Aw shit, here we go again. It appears I have brain rot of the highest order and I physically cannot stop writing about this pairing. Their dynamic is just soooo spicy.

This story technically starts between Season 3 and 4 but with some significant changes from canon:

-The kids were in 8th grade, not 7th, during the events of season 1, so it's been 2 years since then and they're in the tenth grade.

-Mike and El never kissed before she had the demogorgan showdown

-El never returned after the events of the S1 finale, and Will never had any weird post-Upside Down symptoms. Basically, none of season 2 happened except for Max moving to town, which also happened earlier than in canon

-For plot reasons, Max plays softball lol

I have the story fully planned out, and it's going to be a lot of fun. Definitely a bit darker than my previous fics but I'll include appropriate warnings when necessary.

Let's begin, shall we?


What the hell kind of house has a dedicated wine cellar? Mike wondered to himself as he wove through the crowd of swimsuit-clad teens, avoiding the mystery punch sloshing over the edges of their red cups. The kind of house that had two curved staircases on either side of the high-ceilinged foyer and a cabana by the heated outdoor pool, apparently.

The imposing three-story home in Loch Nora in which he currently found himself belonged to the parents of soon-to-be junior Lance Pearson.

The Pearsons were longtime friends of the Wheelers, so when the two families had gotten together for an end-of-summer barbecue the previous weekend, Lance had thrown Mike what he was sure was a pity invite to his Labour Day rager.

Dustin, Will, and Lucas didn't even know he was there. It wasn't like him to hide things from them, and he didn't even know why he came. Boredom, probably. Maybe a desire to start his sophomore year of high school off on a different foot.

The first year after the events surrounding Will's disappearance, Mike had lost his mind a little. He was so angry at everything. He'd acted out, ignored his schoolwork, and got grounded more than he had in his entire life…

But the year after that he was just… listless. Everything was so fucking boring. He'd become good at hiding it though, getting his grades back up and putting on a happy face for his friends and family. He even joined the Hellfire Club with the rest of the guys, which he did end up enjoying, but he'd never really felt as alive as he had back in the fall of '83.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like this year was going to go any better if this party was any indication. No one other than Lance had even acknowledged Mike's existence since he'd walked in the door twenty minutes ago.

He had caught a glimpse of Max outside by the beer pong table with the softball team—likely celebrating that she'd gotten the news last week that she was going to be the starting pitcher when the season started in the spring—but she hadn't seen him.

Eventually, Lance had taken pity on him and asked him to get a couple bottles from the wine cellar for the sangria his girlfriend insisted on making after her summer trip to "España".

"Go talk to some girls on the way," Lance had suggested with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "There's a ton of single babes here."

Mike snorted to himself as he descended the stairs to the partially finished basement. As if any of them would ever look twice at him. Besides, he had only ever truly been interested in one girl, and she was–

He stopped that train of thought in its tracks as he yanked open the door to the wine cellar, propping it open with the brick Lance had mentioned was just inside.

Mike took his time scanning the wall-to-wall shelves in the cool, dark room, in no rush to return to the festivities upstairs. Was it a Cabernet Franc or Cabernet Sauvignon that Lance had wanted? Or Sauvignon Blanc? He squinted at the tiny print on the labels. Why the hell were all the names so similar? And did he say the '79 or the '78?

He groaned and crouched down to look at the bottom rows. He didn't even like wine, it had tasted like rotten grape juice the one time his mom let him try some.

He stood at the sound of light footsteps coming down the stairs followed by the squeaking of the heavy steel door, whirling around just in time to see Max entering the cellar, clad in her red swimsuit top and denim shorts, her hair wet from the pool, and the propped open door swinging shut behind her.

"No, don't let–" he cried out, reaching for it as it slammed closed with a resounding thud. "Fuck!"

Max jumped out of the way and gave him a bewildered look. "What's your problem?"

"My problem is that this door locks from the outside," Mike groaned, jiggling the immovable doorknob.

"That's dumb, why would they do that?" She reached for the knob and rattled it harder, leaning her weight against the door and pushing fruitlessly. "Fucking rich people."

