#mike is writing

[mil4nesa]

[artsbaby]

warnings: f!reader, cunnilingus, pussydrunk!art.

Art Donaldson. The man of the hour.

The same man that should have been ready by now. To attend the clubs gala that was being hosted in his honour. But how could he?

His hand holding your thigh apart. The other holding your hand in his. Placing feather light kisses on the back of your hand to your knuckles. The innocent kisses soon turn sinful as he turns his head to place the same soft attention on your clit.

You suck in a breath. Lips parted as you looked down at him, hand squeezing his till your fingertips were white. He looked satisfied, so satisfied.

His tongue flicking and gathering your arousal untill he swallowed it down like it's a treat. Taking your clit between his lips as he sucked, grazing his teeth softly against it. You let out a mewl. Head tilting back.

"Art— baby", you moaned. The sheets clinging to your skin as you arch your back. The room filled with whines and moans. Not just yours.

It didn't take long before Art was moaning against your cunt. Each lick and suck accompanied with a moan or whimper. As if the taste was something he craved more than his will to live.

If he could shove his face in your cunt and not be able to breathe, he'll gladly take that if it meant he could taste you for hours on end. Till his lips are numb and face drenched with spit and your arousal.

His tongue trailer down your folds as it settled on your entrance. His free hand spreading you open for him to look and fuck, he could look at her for hours.

He placed a kiss on your clit again, making you shut your eyes. Sharp intake of breath. Your hole clenched around nothing. Making him smile and bite his lips. "So greedy. . .", he muttered before licking a long stripe up again.

His tongue delving into your hole as far as he could. Moving the muscle like he knew he could. His nose pressed against your clit making your hips squirm.

You opened you eyes as you looked down at him. His eyes already on you. You clenched around his tongue. His brows furrowed, his eyes hazy. Like he could die right now and he'd swear that he could be the happiest man dying.

The room filled with the sinful noises of slurping, whines and muffled moans. Along with the ringing of his phone that demanded his presence at the party.

[therainscene]

I didn't start shipping Byler because I picked up on a few moments of chemistry and decided they'd make a cute couple -- I started off by absolutely refusing to entertain said moments as reciprocally queer until I ran into the ridiculous homophobia on the ST subreddit and decided to review Mike's character arc out of sheer gay spite.

Let me clarify: Spite isn't what made me change my mind about Mike. Spite just made me read a few Byler analyses and rewatch the show with an open mind because I didn't want to be like those pricks who would insult and censor queer fans for... [checks notes]... thinking something gay might happen in a TV show with gay people in it. I truly wasn't expecting a queer interpretation to fit Mike's arc anywhere near as well as the default interpretation -- but by the time I'd finished my rewatch, I was reeling from how much better it fit.

Cause that's the thing: Mike's queerness is pretty obvious once you look for it. The difficulty is in giving yourself permission to look.

-------------------

A question Bylers are often asked is "why would the show spend four seasons building up Milevn just to tear it down at the last minute for some unrealistic woke ship? Mike literally said he loves El!" And yeah, Mike's grand love confession at the end of S4 certainly seems like a triumphant pay-off to all that build-up... but I have a few questions of my own.

Firstly: why establish in no uncertain terms that feeling loved is the key to unlocking El's fullest potential against Vecna--

--only to undermine the power of Mike's longed-for confession by having it only be good enough to delay Vecna instead of defeat him? Yes, it's the penultimate season -- so why did Milevn's pay-off happen here instead of S5 where it could properly shine?

Secondly: why couldn't Milevn fix their relationship by themselves? Even if you believe that El commissioned the painting (she didn't) and that the feelings Will describes are truly hers (they aren't), it was still Will who had to perform this romantic gesture on her behalf, and it broke his heart to do so. Why hand this important work off to a third party? Why weave queer tragedy into the build-up towards a heterosexual pay-off that's supposed to feel triumphantly romantic?

Speaking of which: why undermine the intimacy of this scene by having Will hover behind Mike's shoulder the whole time? Couldn't they have asked Noah to take a few steps to the left for the sake of a better shot? Couldn't they have waited until after Milevn's big romantic moment to remind us for the millionth fucking time how sad Will is about it?

In my opinion, this scene and its four seasons of build-up make much more sense if you read them as three entwined character arcs about the trials of growing up in a suffocatingly heteronormative era: the gay kid who doesn't think he's entitled to a happy ending; the abused girl who thinks shallow romance with the first boy who's nice to her will make her feel normal; and the confused hero who hasn't figured out the solution yet.

For all the insistence that this show has to stick to "realistic" depictions of 80s queerness... it's hardly a realistic depiction of 80s straightness for Mike to score an awesome magical girlfriend, either. That's just nerdy wish-fulfillment, and common only as a trope in fiction.

So it's not unreasonable to suppose that Mike's true role in the Subverting 80s Tropes Show might be to represent the actually very realistic 80s experience of getting swept up in compulsory heterosexuality.

Think about it: Will's vulnerability to the horrors functions as a metaphor for being visibly gay in a world that despises gay people--

--whereas Mike's girlfriend quite literally has the power to protect him from monsters and homophobic bullies alike.

This doesn't mean Mike is callously using El, though. He learned the hard way in S1 that treating an innocent girl like a means to an end would only end up destroying her, and the guilt and fear of hurting her again has been weighing heavy on him ever since.

Comphet isn't about taking advantage of other people's feelings so you can pretend to be straight -- it's about deluding yourself into believing you're straight because queerness isn't an option you're allowed to consider.

Mike genuinely does love El and he genuinely does want to be an important part of her life -- so surely that means he wants to be her boyfriend, right? Twelve is perhaps a little young to know that yet... but surely there's gotta be something here that sets his feelings apart from how a friend or brother would feel?

Surely the reason he later finds himself struggling to say to her face that he loves her is because he's just an immature loser who needs to try harder to grow up and be the man this girl he adores deserves to have...?

...and certainly not because the guilt and fear of losing her just keeps piling up as the romantic instincts he thinks he's been waiting to grow into turn out to be developing at exactly the pace they're supposed to -- in the wrong direction.

