined her aesthetic into something bolder, more deliberate and kinda threatening. She was no longer just the sweet, conservative Homecoming Queen of Hawkins High; she was a woman who had walked the halls of the Ivy League and realized she could command a room without saying a word.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window of the oven. She was wearing a cropped polo shirt—a navy blue Ralph Lauren piece she'd taken scissors to, leaving the hem raw and hovering distinctively just below the curve of her underwire, exposing a smooth expanse of midriff. Below that, a white pleated tennis skirt sat low on her hips, the length bordering on scandalous and promiscuous for good ol' suburban Indiana. It was an outfit designed for, hopefully a fun summer, for tennis courts and country clubs, but worn in the sanctity of her kitchen, it felt like armor.
But of course, who else was going to see it? Only her sweet twin brother and her mother were possibly going to. Right? unless Dustin—
The kettle whistled. As she poured the boiling water over the tea bag, the steam rising in a fragrant plume of Earl Grey, her mind drifted, unbidden, to the reason she had stayed away so long.
The other Henderson knew, of course. He was the only one who knew about him.
Y/N hadn't returned for Christmas... or New Years. She had concocted a lie about a mandatory skiing trip in Vermont with her sorority sisters from Kappa Alpha Theta—a fabrication that was plausible enough to satisfy her mother and vague enough to keep Dustin from asking irrelevant questions. The truth was far more pathetic: she simply couldn't bear the thought of running into Michael Wheeler in the exposing light of winter.
The "rejection" had happened in late April, months before she left for Connecticut. It had been a completely random Tuesday. She remembered the scent of rain on the pavement and the way the streetlights reflected in Mike's dark eyes when she had finally, after years of dancing around the tension, laid her cards on the table. Oh.. how she wishes that didn't happen.
It had been a night defined by water. The rain in Hawkins that spring had been torrential. That day, specifically, had turned the world into a blur of gray and charcoal. Y/N was standing at the end of the Wheeler driveway, the engine of her car still idling a few yards away, reminding her she had to go.
Mike stood three feet away. He looked miserable.
The rain dripped from the ends of his hair, running in rivets down his pale face, mimicking tears. He was looking everywhere but at her.
"Say it," Y/N had whispered, her voice barely audible over the drumming of the rain. "Just say it, Mike."
He flinched, finally dragging his gaze up to meet hers. His dark eyes were pools of conflict, swimming with an apology she didn't want to hear.
"I can't," he said, his voice cracking. "I just... I can't."
"Why?" Y/N took a step closer, ignoring the way her boots squelched in the mud. She was desperate, like she had never been for a boy, "Is it because of Dustin? Because we grew up together? Because that's bullshit, Mike, and you know it."
"It's not Dustin," he said quickly, clarifying. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders. "It's... it's everything."
He took a ragged breath, the vapor clouding in the freezing air between them.
"I don't feel the same way," he said. The words were quiet, but they hit Y/N with the force of a physical blow. "I've tried. You're... you're amazing. You're beautiful, and smart, and any guy would be lucky to have you. But when I look at you... I don't feel that."
The rejection was bad enough, but the gentleness of it was excruciating. It was pity.
"Is it her?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "Is it still Jane?"
Mike went still. The mention of the name seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. Even though Jane had been gone from his life in that romantic sense for a while.. she kind of was the reason.
He looked down, kicking at a loose stone on the asphalt. "I'm not over her," he admitted, his voice rough. "I don't know if I ever will be. It's not just a breakup, Y/N. It's... she's a part of who I am. And until I figure that out, I can't be with anyone else. Especially not you."
"Why especially not me?"
"Because you deserve someone who is all in," Mike said, looking at her with a devastating earnestness. "You deserve the whole thing. And I'm... I'm hollowed out right now. I have nothing left to give you."
Y/N felt foolish. She felt small, humiliated. She was the Homecoming Queen, the girl who had her pick of the senior class, the girl who scored a full ride to an Ivy League.. standing in the rain begging a boy who was still in love with a ghost.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice breaking.
She didn't wait for him to respond. She didn't wait for a hug, or a goodbye, or any more of his agonizing pity. She turned on her heel, and marched back to her car. She climbed in, slamming the door against the storm.
After that day, Y/N promised herself she wouldn't talk to Michael Wheeler.
He simply does not exist.
Michael. Wheeler. Does. Not. Exist.
Y/N took a sip of the tea, the bergamot burning her tongue pleasantly. She was over it, she told herself. She had spent a year surrounded by the intellectual elite of the East Coast—which in other words, means the hot guys who also have the brains. She had dated a mathematician from UPenn and had a messy situation-ship with a finance guy from Brown. Michael Wheeler was a small-town boy with a bad haircut and the style of a cheap, blind clown. They were obviously in different leagues.
The sound of gravel crunching in the driveway made her flinch.
Y/N frowned, setting the mug down. She wasn't expecting Dustin until tomorrow. That was the plan; she would have twenty-four hours or so to decompress, unpack, and prepare herself mentally for the chaotic energy of her brother and mother.
But the noise outside was undeniable. A car door slammed. Then another. Then the unmistakable, chaotic symphony of annoying male voices rising in debate.
"I'm telling you, it's a statistical impossibility for a dragon to spawn in that biome!"
"It's not statistics, Lucas, shut up!"
Y/N froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. That wasn't just Dustin.
OH, fuck no it wasn't.
The front door lock clicked, and swung open.
"Mom? We're home early! The campaign went to shit so we're crashing here!" Dustin's voice boomed through the hallway, cracking slightly on the last syllable.
Y/N stood rooted to the spot near the island, completely frozen, her hand gripping the edge of the granite. She didn't have time to run. She didn't have time to change.
She couldn't make any noise.
Dustin led the charge, dumping his backpack on the floor, followed closely by Will Byers and Lucas Sinclair, all cracking jokes and laughing. And trailing behind them, looking taller and lankier than she remembered, was..
Oh.
They were laughing, shoving each other, completely oblivious to the presence in the kitchen until they rounded the corner.
The silence that fell over the room was instantaneous and absolute.
"Holy shit," Dustin breathed.