"That's not gonna do anything," he grumbled.

"No big," she shrugged, "someone will come down soon enough."

Mike let out an exasperated sigh and plopped down onto an overturned wooden box in the corner. This day was officially a disaster.

Max leaned back against the door and crossed her arms. "What are you even doing here?"

"Getting wine, obviously."

"No you ass, at this party. I didn't think it was really your scene."

"It's not." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I dunno, Lance invited me, our dads work together. I guess I just wanted to… try something different for once."

He expected her to say something snarky about how she would be tired of being a complete dork all the time too, but instead, she just nodded, staring off into middle distance. "I get that."

A somewhat awkward silence filled the room then. He was so rarely alone with Max, even though she had been part of their friend group since she'd moved to Hawkins halfway through eighth grade. Lucas and Dustin had immediately been desperate to impress her and had invited her into the group with open arms. She wasn't interested in either of them romantically but for some reason, she'd stuck around as their friend.

Now Dustin was with Suzie, but Lucas was still hopelessly in love with Max despite her never giving him any indication that she returned his feelings. She'd even gotten quite close with Will, fiercely protecting him from the bullies who pushed him into lockers and called him "Zombie Boy", uncaring if retaliating earned her detentions. Mike did begrudgingly respect her for that.

But the two of them? They had clashed from the very beginning. They just got on each other's nerves. She was so needlessly aggravating all the time, constantly making sarcastic little comments and challenging everything he said. It drove him insane.

He wasn't sure what he would even call them. Reluctant friends? Awkward acquaintances? Comrades?

There was a loud scraping noise and he looked over to see her climbing onto some precariously stacked milk crates to peer at the upper row of wine bottles. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for something to drink while we wait, duh."

"But we don't have one of those opener… thingies."

"No, but… aha!" She triumphantly brandished a gold foil-topped bottle. "Champagne doesn't need a corkscrew," she said in a singsong voice.

He pursed his lips. "That's probably expensive, you're gonna get us in trouble."

She jumped down from the crates and started removing the foil. "Hey, Mike?"

"What?"

"Doesn't the stick up your ass get uncomfortable after a while?"

"Oh my god," he rolled his eyes up to the low ceiling. She was so damn annoying.

Max chuckled as she twisted the cork off with a muted pop and discarded it on the floor. She took a swig from the bottle, eyes widening when it fizzed up and a little foam spilled out and dripped onto her chest.

"Oops," she muttered. Mike's eyes followed the path of the liquid trailing down her flat stomach for a long moment before he realized what he was doing and forced himself to look away, cheeks burning.

"Your turn." She held out the bottle, thankfully oblivious to his staring.

He grabbed it, taking a long sip and willing the acidic bubbles on his tongue to erase the funny feeling swirling in his stomach.'


"You're out of your mind, Wheeler. Wonder Woman could kick Superman's ass any day!" Max exclaimed from where she was sitting across from him on the concrete floor, knees bent with her arms resting on top of them.

Mike was still on the crate, leaning back against the wine racks. "No fucking way."

He wasn't sure how much time had passed but the bottle was nearly empty and he was feeling distinctly lightheaded. Somehow they had gotten on the topic of comic books and Max was unrelentingly trying to convince him of her opinions. Wrong opinions, as usual.

"Wonder Woman literally has supernatural abilities and artifacts, dumbass. And she's a way more experienced fighter. Plus she has no weaknesses, unlike Superman and his space rocks."

"Well, that doesn't even matter because Superman is still faster and stronger. And bulletproof! It's no contest."

"Oh whatever, Superman is so boring anyways," she slurred, letting her head thump back against the wall and immediately wincing at the harsh impact. "I used to read his comics before bed to help me fall asleep when I was eight."

"Holy shit, I can't stand you," he chuckled, only half serious, before tipping his head back as he brought the bottle to his lips and finished off the last drops of champagne.

But when he lowered it Max had somehow crossed the cellar and was standing in front of him, looking down with her head tilted to the side and her hands on her hips. "You wanna know what I think?"

Mike raised a brow. "Not really."