That would be ridiculous. Will's his best friend. Yes, he loves him and can't bear to be without him, but that doesn't mean anything. Why can't a guy display a little unhinged devotion to his special friend without it having to mean something romantic?

Why can't he, indeed.

At his core, Mike is someone who desperately wants to be as special as the straight heroes in the nerdy media he loves. But there isn't anything inherently heroic about being some lame middle-class white nerd who's bad with girls, so he believes that the best he can do is to be a dutiful sidekick who would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat for people he perceives as more special than himself.

For all the "build-up" Mike's romance with El has enjoyed across four seasons, it's done absolutely nothing to help him grow as a character and overcome this self-worth problem.

So is it really any surprise that even after realizing El would be fine and still want to be friends with him if he told her the truth, and even after realizing just how good Will is at understanding his insecurities and reassuring him of his inherent worth--

--Mike would still sacrifice his chance at happiness for the sake of the greater good?

El was literally dying in his arms. How could queer desire possibly be as important as this girl who needed him to be a man and do his damn job so she could do hers?

I'm interpreting Mike as gay here, but I think it's important to note that this principle applies even if he's bi or straight -- Mike can be attracted to girls and still be forcing himself to stay in a relationship with a girl he's not a good romantic match for because that's just what he thinks he's supposed to do.

His sister had a similar problem: Nancy was legitimately attracted to Steve, but her infatuation with him was more about doing what cool teen girls are supposed do than about authentic connection. And because this is a horror story as much a coming-of-age story, Wheeler's conformity had horrendous consequences -- her critical-of-comphet bestie was killed by the horrors.

Which sounds familiar, doesn't it?

(Sure, Max technically didn't die -- but she still died enough for Vecna's plan to come to fruition. Which just brings us back to my first question: why couldn't the Power of Heterosexual Love prevent this? In the same season that said "forced conforming is what's killing the kids", no less?)

Will describes Vecna as an inevitability that won't stop until he's taken everyone -- which in my opinion is the same defeatist attitude demanded by comphet.

It's not that Mr. Refuses-To-Participate-In-Society's-Silly-Play symbolizes comphet itself, per se; rather, he represents the despair of feeling like you can't truly escape it. But either way, this means that the solution to defeating Vecna is the same solution to defeating comphet:

Giving yourself permission to look and see that your true self is far more valuable than whatever you think you're supposed to be.

[perfectfeelings]

People grow when they are loved well. If you want to help others heal, love them without an agenda.

Mike McHargue

[jordiemeow]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @elsieblogs @artstennisracket

[metamatronic]

Firstly, I love your au! Your art is amazing, and the premise lives rent-free in my head

Question: When after the fazbear frights fire when Mike added Will to the list of ghost-robot roommates, how did Liz and CC react to seeing their dad after three decades?

I assume probably tear-fueled reunion mixed with a lot of questions

Like, I assume Will figured out what happened to Liz from context clues (ghosts possess robots=Liz is circus baby), but Liz definitely didn't know what happened to Will (esp bc not even Mike knew about him being springtrap in your au) so she would probably be surprised to see her dad back as a robot bunny with a corpse in it

Well, This Is Awkward (pt. 1) {next}

It’s funny—As much as Michael complains that Lizzie was spoiled rotten as a kid, he’s a pretty bad enabler. Of course, he’s not above letting her dig herself into a hole, especially in front of their father.

[allsteddie]

Steve and Eddie secretly dating.

It's not that they don't want to tell their friends, or that they think their friends won't accept them. They just want to enjoy their relationship a little bit before sharing the news with everybody else. And it's kinda fun, sneaking around to make out behind their friends' backs. Thrilling, even.

But since everything must come to an end someday, their little secret comes out during one of the Party's countless gatherings.

Everybody's at Steve's, making good use of his pool and stuffing their faces with so much junk food Steve's getting a little nauseous just from watching. Robin and Eddie are there as well because there’s no fucking way in hell Steve’s gonna deal with those gremlins alone.

It’s chaos, mostly, since Eddie and Robin can be as bad as the kids, but Steve’s heart is full as he watches everybody having fun and truly enjoying themselves, a stark contrast to what their lives had been a year ago.

At some point, he catches Eddie’s eyes and notices the meaningful glance his boyfriend is giving him. Steve knows that look too well and exactly what it means. He tells Robin he’s going to the kitchen, then goes inside the house. Not two minutes later Eddie is there with him.

Steve pulls him into the laundry room, giggling and stumbling, so they can make out in peace. They lose themselves a little, mouths coming together and hands touching as much skin as they can reach. It’s easy for Steve, really, to forget everything else when Eddie’s nibbling down his neck and chest and grinding against him in a maddening way.

“The others are gonna hear you, baby,” Eddie whispers in his ear and just then Steve realizes he’s been making too much noise.

He pulls his boyfriend up for another deep kiss.

“We gotta go back,” Steve mumbles against his lips.

“We do,” Eddie agrees.

It still takes then a little while to part, though. When they do, they fix their clothes and hair the best they can. Eddie pulls the door open and makes sure there’s no one around before stepping out. Steve follows, making his way to the hallway.

The idea is for Eddie to go back out first, whilst Steve waits a few more minutes in the kitchen. Their plan goes to hell before they can even reach the kitchen, because the bathroom door opens out of nowhere just as they are walking by and the two of them stop, caught by surprise.

They’re even more surprised when they see Mike fucking Wheeler and Will Byers walk out of the bathroom, still grinning at each other all dopey and completely unaware of Steve and Eddie’s presence. At least until Wheeler literally walks into Eddie.

“The fuck!?” Mike snaps, at the same time as Steve says, “What the hell were two you doing there?”

“Kinda obvious what they were doing, Stevie,” Eddie snorts.

And he’s right. Steve knows what those two were doing; their lips are too swollen and there’s a scratch down Wheeler’s neck that looks too much like nail scratching for Steve not to know what those two were doing in his fucking bathroom, but he’s choosing to be in denial here. They are children, his children, he doesn’t want to picture whatever it was happening in that bathroom.

“You’re one to talk,” Mike retorts, eyebrows raised and sending Eddie the bitchiest face Steve has ever seen. “What’s wrong with your collarbone, Stevie? Wild animal attack?”