Y/N forced her posture to relax, leaning back against the counter with a practiced nonchalance she didn't feel. She brought the mug to her lips, blowing softly on the steam, her eyes scanning the group.
"Hello, brother," she said, her voice cool. "You're a day early."
Dustin's jaw was practically on the floor. He blinked rapidly, his brain short-circuiting. "Y/N? You... you're here. Wait. You were supposed to be here Saturday. Today is Friday."
"Today is Friday," she agreed dryly. "I assume at your grown age you're capable of reading a clock."
The boys stood frozen in a semi-circle. They had changed. That was the first thing that hit her. The last year had been kind to them, stretching them out, shedding the last vestiges of boyhood softness. Lucas had filled out, his shoulders broader. Will looked more soft, more self-assured.
But it was Michael who, unfortunately, drew her gaze, despite her best efforts to look anywhere else.
He had changed the most. He was leaner, sharper. His hair was no longer that ugly shaggy mop, but shorter, with tighter curls, that frame a face that had lost the tiny remains of baby fat, revealing his usual sharp jawline and high cheekbones. He was wearing ripped black jeans and a flannel shirt over a band tee that fit him loosely. He looked like something out of a grungy music video. He looked.. cool. Y/N cringed at the thought.
And he was staring at her.
His eyes were wide, fixed on her. Y/N knew what Michael was seeing. He was seeing the cropped polo, the non-conservative overexposure of skin, the way the short skirt showcased her legs. He was seeing a new girl. A college girl who drank espresso, read french philosophy, and got fucked pretty often.
The shock on his face was satisfying. It was a mixture of recognition and total disorientation, as if he was trying to reconcile the girl he remembered with the woman standing in front of him.
"Y/N," Will said, breaking the tension with a warm smile. He stepped forward for a hug. "We didn't know you were back."
"Surprise," she said, overly sweet, hugging Will back, careful not to spill her tea. "Dustin got the dates wrong. As usual."
"I did not!" Dustin protested, his face flushing pink. He seemed to suddenly realize what his innocent sweet sister was wearing. He made a vague gesture toward her midsection. "And why are you... where is the rest of your shirt? Mom is going to have an aneurysm."
Y/N smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Mom's in Chicago for the conference, Dustin. And it's called fashion. You should look it up sometime."
Lucas laughed, shaking his head. "I agree with you, Y/N. You look great."
"Thanks, Lucas." She flashed him a dazzling smile, the kind that had won her the crown before graduating.
Finally, she turned her gaze to Mike. Y/N's expression immediately turns into a nonchalant, cordial one.
He hadn't moved. He was standing near the refrigerator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Michael looked flustered. Actually, genuinely flustered. His eyes darted from her eyes to her waist and then quickly back up, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the heat outside.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly. "It's, uh... good to see you," he said.
Y/N let the sentence hang in the air, dying a slow, suffocating death without being paid attention. She didn't return the sentiment. She didn't even blink. Instead, she plastered the fakest smile onto her face.
She walked straight toward him. Mike stiffened, his shoulders rising slightly, perhaps anticipating a hug, perhaps anticipating a slap—but he got neither. She stopped inches from him, invading his personal space just enough to be unsettling.
"You're blocking the refrigerator, Wheeler," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a dismissive tone. "I want a peach."
Mike blinked, the color draining slightly from his face as the rejection landed. He scrambled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet to get out of her way. "Right. Sorry. Yeah."
Y/N didn't look at him again. She opened the fridge, and began to inspect the fruit drawer with exaggerated interest, as if the boy behind her didn't exist.
Dustin caught it immediately. He looked between them, his eyes darting back and forth like a spectator at a particularly violent tennis match. He sensed the sudden, crushing drop in barometric pressure. He saw the way Mike was awkwardly looking at the floor, and the way Y/N was aggressively ignoring him.
"Okay!" Dustin shouted, clapping his hands together with a deafening crack that made Will and Lucas jump. "Okay, wow! Great reunion! So wholesome! The energy in here is... weird! It is weird!"
He stepped physically between Mike and Y/N's back, waving his arms like he was landing a plane.
"We are going to order pizza," Dustin announced, his voice pitched an octave too high. "We are going to go into the living room, we are going to order three large pepperonis, and we are going to watch a movie. And no one is going to talk about the past.. or feelings.. or anything that isn't cheese, or pepperonis... or vampires! Understood?"
Lucas and Will exchanged a swift glance across the kitchen island. It was the silent, frantic telegraphing of confusion shared between the two. Will's brow furrowed in a distinct what-the-hell-was-that expression, while Lucas just widened his eyes and gave a shrug.
-
The credits of The Lost Boys rolled in a silent, monochromatic scroll of white text against black, casting a flickering light over the living room. Dustin was sprawled in the recliner, mouth agape, letting out a rhythmic snore that sounded like a deflating tire. Lucas and Will were tangled in blankets on the floor, as asleep as one can be.
And then there was Mike.
He had fallen asleep on the opposite end of the couch, his head tipped back against the cushions, his long legs stretched out. While asleep, the brooding edge of his features had surprisingly softened. The sharp jawline was still there, the dark lashes against his pale cheeks, but the tension that radiated off him like heat waves had finally disappeared.
Y/N sat upright, wide awake. For two hours, she had sat there, acutely aware of every shift in his breathing, every movement, every facial expression. The proximity was a torment. Although she was "over it", she couldn't help to wonder; is he thinking about her? Is he seeing anyone at all?
The thought of Michael sweetly daydreaming about any girl, including Jane, made her nauseous. It was a physical assault on the composure she had spent a year carefully constructing. She couldn't do it anymore.
She stood up, moving with the silent grace of a cat, careful not to wake any of the boys up. She stepped over Lucas's outstretched arm and navigated the obstacle course of soda bottles. She paused for a fraction of a second to look down at Mike. Even in the unflattering blue light of the television, he was devastatingly handsome. Y/N sighs.
She turned on her heel and left.
The sanctuary of Y/N's bedroom was a relief that was almost physical. She closed the door softly, leaning her forehead against the cool wood for a moment to breathe. The room was exactly as she had left it months ago. Posters of Madonna everywhere, a vanity cluttered with scrunchies and lip gloss, a bedspread covered in pastel florals. It felt childish. It felt like a cage.