"I think you're attracted to me."

"What?" he guffawed, a jolt of panic rushing through him for some reason. "Dream on."

"You are," she smirked, stepping even closer so she was standing between his bent knees. "And I think it pisses you off because you don't wanna be. I think it drives you fucking crazy."

Mike gave a dismissive snort. That can't be right, can it? But now her partially clothed body was right in front of him and he couldn't help but notice that her chest was goosebumped from the cold of the cellar and it made his mouth go undeniably dry.

"You are delusional, Mayfield," he insisted, shaking his head as he set the empty bottle on the floor with a loud clink. It tipped over and rolled noisily across the concrete.

She raised her eyebrows. "Am I? I've seen you looking at me."

He ignored the fact that his heart had sped up and scoffed. "With disgust maybe."

She looked him up and down and a slow smile spread across her face. "If I'm so disgusting then what's that?" she asked, nodding at his crotch.

Mike glanced down and, to his total mortification, saw that the distinct outline of his half-hard dick had become clearly visible through his swim trunks.

He quickly stood and backed into the corner, attempting to cover his junk with his hands while swaying a little from the effects of the champagne.

"I'm a fifteen-year-old boy," he shot back, the tips of his ears growing hot. "Don't flatter yourself."

Max just grinned and took a step closer so they were toe to toe. He didn't think they'd ever been this close before. Their height difference had never been more apparent. Her presence had always been so domineering it felt like she took up more physical space than she actually did.

Even now, with her head tipped back to look up at him, she was somehow intimidating. Her eyes really were absurdly blue, and framed by long, copper lashes.

"Too bad," she murmured, her gaze lingering on his lips. "I am a little flattered."

Mike narrowed his eyes, brow furrowing as his stomach did a series of flips. What the hell is she doing? Playing some kind of fucked up game of chicken? Surely any second now she was going to laugh in his face.

It was like stepping over a laid-open bear trap, the almost predatory look in her eyes making him feel like she was about to snap closed around him at any moment.

Heart pounding wildly, Mike wondered if he was dreaming as they stood there staring at each other with glazed eyes, the tension building with each passing second. He hadn't realized how close they'd gotten until he felt her breath tickling his mouth. He took a deep breath through his nose, catching a whiff of the chlorine on her skin.

Maybe he wanted to be trapped.

It wasn't clear which of them moved first, but he ducked his head and she tilted hers and in an instant, the small amount of space left between them vanished and the Earth seemed to go into a freefall.

It wasn't his first kiss—or even his second. He'd popped that particular cherry over winter break last year when his family had gone to a resort in Florida.

There had been a girl his age in the villa next door and she'd had shoulder-length blonde hair and expressive brown eyes and, on the last night under the light of the full moon, he'd let her stand on her tiptoes in the sand and press her lips to his, while he closed his eyes and pretended it was someone else—someone who had been missing for over a year at that point and who he'd given up on sharing his first kiss with.

But those had been a few brief pecks, and this was… much more than that.

There was no pretending this was someone else. Not when Max's soft lips were moving expertly against his, urging them to part. She didn't pull back when he expected her to. Instead, she surged forward, deepening the kiss, and then her warm, slick tongue was flicking across his bottom lip before slipping into his mouth, and Mike's knees almost gave out.

Was he supposed to be moving his tongue as well? He figured he shouldn't just let it sit there like a dead fish, so he slid it against hers somewhat forcefully, and the small moan she rewarded him with flooded him with gratification. It was like rolling a natural fucking twenty. Better.

The kiss intensified and he followed her lead—when her hands wound around the back of his neck, his went to her bare waist, his thumbs reflexively swiping back and forth against her pale skin. She shuddered and he couldn't stop himself from grinning against her mouth.

Scoffing and nipping at his bottom lip in retaliation, she wound her fingers into his hair and gave it a sharp tug that made him gasp.

They made out like they fought, constantly trying to one-up the other in an almost violent tug-of-war. Her mouth left his and moved down to his neck, latching on and sucking with just enough teeth to make him jolt with a confusing combination of pain and pleasure.