“Mike, shut up,” Will begged, pulling the other boy by the arm.

“But it’s true!”

“Okay, Will is right, shut the fuck up everybody!” Steve hisses. Beside him Eddie is clearly trying not to laugh, but he doesn’t say anything so Steve considers it a win. Small victories. He shoots a warning glance to his boyfriend before facing the other two. Poor Will looks like he wants to be anywhere but there. “Look, I don’t care what you guys were doing, good for you. But I’m guessing you haven’t told anyone about it, if you’re sneaking around like that.”

They keep quiet, but Byers red face is answer enough for Steve.

“Alright, we also haven’t told anyone, so here’s what we’re doing…”

By the time they are out back with their friends, everything is back to normal. Steve’s hickeys are covered by his shirt and Mikey’s scratches are hidden under band-aids, some bullshit story about bumping into the murderous corner of a cabinet is given as an excuse and, surprisingly enough, the kids buy it.

“You know, we should have seen that one coming,” Eddie says, pointing out to the other side of the pool where Will and Mike are laughing together, apart from the others. They have the same dopey expressions they did when Steve and Eddie caught them red-handed a few minutes ago.

“Yeah, we should have,” Steve agrees. He bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s. “You know Wheeler is gonna be insufferable now that he knows about us, right? He’s gonna hold this shit over our heads forever.”

Eddie laughs hard. “That kid is a bitch when he wants to be, but he’s not cruel. He might try to use this to get free rides to school or access to R-rated movies, but I doubt he’s gonna tell anyone. Byers would kill him if he said anything and poor Mike is whipped. He’s not gonna risk it.”

“I am not letting him get any R-rated movies. He can tell whatever he wants to whoever he wants, I don’t care.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Eddie scoots closer, eyes shining with amusement as he leans in. “Thought you wanted to keep the secret for a little longer.”

Steve leans in a little, his eyes dropping to Eddie’s mouth on instinct. “Hm… I did, because it’s fun sneaking around and fool everyone. But now Wheeler and Byers know, so I don’t see what would be the point anymore.”

Eddie smiles. “Yeah? So I can…”

“Yeah, you can,” Steve nods, and that’s everything he manages to say before Eddie kisses him, right there by the poolside.

Someone wolf-whistles (Max or Robin, probably), there’re some giggles (Erica and El, maybe Will too, Steve bets) and then…

“What the actual FUCK!?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dustin!!” That one is Wheeler for sure.

Steve might let him have his R-rated movies after all.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Mike: *disbelief* You slept with our dungeon master?

It wasn't the fact that they were two dudes that bothered Mike, but the fact that it was Steve Harrington who slept with their dungeon master.

Steve: Keep up that tone, asshole, and I'll get your precious dungeon master pregnant just to piss you off.

Eddie: *leaning towards Mike* There's 50 bucks in it for you if you make your tone worse.

Mike: You can't get -

Eddie: There's another dimension under Hawkins. It's baffling the things that you can't believe in, but you can believe in that. You need to be a little open-minded, Wheeler.

Mike: 🤨

Dustin: I call dibs on godfather! Ha!

Mike: Bullshit! You can't call dibs!

Steve: *watching them argue* This could have gone worse.

Eddie: *grinning* Still could.

[loveletterworm]

Here is my painfully forced meta joke, for this morning

[witchesroad]

whatever you do, DON’T think about josh waking up the morning after the prank and everyone being cagey and indirect about where his sisters are. everyone keeps telling him “it was a joke,” but he can’t piece together the story in a way that makes sense.

sam and mike are nearly frostbitten from how long they spent searching in the snow. chris got his information from ashley, who bit her nails down to the beds overnight. the others could barely look him in the eye. josh can’t figure out if his headache is related to the hangover or the idea of his sisters, humiliated and alone, lost somewhere on the mountain without him.

and where was he when they needed him? drunk, passed out? the last thing he remembers is a hazy glimpse of his baby sisters dragging him to the same couch where he awoke 10 hours later. he sees their faces but the edges of the memory are blurred and undefined. the sound of their voices and laughter is already fading away and running through his fingers like sand. all that’s left is the howling of the wind.

[tacobacoyeet]

hair | art donaldson x reader

a/n: this is not rpf guys i promise this is about art donaldson haha i would never even think about rpf ahahah ahaha ha okay

warnings: SMUT 18+, this was just an excuse for me to write about hair pulling. literally the premise of this entire thing. retired!art x younger!reader, semi-public ish, not proofread at all sorry, horny hours in tacobacotown

The party had spilled out onto the upper deck long before sunset, golden hour stretched across expensive suits and sequined gowns. The yacht was all gleaming white metal and polished teak, railings slick with sea spray and champagne flutes perched carelessly on every ledge. Beneath your heels, the deck vibrated faintly with the low hum of the engine, just enough to feel in your bones.

Above, strings of golden lights swayed gently in the breeze, catching on wind-tousled hair and casting halos around the guests. Laughter rang out sharp and shrill, half-drowned by music pulsing from hidden speakers. Somewhere, someone was smoking a cigar. Somewhere else, a deal was being made over oysters.

And Art Donaldson stood dead center in it all—older, broader, built like he’d never retired. He looked like he belonged to the yacht more than any guest did, like the kind of man who didn’t just charter boats—he owned them. The kind of man who’d carved out a whole life after fame and filled it with quiet, unapologetic control. Grey threaded through the edges of his beard, sun caught in the lines around his eyes. His shirt clung to his chest, open enough to flash dark hair and collarbones that could still break hearts.

He looked like a man. And you? You looked like trouble—and everyone knew it.

You were younger. Noticeably. Dressed in something short and slinky, heels biting into the deck, champagne glass sweating in your hand. You were the kind of girlfriend men whispered about and women appraised. But Art didn’t treat you like a trophy. He didn’t show you off like a status symbol.

He just looked at you. He didn't have to keep you on his arm to know you wouldn't leave him.

And you were watching him right back.

You’d barely touched your champagne. Your gaze kept drifting.