Y/N pushed off the door and walked to her mirror. The adrenaline was finally fading, leaving a dull throb behind her eyes. She reached for the hem of her cropped polo, ready to peel off the outfit of the day and scrub the makeup from her face. She wanted to be clean. She wanted to be unconscious.
Knock. Knock.
Y/N froze for a second, her fingers still gripping the hem of her shirt. She stared at the door.
"Go to sleep, Dustin," she whispered, her voice low and weary. "I'm not discussing the skirt with you until morning."
Silence stretched on the other side of the door. Then, a voice—low, raspy from the sleep, and unmistakably not his twins'—drifted through the wood.
"It's not Dustin."
Y/N's hands dropped to her sides. The blood rushed in her ears.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice sharpening. "I'm sleeping."
"I know you're not," Mike replied. "I saw you leave. Can I come in?"
"No." The refusal was instant. "Go away, Michael."
"Y/N." His voice was closer now, as if he had leaned his forehead against the door, mirroring her earlier posture. "Open the door. We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Well, I have something to say to you," he shot back, a flash of irritation piercing through the whisper. "You barely said two words to me all night. You owe me five minutes."
"I owe you nothing," she hissed.
"Open the door, or I'm going to keep talking out here until Dustin wakes up and asks why I'm begging to get into his sister's bedroom."
Fuck, Y/N thinks. "Manipulative asshole" she whispers to herself.
She marched to the door, unlocked it with a violent click, and yanked it open only wide enough to fill the gap with her body.
"You have three minutes," she said coldly. "Start the clock."
Michael was standing in the dark hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight spilling from her bedroom window behind her. He looked disheveled, his hair messy from sleep, his flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal the band tee underneath. He looked tired, but his eyes were wide awake, dark and intense, locking onto hers with a gravitational pull she had to physically resist.
He stepped forward, forcing her to step back or collide with him. He pushed into the room, closing the door softly behind him.
"Get out," Y/N said, though the command lacked the venom she intended. She was seriously fighting the urge to drop the act and kiss him.
"Drop the act," Mike said. He didn't shout; his voice was quiet, dangerously calm, demanding at the same time. He leaned back against the closed door, crossing his arms over his chest, blocking Y/N's only exit.
Y/N let out a short, incredulous laugh. She walked over to her vanity, putting proper distance between her and the boy who broke her heart. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Ice Queen thing," Mike said, gesturing vaguely at her. "The 'I'm too cool for this town' thing. The way you looked at me in the kitchen like I was a piece of furniture you didn't like. It's bullshit."
"It's not an act," Y/N lied, turning to face him, leaning her hips against the vanity. She crossed her own arms, mirroring his defensive posture. "I've changed, Michael. It happens. People grow up. I went to Yale. I have a life. I'm sorry if my lack of interest in your Dungeons and Dragons drama bruises your ego."
Mike pushed off the door. He took a step toward her. Then another.
"It's not about my ego," he said, his voice dropping an octave, pointing at himself. "It's about the fact that you're treating me like a stranger. Like I didn't spend ten years of my life sitting at your dinner table."
"You made it very clear where we stood," Y/N replied, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. "You didn't want me, Michael. So don't come in here pretending you have a right to my time. Get over it."
"I remember..” Mike said softly. He stopped in the center of the room, only a few feet away from her now. "And maybe I was an idiot. But that doesn't mean you get to erase me."
"I didn't erase you," she said, her chin lifting defiantly. "I just grew up. I literally do not care about your existence."
"Liar."
The word hung in the air, vibrating.
Mike took another step. He was in Y/N's personal space now, close enough that she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, and his freckles..oh his beautiful—
"If you didn't care," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips before snapping back up to her gaze, "you wouldn't have run out of the living room the second everyone fell asleep. Every time you look at me, you get reminded of that night.."
"You're delusional," she whispered, cutting him off. "Get out of my room."
"No."
"Wheeler, I'm serious. Get out."
"Make me."
"..Why are you doing this?" her voice raised, shaking with a sudden, volatile mix of impotence and exhaustion. "Why do you even care, Michael? You're the one who left me standing under the fucking rain!"
Mike opened his mouth, but she cut him off, stepping into him, poking a manicured finger hard into his chest.
"Literally, what is this? YOU don't care about me. And YOU know it." she spat, her eyes flashing. "It seems like you just want to confuse me again. You want to see if you can still snap your fingers and make the stupid little Henderson girl fall apart. Fucking asshole."
"Y/N, stop—"
"No!" She shouted, shoving him. It was a real shove, putting her weight into it, her hands slamming against his flannel-covered chest. "Get out! I hate you! I hate that you're here, I hate that you think you can just—"
She went to shove him again, harder this time, intending to push him all the way to the door.
She never finished the motion.
Mike's reflexes were sharper than she remembered. As her hands hit his chest, his hands shot up, lightning-fast, and clamped around her wrists. His grip was firm, bordering on bruising, halting her assault instantly.
"Let go of me!" she complained, struggling against his hold.
"No."
He didn't push her away. He pulled. With a sudden, violent jerk, he yanked Y/N forward. The momentum threw her off balance, and she crashed into him, her body colliding flush against his hard frame. The air left her lungs in a gasp. They were tangled together now, chest to chest, hip to hip. Her hands were trapped between them, resting uselessly against his heart, which she could feel hammering a frantic rhythm against her palms.
Mike looked down at her. His eyes were no longer soft or pleading. They were pitch black, dilated, burning with a terrifying mixture of anger and raw, starving hunger.
"I don't want to confuse you," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that vibrated through her bones.
He didn't give her time to process the words. Instead, Mike dipped his head and crashed his mouth onto hers. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a kiss of possession. It was angry, messy, and overwhelmingly hot. He kissed her like he wanted to devour the accusations right out of her throat.
Y/N let out a muffled sound of shock against his mouth, her body stiffening. One of his hands released her arm and tangled roughly into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, forcing her to take him. The sensation was blinding. His lips were hot, searing against hers, moving with a desperate, demanding pressure.