Shit, it was good. Really fucking good. It wasn't supposed to be this good, not with her.

Velvety lips landed back on his, their tongues tangling together at a more leisurely pace now; a dance rather than a battle. The cinderblock wall was cold on his back but her body was warm—so warm—pushing him up against it.

Mike tightened his grip and pulled her closer, becoming very aware of her breasts pressed flush against his chest, and two hard peaks poking through the thin material of her swimsuit that he belatedly realized were her nipples. His brain short-circuited for a moment as he imagined what they looked like… what they felt like. Maybe he could… touch one?

With his heart in his throat, he cautiously slid his right hand up Max's rib cage, fully expecting her to rear back and slap him for his audacity. But instead, she just grabbed his wrist and moved it higher, encouraging him to palm her whole breast.

They were forced to pause their kissing, panting against each other's open mouths while they focused on this new exploration. Mike felt his dick throb against her hip, certain he'd never been this hard in his life.

He gave the small mound a tentative squeeze, but before he could fully marvel at the softness of her flesh, they realized they could hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

They sprang apart a second before the door swung open and Lance burst into the room. "Yo Mike, you've been gone for like an hour– oh. Hey Max, you were stuck in here too?"

"Yeah I was," Max said, somehow appearing instantly cool and collected despite her shiny, swollen lips.

"Shit, I'm sorry about the door guys, I should put a sign up next time or something."

"It's cool," she replied breezily before darting up the stairs without so much as a glance back.

What the hell just happened? Mike watched her retreating form as confusion and horror over what they'd just done washed over him.

"You alright, dude..?" Lance asked, looking him up and down. "You're all red."

"Yeah." Mike cleared his throat forcefully and peeled himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. Pressed against, by her practically half-naked body, his scrambled brain supplied unhelpfully. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his polo shirt. "Let's get out of here."

He squinted at the bright light as they emerged from the basement. He'd forgotten it was still mid-afternoon, the passage of time having ceased to exist while he was trapped in that dark room with Max. Everyone seemed considerably sloppier now—couples draped over furniture, an impromptu dance floor forming in the middle of the living room, drinks spilling as teenagers stumbled into each other.

Mike beelined for the liquor bottles littering the kitchen island and proceeded to mix what were likely unwise amounts of alcohol into a red plastic cup. He needed to get the taste of her out of his mouth. Taking a large gulp of the disgusting concoction, he ruminated on what Max had said just before she'd kissed him, and the truths it was forcing him to finally confront.

Because the worst part of it was that she had been right. He had been looking at her—ever since she'd moved to Hawkins if he was being honest—but lately it had been happening more and more. Especially after she'd started wearing that stupid red bikini at the pool all summer and it became impossible to ignore that she'd suddenly grown boobs. And now he knew what they felt like engulfed by his hand, soft and perky and–

No, he chastised himself, stop thinking about it. Mike grimaced as he took another sip and glanced around, grateful that Max didn't appear to be in the kitchen or the living room. Someone put on the Tears For Fears album and cheers went up around the room as "Shout" started playing.

He wished he could shout right now. He wished he could shout at Max and ask her why the hell she'd done that. And what did it mean? Did it even mean anything or was it just some bout of temporary insanity? Did he want it to mean something? The questions swirled around his intoxicated brain and left him feeling vaguely nauseous.

He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, the warm brown eyes he'd been dreaming about for so long started turning defiant and blue more and more often. And it did piss him off because it felt like a betrayal—like he was forgetting El. Replacing her.

And the more he caught himself noticing Max, the more he acted like a dick to her, hoping their volatile relationship would prevent his unwanted attraction from growing. So much for that.

How the hell was he supposed to look her in the eye at school tomorrow now that he knew that her stupid pouty lips were impossibly soft and that her mouth tasted like the pink bubblegum she was always chewing? Now, instead of irritating him, the sound of her popping bubbles behind him in class would probably just remind him of the dizzying press of her tongue against his.

He braced himself against the countertop as his thoughts spiralled back to the wine cellar and his blood rushed straight down to his groin. God, he could still feel her all over him.

His head hung in defeat. He was so fucked.