Art looked like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad—curls tousled from the breeze, his striped Dior shirt half-unbuttoned, clinging to his chest in the humidity. You could see just enough to know there was hair beneath, curling dark and soft. His sleeves were rolled. His jaw was set. He wasn’t even trying to look good. He just was.

Every time your eyes caught, something twisted low in your stomach.

He watched you with a kind of smug awareness, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he could feel the heat building between your thighs from halfway across the deck.

At one point, he ran a hand through his curls, jaw flexing under golden light—and you clenched your champagne flute so tight you almost cracked it.

You excused yourself a few minutes later, murmuring something about fresh air. You didn’t even have to look over your shoulder to know he was following. You could feel him.

He caught up to you halfway down the stairs, hand warm against the small of your back, voice pitched low beside your ear: “Couldn’t stop staring, could you?”

“You were the one making a show of it,” you shot back, your voice tight, breath short.

His smirk was criminal. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, rough and quiet, and steered you down the hallway. Past a door. Another. Then another. Until the lights dimmed and you were far enough below deck that the sounds of the party dissolved. The corridor below deck was dark and narrow, lit only by the spill of warm light from above and the faint sound of waves knocking against the hull.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, dress bunched at your hips, thighs parted, breath snagging in your throat.

Art dropped to his knees. His hands slid under your dress, gripping your thighs with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He pushed one leg up and over his shoulder, crowding close, and looked at you like a man starving.

Then he buried his face in your pussy.

There was nothing tentative about it—just heat, tongue, and hunger. He licked you open like it was instinct, like he’d been thinking about this all night. His tongue dragged through your folds with slow, possessive pressure, then circled back to your clit, where he sucked gently—then harder—like he wanted to coax every sound out of your mouth.

You didn’t even notice when he pulled your panties off. You just remember how you felt the absence, and then, a flicker of movement—a balled scrap of lace tucked into his shirt pocket like a trophy.

He groaned the moment he tasted you, low and filthy, the sound vibrating through your cunt and into your spine. His beard scraped along your skin with every movement, raw and electric, each stroke rougher than the last. You could already feel the burn setting in. It made you tremble.

He looked up once, eyes hooded and dark, curls already sticking to his forehead with sweat. And then he dove back in—messier now, sloppier, tongue moving in fast, practiced motions, mouth hot and greedy.

When you whimpered and grabbed his hair, he moaned again. Like he liked being held there. Like he wanted you to control it. That shirt—the one half-unbuttoned upstairs—was plastered to his back now, damp with heat. His curls were already damp with sweat. His tongue was relentless.

You gasped as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Moaned as he flattened his tongue and dragged it slow. Everything in your body arched. Tightened.

You tugged his curls. Softly at first—just enough to get his attention, to remind him you were still in control. His groan vibrated through you, needy and thick.

You grinned and tightened your grip, nails scraping against his scalp.

“Yeah?” you panted. “You like that?”

He moaned in answer, knees shifting against the floor, rutting the air like he couldn’t help himself.

“Of course you do,” you rasped. “Look at you—so fucking good with your mouth, and all it takes is a little tug to make you whimper.”

And then you yanked.

His hips jerked. A choked, high whimper escaped him—sharp, sudden, raw.

You held him there, heel digging into his back, cunt flush against his mouth as he moaned and licked and gasped.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you hissed. “You want to be good for me? Then prove it.”

He moaned again—needy, desperate—and dove back in like he’d never even considered doing otherwise. You were going to come. You were seconds away. Your thighs were shaking. The wall wasn’t enough to hold you up.

And then—he pulled away.

You cried out, frustration sharp and wet in your voice.

He stood slowly, smug and wrecked and flushed, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, rough and pleased. “You’ll thank me.”

Then he leaned in close. Too close. His hand found your hair. His fingers sifted through the strands with care that made your knees weak. He plucked a single bobby pin from behind your ear.

Not one that held your whole style. Just one. Deliberate. Gentle.

“You don’t need all of them,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your temple.

It should’ve pissed you off. Instead, your thighs clenched together.

He crouched in front of a nearby cabin door. Worked with clean, practiced precision, curls falling into his face, sweat beading at his temple.

“Are you seriously picking a lock right now?” you asked, dazed.

“Patrick taught me,” he said, focused. “Thought it was the dumbest party trick I’d ever seen—until now.”

The lock clicked.

You didn’t wait. You grabbed his wrist, shoved him inside, and kicked the door shut behind you.

Then you shoved him down onto the bed.

The second his back hit the mattress, you were on top of him—hands on his chest, tongue already dragging across the damp skin between the open panels of his shirt. You licked through the chest hair, up to the sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat, greedy like you couldn’t get enough.

“Taking your sweet time, Donaldson,” you muttered, voice wrecked. “Let’s see how smug you are when I’m on top.”

He moaned—actual, helpless moan—and his hands gripped your thighs as you straddled him, grinding down against the bulge in his slacks.

You tore at the buttons of his shirt, yanked it open, bit into his shoulder as he groaned beneath you. You reached between your bodies, pulled his cock free—thick, flushed, leaking—and slid down onto it with a noise so guttural it echoed.

You rode him like a grudge.

Every thrust was a punishment. Every slap of skin, a reward. Sweat smeared between you, his chest hair damp beneath your palms. He gasped under you, hands scrambling for purchase, his mouth falling open with every drag of your hips.

You tangled your fingers in his curls again.

Then you pulled.

He bucked. Moaned. Whimpered.

“You sound so sweet when I hurt you,” you rasped. “Such a fucking man, and still so easy to ruin.”

“Please,” he gasped. “Please don’t stop. Fuck—please, baby—”

You leaned down, breath hot on his neck. “Beg me.”

“I am,” he panted, eyes wild. “Please, I need it. Need you—please—”

But your thighs were trembling. Your rhythm broke. You were close, and it was slipping through your fingers.

He felt it.

He grinned, a glint of mischief behind the sweat and wreckage. “You’re so cute,” he murmured.

Then he flipped you.

Pinned you beneath him, heavy and hot and still inside you. He didn’t hesitate—just started fucking you hard, deep, with a pace that felt like it rattled your bones. The slap of skin on skin was relentless, echoing off the narrow walls with every thrust. The headboard slammed into the wall behind you again and again, rhythmic and brutal, matching the sharp creak of the mattress beneath.