The anger in her veins progressively started to fade. Her fingers, which had been pushing against his chest, curled into the fabric of his flannel shirt, gripping him tight, pulling him closer. She opened her mouth to him, and Mike took the invitation with a groan, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her deeply, claiming her.
The friction was electric. Mike walked her backward until her lower back hit the edge of the vanity, pinning her there. He stepped between her legs, his thigh pressing firmly, deliberately against her center. The contact sent a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to her pussy, making her knees buckle. He caught her, his arm sweeping around her waist, his large hand splaying over the bare skin of her back exposed by the cropped polo.
Y/N moaned, the sound lost in his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his thick, dark curls, dragging him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more him.
Y/N couldn't believe she was finally tasting Michael Wheeler. The DND loser, now somehow hot Michael Wheeler.
They kissed like they were drowning, teeth clashing, breath mingling, fueled by a year of silence and resentment.
Mike broke the kiss to gasp for air, but he didn't pull away. He dragged his lips down her jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of her neck. "Tell me you hate me now," he whispered against her throat, breathless. He sucked a mark onto the soft skin below her ear, making her arch her back with a shudder. "Say it, fuck. Tell me you want me to leave."
"Mike..." Y/N whimpered, her head falling back, exposing her throat to him. She was trembling, every nerve ending in her body singing.
"So.. I am Mike now, not Michael.." He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild, unhinged. His lips were wet and swollen, red from the force of their kissing. He looked at her like he wanted to rip the rest of her clothes off with his teeth. "I would fuck you so good right now."
Y/N couldn't even process the nature of the words he was saying.
"Admit it," he taunted, his hand sliding boldly up her thigh, his fingers slipping under the hem of her skirt, his thumb grazing the inside of her leg. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Mike, please," she begged, her head spinning, her body aching with a hollow, throbbing need. She didn't even know what she was pleading for.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers, teasing her. Every time she tried to kiss him back, he pulled away just a fraction, maddening her.
"Please what?" he whispered, his breath hot on her lips. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"
Y/N let out a frustrated sound, grabbing the back of his neck and forcing his mouth back onto hers. This time, she kissed him, hard, biting his lip, pouring all her confusion and desire into it. She ground down on his lap, feeling him groan in response, feeling the undeniable evidence of how much he wanted her pressing against her.
Mike's hands moved from her waist to the hem of the navy polo. His fingers brushed the underside of her breasts, a light touch that made her breath hitch in her throat. Y/N didn't stop him. She couldn't. She lifted her arms, a gesture of total surrender that felt like leaping off a cliff. Mike pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, leaving her standing there in just her white skirt and a sheer lace bra.
“Beautiful." he whispered, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
He dipped his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of her breast, just above the fabric. His hand, which had been resting on her waist, began to move. It slid down, heavy and warm, tracing the curve of her hip over the white pleated skirt. He didn't stop there. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the skirt, gliding up along her thigh until he found the lace.
With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, Mike hooked his thumb into the fabric and pulled Y/N's underwear to the side. His fingers traced over her soaked slit, driving her borderline insane.
"Mike!" she cried out, a strangled, needy sound, her head falling forward to rest over his shoulder. Her body trembled violently, her hips instinctively pushing into his hand. Y/N moaned out as Michael started rubbing slow circles into her clit. Her eyebrows furrowed exaggeratedly when he slipped two of his fingers past her slick folds.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts that scorched her skin.
"That's it," he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration against her pulse point. "You're so beautiful, God.."
Mike's fingers picked up their pace, becoming a blur between her legs. Y/N let out a high-pitched moan, biting down hard on her lower lip to stifle it. She squeezed her eyes shut, her head falling back against the mirror, exposing her throat to him. Her hands were clutching his shoulders so tightly her knuckles were white, holding onto him as if world was going to end. It was almost enough to tip her over the edge, right then and there, but Mike had other ideas. He abruptly removed his fingers, drawing a desperate, guttural protest from Y/N. Her eyes shot open in disbelief. Before she could utter a complaint, Mike was dropping to his knees, hands braced on her thighs, meeting her gaze with a worshipful look.
He gripped the backs of her knees, spreading her legs so that her skirt bunched up at her waist. He just pressed his mouth to her pussy, slick and messy and impossibly thorough. He licked her like he was starved for it, desperate, mouth and fingers working in tandem until she couldn't tell where one sensation ended and the next began. Every warm and wet flick of his tongue made her clench around nothing, her thighs trembling so hard she almost lost her balance above him.
Y/N had fantasized about this, of course she had thought about this—but nothing, not even the most delusional corner of her heart, had prepared her for it.
Y/N's hand slammed to the back of his head, tangling in the short curls, holding tight. Mike sucked her clit mercilessly, rolling it between his lips, and slid two fingers inside her again, curling them with perfect precision. She shattered almost instantly.
Her orgasm was an explosion, a blast that left her ears ringing and her muscles spasming. She felt it from her scalp to her toes. Her head thudded softly against the mirror behind her, a deep animalistic sound clawing out of her throat.
When she came back to herself, Mike was still on his knees, hands braced on her bare thighs, looking up at her with an expression she'd never seen on him before. It wasn't bashful, or hungry, or even smug.. well, maybe a little bit of all three, but mostly it was just...satisfied. Like he'd spent the last year plotting for this moment and was genuinely happy to see it land on her face.
Michael rose, slow and deliberate, the smudged line of her arousal shining on his lips. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her catch her breath. His pupils were blown wide.
Mike was the first to speak. His voice, when it came, was confident but soft, more than she'd ever heard it. "On a real note, you’re gonna be fine," he said. He looked away from her, running a hand up the side of his neck, eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of her wallpaper. "You always are. I mean, you go to Yale. You're like... unstoppable now."
Y/N clung to the edge of her vanity, legs trembling. She could still feel the echo of his mouth everywhere. She was about to tell him to go to hell, or at least wipe that look off his face, but all she managed was a sigh.
"I mean it," Mike insisted, fidgeting slightly. "I, uh... I didn't plan any of this either, but I'm not sorry. You should know that. You should know..."
There was a long, uneven silence. "What are you talking about?" Y/N breathed, her voice raspy.
"I'm saying that I don't want to be the reason you have a miserable summer," he said, his jaw working. "I just needed to know... I needed to know if it was real. Whatever was happening between us. But now I know."