He grinned down at you, breath heaving, lips slick with sweat. “Too big for your britches, huh?” he panted, fucking into you harder. “You ride me like you’ve got something to prove, then fall apart the second you actually seem to be taking it.”

Your mouth opened—but no sound came out.

He watched you unravel, one hand gripping your thigh high against his ribs, the other sliding up to your face. His fingers pressed to your lips. Then into your mouth. Two of them, wet and rough, pressing down on your tongue while he fucked the air out of your lungs. “All bark,” he whispered, “and not a single word now.”

You moaned around his fingers.

He leaned in closer, curls sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your collarbone. His hips never slowed. The pressure was unrelenting, merciless, filthy.

And then he pulled his fingers from your mouth, slick and hot, and brought them straight to your clit.

You cried out—loud, desperate, wrecked.

Art smirked. “Shh,” he murmured, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your thighs shake. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Don’t want the whole boat knowing how good I’m fucking you.”

But his fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they got rougher. Meaner. Working your clit like he wanted you to scream. Like he wanted everyone to hear.

“You’re not making this easy,” you choked.

“That’s the point,” he rasped, still fucking into you. “You’re so fucking loud when you’re close. And I love it.”

Your attempts to listen to him are futile, too lost in the pleasure to do anything but whine and writhe beneath his ministrations.

“You just need someone to take care of you, huh?” he murmured with mock sweetness, pressing his hips even deeper, making you cry out around his fingers. “Little thing like you, playing at being in charge... but you want a good man to fuck you properly, don’t you?”

His thrusts hit deeper, rougher, shaking the headboard against the wall again. “I’m a gentleman, baby. You know that. I open your doors, I order your drinks, I pull your chair out. But when I fuck you—” he moaned as you clenched around him, “—I give you what you really need. What no boy ever could.”

He smiled down at you, sweet and filthy. “You just have to ask. I know you love it. Getting fucked dumb by someone who knows exactly what you need.”

Your body spasmed—too much, not enough. Everything at once.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Be good. Let go for me.”

You came with a stuttered sob, walls clenching hard around him, whole body trembling. He groaned deep, voice breaking as he followed—thrusting through it, pushing as deep as he could get, cock twitching as he spilled inside you.

And even then, you didn’t let go of his hair.

Not for a second.

He collapsed over you, breath heavy against your throat, chest heaving. For a few moments, the only sounds were the creak of the bed, the distant churn of waves against the hull, and the twin heartbeats thundering in your ears.

You trailed your fingers through the curls at his nape—now damp and thoroughly wrecked. “You whimper when I tug your hair,” you murmured, teasing, breath still shaky from aftershocks. “And you begged, Art. Thought you were supposed to be in charge.”

He laughed—low, rough, unbothered—as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “I am,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love letting you ruin me a little.”

You raised a brow. “Sure didn’t sound like it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, grinning. “Doesn’t take away from the fact that I’m still the one holding your legs open and finishing you off when it really counts, does it?”

You flushed—scoffed—then let him pull you closer, chest hair warm under your cheek. “But you like when I run the show, don’t you?” you added, voice a little smug.

His response was immediate. “Fuck yes, I do. I love it when you get mean. Love when you ride me like you own me. I’d let you do it every damn night if it meant I got to watch you fall apart on top of me. I’m yours. Always. Just don’t expect me to stop flipping you over when you need it.”

You snicker into him, his unashamed admission filling you with warmth. There's a beat.

Then, softer, he speaks up again: “You okay?”

You nodded, already sinking into the warmth of him. “You?”

“I’m perfect.” He shifted to the side, pulling you into his chest, arm curling protectively around your waist. “But I should clean you up. Gentleman, remember?”

You hummed, cheek pressed to his damp chest hair. “Later. Just stay here a minute.”

“Anything you want,” he whispered, already kissing your hair.

-----

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[thoughtkick]

People grow when they are loved well. If you want to help others heal, love them without an agenda.

Mike McHargue

[musingsofheaven]

THAT QUIET THING.

dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

nsfw. age gap. vibrator use. voyeurism-adjacent. ♡

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep right after he finishes. Of course not. Not every time. He’s not that kind of asshole. But he still does it.

But it’s not because he’s not interested, because he is very much so, it’s also not because he doesn’t care about your pleasure! He’s just… just because he’s exhausted. Between flights, matches, press, rehab, sponsors, events, and other things come with being a player, and the fact that his body doesn’t bounce back as it used to. So he gives you what he can. And most nights, that’s a few minutes of messy make-out, one hand between your thighs, a low groan against your neck, and the quiet relief of coming deep inside you before his body gives out.

He tells you it’s good, because it is. You feel good. You do. He enjoys it. So much. He says that you’re perfect. That he needs you.

And maybe he thinks that’s enough.

But you’re younger than him. You don’t say it, but you are. You are young enough to keep your hands busy when he feels still from tennis and everything he did for the day. Young enough that your body keeps hot long after his breathing evens out beside you. Young enough to start hiding a vibrator in your pouch when you realize this is just how it’s going to be… a quick, quiet, and over before you get close.

It’s not bitterness. Not at first. You are not mad at him. You understand it. You are aware of his career and his age. It just needs. Quiet and embarrassing and yours alone. So when he gets comfortable in wonderland each night, breathing deep and heavy with sleep, you slip out of bed, cross the hotel carpet barefoot and tiptoeing so you won’t wake him, and lock yourself in the bathroom with your face pressed to your forearm and your hips grinding into the tile.

The toy is small. Quiet. Sleek. Something you can bite your lip around. Something that doesn’t need electricity or heavy batteries. Something that is not heavy. Something that won’t get confiscated at airports. Something he doesn’t need to know about.

You don’t use it every night. Just the ones where it’s worse. Not worse worse. Maybe when you're really there, something is missing. Clue: your orgasm. Where you can still feel the ache of being full without the part where you fall apart. Where your panties stick wet to your thighs after he’s already asleep.

Tonight, it’s like that.

He came fast. Kissed your neck. Fell asleep face down with one arm slung over your waist and his breath slow against your shoulder. You lay there long enough to count it. Long enough to feel the minutes tick by while your body stayed bothered, and feel the itch that needs to be scratched. Long enough to know he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Where you can be comfortable and get up from the bed.

So you left. Just like you always do.

Face down on the bathroom floor. Phone screen dim. Porn on low volume. Toy between your thighs, buzzing soft against your clit. One hand is placed on your mouth to shut you up. One hand wrapped around the end of the toy. Breathing hard into your arm like that might make it quieter. And then-

You hear the floorboard creak. Then the knock. It’s not even a knock- it’s just the click of the handle turning. The door opening.

The bathroom light spills into the hall as he opens the door. You look up too slowly. You feel your cheeks burning up. You can’t even hide it.

Art stands there, in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, brow furrowed. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of a water bottle he didn’t even get to drink.

His eyes drop to the floor. The phone is still playing. To the tiny pink vibe glistening between your legs. To you. To your body. How ridiculous it looked how you are positioned. Frozen. Red-faced. Dripping.

His mouth doesn’t move. Not at first. He’s just quiet, calculated. He’s always like that. You couldn’t even figure him out sometimes. He just exhales slowly through his nose and leans against the doorframe like his body’s figuring out how to hold back every single thing he’s thinking.

Then, without looking away: “That for me, or for someone else?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer. You can’t. The toy’s still on, though. It’s still buzzing between your clit. You’re still shaking.

And he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t ask again. Just watches you for another beat- eyes trailing from your bitten wrist to the slick mess under you- and then says, “You do this every time I fall asleep?”

You shake your head, fast. Too nervous. “No- I mean, not- Art, I didn’t- ”

“You finish like this?” he cuts in. Calm. Flat. Too calm. Curious. Not mad. Just want to hear from you. “Face down on the floor while I’m sleeping ten feet away?” It’s worse because his words have a bite, but it’s not even mean.

You shut your eyes. You want to disappear. You want him to touch you. You want him to leave. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even blink.

He steps forward slowly and kneels beside you. His hand reaches down, curls around your wrist, and presses the toy deeper- not fast, not cruel, just firm. He moves it up and down slowly and precisely, just to earn your reaction.

“Show me,” he says, voice low. “How do you do it?”

You blink up at him, stunned. He’s hard. You can see it now, through the thin fabric of his boxers, the way he breathes like he’s not proud of it, like it hurts him to be turned on by this.

But he doesn’t stop. “Continue until you come for me,” he says, voice rough. “Or for the fucking screen. I don’t care which. I just want to see.”

Your stomach flips. You nod once. And you grind down again- slow, shaky, face hot, mouth open as you start to unravel. You do it like the way you always do it. The difference this time is you are wetter because he’s here.

He holds the toy there, tight, watching every twitch, every sound, every breath you tried to bury for weeks.

And he's still staring when you finally fall apart- shaking, soaked, tears caught in your lashes. Still hard. Still mad. Still calm.

“Next time,” he says, letting go, “you don’t sneak around to get off.”

You nod again. “You wake me up and tell me about it.”

And then, after a long pause, one more: “You’re mine. That means I finish you, too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[paladinsbrainrot]

byler as jackieshauna in my yellowjackets au 🐝 🐅 details under the cut!

their history:

mike and will have been childhood best friends since they were five. they've gone through everything together — the good, the bad, and the ugly. they get each other on a level that no one else does, which is a blessing, but also — sometimes — a curse.

mike's always been very insecure of himself, self-conscious of his looks, talents, skills, and confidence. will's everything that mike wishes he was: good-looking, popular, team captain, kind, out. mike truly cares about will, but he's always held a hidden resentment against him. he's jealous of the fact that will's so outwardly himself, proudly feigning the confidence that mike lacks.

while will would never actually admit this to himself, he's always had a sort of mini-crush on mike. it's easy to fall in love when your best friend takes care of you so well. it's 1996, and while the world's not exactly the kindest, he's happy to find himself out as gay to a supportive and incredibly loving family.

mike starts dating el hopper, the brightest and most popular girl in school, in the spring semester of freshman year. in some ways, he hopes that by dating her, he'll gain some newfound confidence. instead, it brings heaps of self-doubt and pessimism as the two find themselves breaking up and getting back together more times than they can count.

frustrated after one of he and el's many break-ups, mike finds himself in will's car one afternoon after soccer practice. will attempts to cheer mike up by boasting about mike's own achievements and kind-hearted personality, saying how the right girl won't be able to pass him up like that. it's then when mike kisses him, straight out of the blue, and will can't help but reciprocate.

pre-crash:

mike treats will and el as their own separate entities, people who he can't mix on any occasion. he spends most of his days kissing el to at least assume some normalcy, and to prove to his parents that he's the respectable boy they've made him out to be. when he's with el, he convinces himself he and will are nothing but childhood best friends, and that there's nothing going on between them. in his downtime, when practice runs late and el's already reported home for curfew, he kisses will like his life depends on it.

mike's worst fear comes true during senior year when will and el tell him their parents are getting married, meaning the two will become step-siblings. it's then when will decides to call it quits. he can't keep doing this with mike if el's going to be his sister in less than a year. no matter how much they enjoy their late-night make-out sessions, it's not fair to her.

mike agrees, albeit reluctantly. there's something about will that el can't give him. it's an apt hunger, running deep through his veins. mike and will spend the rest of the year as friends, with at least two feet of distance between the two of them. but mike would be lying if he said he didn't think of will whenever he kissed el, imagined his lips instead of hers, his hands in his hair. he's now not only jealous of will's confidence, but the fact that he can be proudly gay without an ounce of shame for it.

when the tigers make it to nationals, they all attend the celebration party. mike offers to drive el and will home, who are both clearly wasted. after mike drives el home for her early curfew, he's suddenly overcome with a hunger he's never felt before. mike is instantly compelled to pull over. despite vowing to never do this again, mike can't help the part of him that's starved of will's presence, that wants a final taste of will before he's forbidden. he explains this in due time to will, who, to mike's surprise, can't resist the urge. they share what they think will be their last kiss the day before nationals in the back of mike wheeler's rover.

post-crash:

when flight 2525 crashes in the middle of the canadian wilderness, mike finds himself in a strange position. on one hand, he's stranded in the middle of nowhere with no parents or peers to judge him, with complete, unabashed freedom. on the other, he's stranded with will and el in the same, sequestered space, and he's not sure he's able to handle the two of them at once. it's only a matter of time before el finds out, and mike can't resist the deepest desires of his heart now that he's got will all to himself....