He shrugged, a jerky, uncomfortable motion.
"So, just... make your stay good. For you and for Dustin. I know he missed you." He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor. "If you don't want me around, I won't be around. I won't get in your way again."
Y/N felt the air leave her lungs as if she'd been punched. The whiplash was nauseating. He was giving her an out. He was trying to be noble, or maybe he was just scared, but it felt cruel. It made the last ten minutes feel transactional.
God, it felt like that one night all over again.
"Mike," she started, the word fracturing in her throat. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to grab him and shake him and ask him what the hell was the point of all this if he was just going to walk away.
But the words wouldn't come. Her pride, which he had so effectively dismantled, came rushing back to choke her.
Mike didn't wait for her to find her voice. He seemed to take her silence as agreement.
He turned and walked to the door, his movements stiff. He placed his hand on the knob, pausing for a fraction of a second. He didn't look back. He didn't wink. There was no teasing left in his tone, only a flat, devastating finality.
"See you at breakfast, Y/N."
The door clicked shut.
Y/N stood alone in the dark, the silence rushing back in to fill the space where he had been, leaving her colder than when she was under the rain.
↳ summary: Art and Patrick were once your peers at the Mark Rebellato Academy —not the nicest ones. Five years later, you've made a friend that can help you fuck with their minds a little.
↳ warnings: making out, dry humping, manipulation, a lot of pettiness, mentions of bullying, and weight!! the dumbification of art donaldson tbh
↳ notes: Istg I be having the most random ideas, but I hope you enjoy!! as always, english is not my first language lolz
word count: 3.1k
Tashi enters the living room with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, moving gracefully in a beautiful blue mini-dress. With a soft pop, she eases the cork, instantly pouring the effervescent gold-ish liquid into the two glasses.
"You shouldn't even worry about them," Tashi says with a wry smile. As she finishes serving you some rosé Veuve Clicquot, she hands you the glass. "What are you—like, the second or third in Europe? They are gonna be broke by their thirties," she concludes, staring at you with confident eyes.
You nod, taking a sip of champagne. "Don't see it as serious; it'll be fun."
Tashi raises her glass, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "Im just saying, don't stress over men."
You clink your flute against Tashi’s. "Alright."
A year and a half ago, you had met Tashi Duncan, who you believed was a hard-hearted bitch but ended up being a close friend of yours. She is merciless, proficient, and goddamn; she has that vicious aura you worship so much. While living in Biot, you'd always look for the nearest CRT to watch Tashi flawlessly play, enchanted by how she unnerved her adversaries.
During summer break, your father dragged you out of the academy to visit California for a benefaction event. Amidst the glamour and chatter of the event, you caught sight of Tashi —most likely attending due to her relevance spiking around the area. Luckily, your connection rapidly deepened, fueled by reciprocal admiration and tennis dependence.
And the commitment to stay in touch despite the geographical distance worked. Tashi became pretty much your best friend, and you became hers. Aside from the workaholic aspect, the resemblances between you were too much to ignore. Sooner than later, you discovered much about Tashi's personal life, the players she liked and despised, and her daily anecdotes regarding tennis and her intimate life. And that's how you became acquainted with Fire and Ice's peculiar hyper-fixation on Tashi.
Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.
You thought it was a unique offering from God. You didn't expect you'd get the opportunity to face the golden pair again. When Tashi told you she had met Zweig and Donalson, a powerful sentiment of gratitude washed over you. You nearly fell to your knees when she proceeded to explain they were a walking boner for her. If that wasn't high power granting you a second chance to delight yourself, it was an insane coincidence.
But telling Tashi the backstory was a different pain in the ass. Although she expressed some sort of disgust towards Zweig and Donaldson's brainless carnal-based attitude, you couldn't buy it. And your skepticisms were demonstrated as valid when she —dreamy voice and all that shit— confessed through the phone she nearly had a threesome with them. A fucking threesome. You couldn't hold it back anymore, so you told her everything.
Tashi was aware of tennis's influence on your household, as you were raised by two renowned tennis coaches from the States. When you turned eight, your parents turned you in at the Mark Rebellato Academy —as if you were condemned to play tennis by default. The detrimental part of your journey was developing thyroid issues when you were twelve. Jesus, twelve years old — the commencement of the preteen period where kids either kiss your feet or bully you. One year after, along with the anticipated weight gain, you met Art and Patrick. And as if you weren't unfortunate enough already, the two —who at the time looked like fucking Beavis and Butthead— decided they didn't like your physical appearance. They hated it.
“Hey, Y/l/n!” Patrick’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking.
You froze, your heart sinking to the underground. You tried to focus on your serve, but your hands were immobile.
Patrick sauntered over, his smirk widening as he looked you up and down. “What’s the matter, Y/n? Ball too heavy for you to lift?”
You heard Art’s laughter behind your back. He joined in a kind of trembling voice. “Or maybe she’s saving her strength for lunch. She doesn't hesitate when it comes to eating.”
The echo of them and the rest of the kids on the court laughing was a sound that felt like daggers piercing your heart.
After two years of ceaseless bullying and humiliation—which also distracted you from tennis—your parents sent you to The Mouratoglou Tennis Academy in Biot, a small town in France. You are not sure if it was the harassment itself, the low self-esteem, or possibly your undeniable attraction for Donaldson. It didn't matter. By the age of seventeen, you were undoubtedly one of the major promises of European tennis.
So, explaining the theatrical, soap opera-like backstory to Tashi for your detestation of Zweig and Donaldson took time. But when you did, it was worth it because Tashi didn't distrust your testimony, and if anyone was exhilarated to play some moves against them at the beginning, it was Duncan.
That's the explanation behind Tashi pitching a tremendous party to celebrate her commitment to Stanford. This was absurd, to say the least, considering she had college offers piling up, and no one doubted she would commit to a prestigious school. But Tashi knew you'd visit from France, and this was just the perfect instance to hook you up with both condemned.
Because, of course, her biggest fangirls would attend.
It didn't take long until the country house was full of people ranging from Tashi's cousins to bare acquaintances. And spotting Fire and Ice was easier than you thought.