I could not resist the urge to mash two of my favourite shows together so here's what I have come up with! I am planning to draw most of the other characters and write their backstories and plot in this au as well, so keep your eyes peeled for when I eventually get to that. I convinced myself that I would write a fic for this au but ultimately could not as I am not confident enough in my writing abilities as of yet plus it would be an absolutely insane and lengthy project that I'm not sure I'm up for/would finish. I've decided to commit to drawing everyone instead and writing up small drabbles of how I think they would interact in this world so... there's that! I will obviously not be writing the entire au, but I do have LOTS of ideas for what could happen, so please feel free to send an ask if you have any questions ! :)

keep in mind this is just how I would personally go about the characters if they were put in this universe. mike obviously takes inspiration from shauna, and will obviously takes inspiration from jackie, but don't think that their entire story will be exclusively taken from these characters. will is much more similar to shauna than jackie personality wise, and likewise with mike and jackie, but narratively he and jackie both serve the same functions. do take this with a grain of salt as I also had to mesh their canon personalities with the respective character roles they're taking on so... I hope I did it well!

additionally, I just want to put it on the record that jackie and shauna are extremely complex characters, who are not wholly good or bad. in order for mike and will to reflect jackie and shauna's relationship dynamic, I wanted to incorporate the cheating plot. I know cheating is a very taboo topic in the stranger things fandom because in canon mike and will would never do such a thing, however, in this au, mike and will are not going to the 'saint-like' figures we often see them portrayed as in this fandom. they're not wholly bad, but they have flaws, which make them and jackieshauna super interesting characters. I also just really wanted to explore a kind of toxic relationship with byler because It's just interesting to me okay!!!! Idk!!!! don't send the pitchforks after me.

so yes... if we are comparing will's function in the narrative to jackie's he does have to die unfortunately. but I also have lotttsss of new ideas about how will gets to this point and how mike chooses to deal with it after 👀

[jordiemeow]

Thinking about being Dilf!Art's free use girlfriend🤤🤤

no bc this is sooo. yeah to me like him just coming home after getting his ass chewed out at practice n you're just so willing to let him do whatever agrhedffjkdsjf

warnings: 18+ smut (p in v), dom!art, f!receiving oral/fingering, free use mentions/mild degradation but not much dialogue

When Art is tense, there's only one thing that really calms him down: sex.

Any form of it, really—whether it's just heavy petting that ends with his boxers warm and damp, a blowjob, or him having you bent right over the kitchen counter in the middle of cooking dinner. At first, he used to whine and groan about it until you relented, but over time you've realised it's just not worth it. It's why you don't even bother wearing panties at home any more; he'll always find an excuse to get them off.

"Hi, baby," you coo as the door clicks shut behind him. You catch a glimpse of his tense shoulders through the open door, his bag dumped alongside a racket that looks like it's seen better days. Frayed strings, the head of the racket crumpled in on itself. You can practically hear the way it must have rang out against the court.

Rough day. Your thighs give an anticipatory clench.

He mutters a cursory greeting under his breath, shoes kicked off before he pads across the living room to join you. Not on the sofa, though—on his knees, palms resting on your own to part them.

In one breath he's kissing up one thigh, then the other, a little rougher each time. It feels like he's getting some frustration out, as if he can work the tension right out of his arms while he holds you open. To fill the hole where his sour mood used to be with just the taste of your sweet cunt.

Impatient fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your thighs until they fall to the floor. He has the grace to help your ankles out of them, at least.

Art’s breath fans out over you in soft, warm bursts before he's even made contact. "So fuckin' pretty, babe. Waiting around like this just for me." You'd laugh about the first words he's said to you since 6am this morning being about how beautiful your pussy is if your breathing hadn't quickened in excitement.

His tongue presses flat against you, lapping up whatever mess it finds. You’ve been wet since you saw that battered racket upon his entry. He makes a low groan of satisfaction when you sigh softly at the feeling of his warm tongue. By the time the tip of his tongue flicks over your clit, you know his mood is already shifting. He always starts so desperate, licking messy and deep like he's trying to prove a point (if there's one thing that can absolve the feeling of self-loathing after a bad practice, it's making you feel good), but his hands slowly ease on your thighs as he settles into it. His mouth gets a little softer, a little more determined.

The tip flicks over your clit, coaxing it to swell. Just like that, he's relaxing into it.

You reach down and start to scratch at his scalp, fingernails dragging across it. It's just long enough to grip in your fist, and you pull on it to earn an approving hum. His shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him—you can feel it in the way he grips your legs, the way he runs his tongue around your clit with relish.

"Taste so good," he tells you, words breathed into your heat. "You always taste so good."

When he pauses to take a breath, his fingers push between his own lips to coat with a layer of saliva. He runs the two of them over your swollen bud, just enough to make you inhale sharply. If you weren't already worked up, that would have done the trick. His eyes flick up to catch your own, pools of blue studying the way your jaw slackens and your brows peak when his fingers slide into you.

You clench instinctively, and he tuts in warning, fingers crooking cruelly in a way that has you whimpering out apologies. Your eyes are too heavy to catch the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at that reaction. Bingo, you're in for it now.

The first few slow slides of his digits in and out of your tight cunt seem to be perfunctory. After that, he's really going at it. Fingers scissoring and thrusting, curling up against that spot that has your eyes rolling back and moans of his name spilling past your pretty lips. One hand still nestled in his cropped blonde hair while the other grips at the cushion next to you for dear life as he drinks in the way you fall apart around his fingers.

He's clearly enjoying himself at this point, chipping in with the occasional low "right there?" or "someone's desperate today." He can play your body like a fiddle at this point—a curve of his fingers here, a brush of his thumb there. He's even memorised the pitch of your whines to know when you're achingly close, walls fluttering around him as your peak nears.