Tashi elbows you discreetly and signs with her head the direction they are standing. "There they are."
Your gaze falls over Art, who is laughing with —who you assume is—Patrick. His features are sharper and more defined. The lanky, slender physique you remembered from his premature teenage years had filled out into a more athletic build, with broader shoulders tapering to a trim waist covered in a light pink shirt. His blonde hair, which was no longer too light, was now strawberry blonde-ish, slightly tousled, and cascading over his ears.
Patrick, standing a few feet away, was equally transformed. His brunette hair, just a bit longer than you remember, frames a face that had hardened over the years—angular jaw, defined cheekbones, and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing. The fucking smirk is still there, and you can see how he displays it every two seconds at whatever thing Art is telling him.
The interior of your stomach resembles a volcano about to erupt. You feel ambivalent, so many emotions overlapping each other. You see two cute, hell, gorgeous guys, and you wish you could approach them without considering crucifying them before. And you can't help but feel envious at how effortlessly Tashi managed to tame Art and Patrick while the only thing you got from them was hostility.
Your eyes can't seem to unbuckle from them. Tashi catches you slightly frowning at the panorama, and she isn't certain if you are infatuated or planning murder on the spot. "Come on."
You have no time to react before Tashi leads you through some partygoers to reach where Zweig and Donaldson are. Like dogs sniffling fresh meat, it's pathetic how their heads twist simultaneously when Tashi approaches them, conversation instantly pausing. It is as if Tashi's presence was magnetic for them.
"Well, hello, both of you," Tashi greets them excitedly, still holding your hand. "Didn't think you'd come."
Art's eyes widen, "Are you kidding?" he's about to keep speaking, but his gaze merges with yours for a split second, and he shuts off. Dead. Silent.
"—Stanford's a big deal, Tashi." Patrick interrupts, compensating for the awkwardness of Art's sudden number. "I had to drag this lazy fuck out of his bed, but we made it."
Suddenly, Art's out of the trance, tearing his blue eyes off you to bombard Patrick with a killer look. "Hey—shut up, Patrick."
Tashi sweetly, softly giggles at their word exchange. God, she's good, you think. Tashi turns to gesture to you, "This is my friend, Claire, by the way. She is visiting from the Mouratoglou Academy—
To be fair, Claire is a believable name.
"Wait, the Patrick Mouratoglou Academy? In France?" Art runs over Tashis's sentence, incredulously shooting you a broad-eyed glare. You nod in agreement, still processing you are having a civil conversation with Art Donaldson.
You feel Tashi squeezing your hand at your quietness.
"Yeah, you know it?" you timidly ask, forcing a polite smile that, if you were Art, you wouldn't buy it. But, of course, he's as dumb as a pigeon.
"Heck... Of course, I do. I wish I could go there."
Tashi smirks, enjoying the spectacle.
Patrick’s investment in the conversation piques. "Mouratoglou, huh? That's impressive. Maybe we could hit the court sometime."
And that's the first time Patrick makes eye contact with you. He's stabbing you with his stare. You abruptly wonder if he's as dumb as Art, probably not.
You squeeze Tashi's hand.
Tashi leans closer to Patrick, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Hey, Pat... do you remember what you mentioned about erectile dysfunction? My aunt's a sexologist, I think—
Patrick loudly chuckles, apparently alarmed by the deficiency of filtering confidential information. "I need to smoke sum' stronger. Wanna come, Tash?"
Tashi purses her lips, casting a quick glance at you. "Sure."
Your point of view is like a sitcom scene, swiftly panning from Tashi's body leaving your radar to the boy in front of you, staring at you with soothing eyes and reddened cheeks. It's basically comical.
Art's eyes dart around the lively yard before landing back on you. He clears his throat. "So, uh, Claire? That's a cute name."
It takes tons of willpower not to drop the good girl act right there. You attempt to return the sentiment with a quirk on the corner of your lips. "I need to get a drink. Come with me?"
He shakes his head up and down, finding it easier than answering with words.
For the first time in a couple of months, the inside of Art's mind has more than a giant cardboard cutout of Tashi Duncan. He is in awe.
You lead the way, weaving through clusters of drunk teenagers towards the house. You feel Art's gaze lingering on your back —or ass, you don't know—a magnetic pull that makes you hyper-aware of his presence.
You arrive in the kitchen and quickly grab a bottle of vodka, a can of soda, and a party cup. Art watches you closely with a look of hypnotic admiration as if you were concocting the most complicated cocktail in the world. You want to roll your eyes so badly.
"That dress looks amazing on you." Art blurts out, unable to contain his thoughts any longer.
You look at him. Art is sitting on one of the high stools by the kitchen island, his elbow resting on the table's sleek surface, supporting his chin with his hand. There is a softness in his eyes completely foreign to you, an infrequent vulnerability that contrasts sharply with the characteristic asshole demeanor you remember.
To Art, you appear almost ethereal, like an ideal concept from a wet dream of his. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope of jumbled fragments of memory that make no sense. You look so familiar... but no.
There's no way he would forget about you.
You glance up, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. "Thank you," you reply, handing him a drink.
Art sips on his red plastic cup, eyes hooked on yours. "So, uhm. I just realized I never introduced myself properly. Im Art—
"Yeah, Donaldson, I know." you cut him off, leaving him completely silent and confused. "I've seen you play. Not bad," you clarify, with an unconscious hint of pride in your voice.
Art's smile widens. "Wait, you've seen me play?" he exaggeratedly emphasizes me.
You nod.
His eyes twinkle with excitement. There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "That's, uh, great. Next time you are watching, I'll play better..."
His innate nerdiness and try-hard flirtiness provoke nausea in you. If you didn't know him, it would be a different story. But seeing a former, intense crush who shamelessly bullied you for so long, giving you heart-shaped eyes...
It's fucking bizarre. And it pisses you off.
Art begins conversing about something else. You don't know what—tennis-related, maybe. You are not wearing earphones with noise cancellation, but you can't hear him anymore. It's a blur as his words course through one ear and depart through the other. Immediately. Your brain has simply blocked the action of listening to him.