He pulls away from you, fingers sliding free with a whine of complaint from you, and your hands reach to tangle in his hair to pull him back before he's even had the chance to stand. His knees are burning, but he ignores the pinch of the rug underneath as he pushes himself up.

His hands catch in your hair to yank your head back, forcing you to look right up at him where he's looming over you.

"Need me that bad?"

Your words feel stuck in your throat and he tsks softly at the way your mouth only falls open soundlessly, the grip in your hair preventing you from moving.

"Tongue-tied, huh? All that talk last night just to get you like this." He grins down at you, a flash of white teeth caught between his lips, still shining with your essence. "You know we could just go through the list until you find your voice back."

His hand releases your hair to reach between you. When you can think clearly again, you can't tell if you're grateful, or if you miss the painful prickle of your roots. But you're definitely thankful when his fingers are back between your legs—a reward, of sorts. You let out a low sigh when he brushes against your clit and he groans in acknowledgement, like he's just reminded himself of how wet you are.

"Oh, I think I know where the list should begin."

The pads of his fingers run in a slow circle over your clit, as if the only thing he's interested in the world is how much he can make you squirm. It seems like now, with some of that initial tension drained, he has no qualms with making you suffer. Your fingers dig into the couch instead of reaching for him again, nails digging into the fabric. You can only watch up through your lashes; it’s a lovely sight, his head tilted downwards to look at your body, eyes dark and a look of concentration on his face.

He looks down at you the same way he looks at his opponents' during matches; analysing the way your knees twitch towards each other. Like you're just another opponent to get the upper hand against.

Another hum, like he’s thinking, and then—

Hands on your hips, he turns you around until you’re facing away from him and shoved up onto the couch. You brace yourself on your knees, but he doesn't wait for you to find your footing before one hand is pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down with a hand between your shoulder blades—back arched beautifully, cheek pressed into the fabric, cunt dripping with anticipation

Art’s other hand pushes at the waistband of his shorts, boxers dipping down with him to pool at his ankles to free his aching cock. The couch dips under the weight of you both when his knees hit the cushion.

"Fuck. Just like that. I need—" He inhales sharply, hard length pressed against the back of one of your thighs. "I need to be inside you.”

He takes himself in hand and leans over you, free hand on the back of the chair.

"You need this too, right?" He murmurs, low and rough in your ear. His eyes are a little glassy, still hazy with a day's worth of frustration. "Been thinking about you all day."

You moan your affirmation into the cushion.

“Be a good girl and use your words for me.”

“Y-yeah. Need it. Need you.”

Good enough for him. When you finally feel him sink into you—slick, hard, thick—your legs almost buckle beneath you. All you can do is curse out a series of profanities that would make a sailor blush when you feel that familiar stretch as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against your ass.

“Say it one more time for me,” he instructs, hand sliding down your clothed spine until it finds your hip again.

You’re barely coherent enough to register that, but you manage a, “I need you, Art.” Breathy and weak, no more than a mewl.

He withdraws then, tip still pressed into you, before sinking in again. A punishing rhythm right from the get go, enough to have your couch rocking dangerously beneath you every time he snaps into you. Skin on skin, your moans reaching new octaves to harmonise with his grunts of effort as his cock drives into you.

Relentless, precise, deliberate.

And you’re content enough to just let him use you like this. An outlet for all that stress.

“You get off on this, huh?” He rasps in your ear. “Just sitting around waiting until I’ve had a bad day?”

You moan something that vaguely resembles a slurred “yes” into the cushion, senses clouding entirely by the brutal onslaught of pleasure when the hand on your hip slides down to rub at your clit.

“There’s my girl. Always so eager to be of use.”

The praise is condescending but it makes you clench around him nonetheless. You love when he gets like this—just a little bit mean, using the way your bodies collide together to relieve his tension.

Everything he moans into your ear blurs together after a while.

“So fucking tight. How’s a man supposed to be angry when he comes home to this?”

“Fuck, you were made for this. Perfect little slut for me.”

“Just you lay there and take it. That’s right. Atta girl.”

You think you reply, but all he can make out is senseless babble into the pillow your face is half-pressed into. He still has a hand between your shoulder blades to hold you in place while his fingers, coated in your slick, continue to circle mercilessly at your aching clit.

He can tell by the way your walls flutter around him that you're close, knuckles curled into a death-white grip on the back of the sofa. He doesn't have it in him to make you beg—not when his own orgasm is so close. His place slows down a little. Slow, deep, tip nudging that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. The deliberate drag is enough to push you over the edge with a cry of his name.

Art groans in satisfaction. "Fuck. That's what I wanted. That's it."

He fucks you through the intense wave of pleasure, fingers finally stilling to grip your hips again. Another few sloppy thrusts and it's impossibly not to cum with how your cunt is gripping him just right.

His moan is guttural right by your ear. Inhumane, even, as he rocks into you to prolong his pleasure, spilling into you until your thighs are sticky. The pair of you stay there for a while. You still arched forward, panting into the pillow. Art massaging your hips, murmuring words you can't quite make out into the back of your shoulder. It's almost comedic the way his own shoulders have relaxed since he first sunk into you.

"Can you move? My knees are killing me," you manage eventually, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder over your shirt.

"Yeah, sorry."

It's the same way he says 'sorry' to the chair umpire when he smashes his racket against the ground—a quick apology, a flash of an almost-there smile. You know there's no remorse behind it at all. Not when he gets to see you so thoroughly wrecked and he's too blissed out to remember why he'd came home in such a mood in the first place.

He pulls out of you (and takes a moment to admire the way you look with your back arched and your cunt dripping with his release), and then helps ease you up.

"Wanna talk about it?" You ask, voice still wrecked as his arms circle around you and a kiss is planted to the top of your head.

"No need. I feel better."

You can feel him smiling against you as he gives your middle a light squeeze. All you can do is roll your eyes fondly and usher him off to fetch something for the mess between your thighs.

—

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[ophliee]

Quick sketch GANG IS ALL HERE!!!