You step closer, so close you can see the fine lines in his eyes, the flecks of green amidst the blue, with a hint of brown sectoral heterochromia on his right eye. You can smell the faint woody scent of his cologne, something spicy that makes you salivate. His lips keep moving, forming words that dissolve into the dim background noise. The music, the laughter, the chatter—they all blend into a distant hum.
Art's voice vanishes into oblivion as you fix your gaze on his mouth, the curve of his lips, the way they part and close as he speaks. "Art," you say, stopping him in his tracks.
His eyes flicker with uncertainty, puzzlement, and a spark of hope. His adam's apple throbs as he notices you staring at his lips.
You lean in, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your chest. Your hand reaches up, fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight stubble that prickles against your touch. Art's breath hitches, his eyes widening in surprise, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in, too.
Your lips crash against his. Although you don't want to make it weird, you fail. It's not a gentle kiss or a precious, out-of-a-book lips meeting. It's fierce, instructing, a clash of sour sentiments and intent. You pour all your frustration, your pent-up anger, and your fucked-up desire to overpower him into that kiss.
Art's shock melts away and quickly replaces it with an appetite that matches yours. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. The kiss deepens, his lips parting to allow your tongue to explore, to taste the unmistakable flavor of cigarette and cheap vodka. You can feel the warmth of his breath and the way his hands tighten on your waist. It's almost as if he's frightened you'll pull away at some point.
And you can only fantasize about the moment you walk away.
—but not yet. You push harder, your fingers tugging slightly in his messy strawberry-blonde hair. He lowly moans into your mouth, a sound that dispatches a shiver down your spine. His hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine and dangerously lowering to your ass level. There's a distress in his touch you never thought would come from him.
The way he's dissolving under your venomous touch is already a win for you. You've managed to put him under you. And it's intoxicating, this control you have over him, this ability to make him forget everything else.
You pull back, your lips hovering just above his. Art's eyes are half-lidded, his lips swollen and ridiculously red from the intensity of the kiss. He looks at you in pure infatuation, "What- I... Did I do something wrong?"
You press a finger to his lips, silencing him again. "Come with me."
You peek at the party going outside—most people are outside. The living room is nearly empty, with a few alcoholized individuals entering the country house to refill their drinks. It's perfect.
You take Art's hand, your fingers lacing through his, and you lead him toward the sectional, six-seat couch in the center of the living room. You push Art down onto the couch, and he complies without resistance, his lust-drunken eyes never leaving yours; he nearly chokes on his spit at the sight of you slowly straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.
"Jesus, Claire—"
You get the ick at the roleplay name Tashi baptized you with.
"Shh," you whisper, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss. "You never shut up, Donaldson."
And that's odd for him. He gives it a second thought because he isn't aware of how much he has talked, but definitely not that much.
The overthinking vanishes as soon as you begin to kiss him again, slowly at first, savoring the way his lips deliciously move against yours. Art's hands rest tentatively on your hips, his fingers twitching as if afraid to hold on too tight. You guide his hands around your waist, urging him to hold you closer. His grip tightens, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the delicate fabric of your black mini-dress.
A sigh rolls out from your throat when you perceive something hard putting pressure against your core —which, because of the dress, is only shielded by thin lace panties. The coarse fabric of Art's light denim jeans rubs splendidly against your pussy.
A primitive groan slips out of Art's lips the moment you grind your hips against his clothed dick. Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, and his eyes wander downwards. "Shit— you'll kill me," he pants into your mouth.
You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. They're dark with craving, his pupils dilated. "Then let me."
You are about to attack his lips again, but he hesitates. You tilt your head in confusion, murmuring a low what?
Art starts to speak, his voice shaky and breathless. "I... I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my hotel with me."
Before you can respond, Tashi suddenly appears in your vision behind Art's head. "Claire, there you are," she says, fucking loud with a knowing, manipulative smile on her lips. "Your dad called, he's outside."
You feel a surge of delicious triumph as you see the apparent dissatisfaction in Art's eyes.
"Sorry, Art," you say, standing up and smoothing your dress. "Maybe another time."
There’s a raw sadness in his eyes, an almost childlike hurt that he can’t quite conceal. He isn't even drunk; he's fully conscious of the stunning girl he just met and now is evaporating as if she was going to turn into a wolf at midnight or something.
As you are about to disappear from Art's vision, he shouts at you, "I'll see you later, right?"
But you don't answer.
Instead, you hurriedly walk with Tashi to reach the front yard.
"I didn't lie about your dad being here, though," Tashi clarifies, pointing at the big Jeep parked in front of the country house.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, a smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, alright." You glance back at the house to ensure you are out of earshot. "I think fucking him would've been better. Do you think he's gonna remember about this tomorrow?"
"Oh, yeah. This is definitely gonna fuck his head up for a while." Tashi chuckles, "he's pretty obsessive."
You feel a swell of fulfillment at your best friend's words. "How obsessive?"
↳ summary: the two female college tennis archenemies play against each other.
↳ warnings: angst, being closeted.
↳ notes: english is not my first language pookies! also, I couldn't believe there aren't almost any Tashi fics??? and happy pride! not proof-read btw
word count: 1.1k
An ear-piercing scream rips through the air, slicing through the ambient noise of the tennis court like a knife, instantly making your body freeze. Your chest aggressively compresses as you watch your lifetime opponent, Tashi Duncan, fall on her back and crumple to the ground in agony, hands clutching her injured knee as if trying to hold herself together.
Everything has diverted into penetrating silence, and you feel your racket gradually slipping from your fingers, the once-familiar weight slipping away unnoticed as you stare at Tashi Duncan with shock and a rigid, fast-pounding heart. Her face is a torturous portrayal of suffering, with knitted eyebrows and a constant audible sob escaping her lips.
You can't —or are incapable— of moving a muscle; they have locked themselves with a key you forgot where you placed. Instead, you stare with tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over but held back by sheer will. Suddenly, the sour mutterings from the crowd began to stab the thick fog of your shock. At first, the voices were just a faraway hum, but soon, the words became crystal clear.
"Why isn't she helping her?"
"Look at her—she doesn't even care. She will win by default."
"They hate each other; she won't help."
You are aware that the public perception of your rivalry with Tashi is intense, fueled by years of competitive clashes on and off the court. So, technically, they aren't wrong. You kind of hate each other, at least publicly. Even college recruiters had recognized early on that your rivalry was too severe to coexist on the same team—you for UCLA and Tashi for Stanford. You are polar opposites in playing style and temperament, each embodying traits that clash rather than complement.
While other tennis players in your age group get praised for their ability to work beautifully together, Tashi and you resemble more water and oil.
And water and oil don't mix.
Your heart sinks further as your gaze shifts from Tashi Duncan to the male figure now hysterically rushing onto the court. He is tall and good-looking, with blonde curls and an exaggerated expression of concern that you find melodramatic and infuriatingly genuine all at once. Recognition dawns upon you like a dark cloud—Art Donaldson, the young tennis promise Tashi had been talking to lately, also from Stanford.
The sight of Donaldson crossing onto the court, jumping over the net without hesitation, and acting like a wannabe hero stirs a mixture of sour emotions within your core—jealousy, resentment, and a deep sense of helplessness. Of course, it makes absolute sense Tashi Duncan is dating a handsome, talented tennis player from her same school... and guess what? He came to the rescue! You internally cringe at the horrid thought of everyone applauding him for caring for your girlfriend.
The crowd's accusatory murmurs continue behind your back. Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you follow Art Donaldson's silhouette kneeling beside Tashi's body with eyes filled with hostility and envy. You watch as he gently takes Tashi's hand in his, his facial expression softening as he murmurs charming words of reassurance to the girl deliriously in pain. You can't tolerate it. You stay there, still torn and immobilized, with your mind racing and endeavoring to decide what to do.
"Sometimes I wish I was a dude," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper in the quiet of Tashi's dimly lit college dorm. Tashi's fingers lightly brushed through your hair but abruptly stopped. "If I was that Patrick dude or the other blonde guy, my life would be ten times easier."
You heard her sigh.
"But you wouldn't be as good at tennis," Tashi softly replied, and you could tell she was avoiding conflict at all costs.
A beat.
"But I would have you," you said, turning your head to face Tashi, whose expression remained reflective and contradictory as she stared into the soft glow of the lamp lying on her night table. "I promise that's all that matters to me, Tash," you reassured.
Your eyes met, each with equal sorrow and frustration. Tashi broke eye contact first.
Tashi knew that picking arguments with Patrick was very easy, and she didn't have the urge to speak of anything else annexed from tennis and sex with him. You somehow managed to actively amuse her with conversations regarding your crusty dog back home, the food you have tried when you travel abroad, and everlasting anecdotes that provoke you to giggle and steal a genuine smile from Tashi's lips every single time.
And it wasn't too long after you exchanged your first words in private for her to realize she loved you. But not in a chummy way. Tashi romantically loved you.
But she never said it. Tashi just guessed you would assume she maniacally loved you, and you would satisfy yourself with that.
But the belief of Tashi loving you felt unimaginable in situations like this.
And now, the panorama of them together reflecting a couple straight out of a film—Art's concern etched on his face, Tashi's distress requiring attention—served as a stark, fucking bitter reminder of the captivating image they could market for years. They look perfect, they look—right.
So, why bother ruining Tashi's career? If her key to branding conquest is right there, kneeling next to her aching body in the form of a six-foot gorgeous tennis player.
In that rare moment of clarity, you make a sore, silent vow to honor your secret, to continue navigating the labyrinth of hidden tenderness and affection if Tashi doesn't decide to drop you after this.
But, as you are one intrusive thought away from stepping out of the court —or, better said, escape— Tashi's hazel orbs, flickering with anxiety and in between dried and brand-new tears, disembark on your outline. Internally, she wonders why you cry —at least as much as her, and you wish you could clarify is because you feel powerless. You are powerless.
Tashi stares one, five, fifteen, thirty seconds. She doesn't quit. You stare back. Encircling her, the Stanford medical team consoles her and provides instructions to which she doesn't pay attention. To her right side, and almost covering the view of her, the blonde guy starts to question what —or who— she is looking at.
You mouth, "I love you."
Tashi's eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you can see that little pout of hers appearing over her lips.
Art turns to track Tashi's gaze, falling over you.
And when he's not looking, Tashi mouths back.
"I love you too."
And that's what matters because no one else needs to know that water and oil can mix.
↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer.
OR
Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.
↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.
↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance
word count: 4.9k
✩
"Excuse me, no smoking."
The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.
The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.
Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.
He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.
✩
Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting.
"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.
From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-
"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."
Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.
Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course.
After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.
✩
An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again.
"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it.
Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.
He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.
"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.
Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side.
But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...
The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match.
As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap.
Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—
Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night.
Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.
"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."
"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog.
The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.
Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?
"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.
"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.
Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink?
But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?
It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!
Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her.
Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?
He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.
Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it.
Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.
"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.
Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning.
Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.
"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically.
Her voice is too harmonious for his ears.
Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."
"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"
"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.
Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-
"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.
"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."
Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning.
"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.
"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"
He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."
For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.
"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."
She giggles.
"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.
Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus.
But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni.
She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.
Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.
Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."
Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"
"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.
Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates.
She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.
Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.
Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."
"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."
Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.
She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.
"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips.
His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline.
Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.
From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her.
Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink."
"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation.
Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson."
Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.
"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-
"I can drive you."
✩
The drive is around twenty-five minutes.
Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside.
"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.
Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."
"Did you do anything fun around the county?"
"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.
Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—
Red light.
When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say.
In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.
"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects.
A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."
A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.
"I don't think this is appropriate."
"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore."
It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—
Green light.
"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."
That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.
Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops.
It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.
Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.
And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.
She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him.
The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected.
Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.
Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips.
"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."
Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.
It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.
It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.
Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.
He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.
It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.
He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.
A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.
The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.
If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-
"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.
But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.
"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.
What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin, right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing.
"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy.
Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth.
As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts.
But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers.
In fact, the man has a whole wife.
"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless.
And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.
"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.
Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?
After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.
Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.
"...So?" she questions.
He remains silent.
"I don't have condoms."
"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.
The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.
Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.
"I can't. Sorry."
Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"
Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-
Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."
It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.
"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."
In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.
She had fucking slapped him.
With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.
"Hey, hold on..."
She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain.
But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.
"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut.
As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness.
