please be specific with what you want, i have a hard time when it’s freestyle lol but i am open to it
i also take A LOT of song based bots / one shots!
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ WATTPAD
@ellaonthestars
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ CHARACTER.AI
https://share.character.ai/70U7/xmuun67k
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ ABOUT ME
so right now my biggest hyperfixsien (don’t think i spelled that right.) is stardew valley and harry potter, i mostly will write about finn wolfhard, sam from SDV, or draco malfoy. but i’m open for anyone (as long as i have a decent amount of knowledge on them.) i currently do have a significant other and most of my time does revolve around them, they aren’t aware of this account because of relationships reason, so i most likely won’t be as active as i would like and request will take me some time to get too but i’ll try my hardest to get to every one i can. i don’t own any pictures i post so credits to their rightful owners!! (i find most of them in pinterest.) i have dyslexia so if my grammar / spelling is terrible i deeply apologize. i was homeschooled most of my life so i probably don’t have the best education so please work with me lol i sometimes start things (like fanfic only if it’s supposed to be a super long book) and never finish it, since my interest do change after some time. i do beta reads and do have beta readers! i use to watch anime and might write / make bots of those if requested and (again) if i have some knowledge on the character. for one shots (which will take me lots of time.) i can do OC / imply specific features, for my one shots they will most likely be in first person or third, (or whatever POV is preferred.) but those are the two i work best with.i have never read any harry potter books but in the future i definitely will!
stella isn’t my real name it’s more just an oc and normally for fake accounts / secret accounts (like this one) i just put stella / ella so no! i do not self insert myself lol
I DONT SUPPORT J.K.R!!!!!
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ FANDOMS
harry potter, ATYDS, hogwarts legacy, stranger things, the flash (didnt finish yet), young justice (again DFY), IT, SVTFOE, stardew valley / SDV
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ FANDOMS I CAN WORK WITH
super natural, cirmal minds, teen wolf, marvel, DC, hunter X hunter, MHA, TBHK, euphoria, you, the last of us, the walking dead, the turning, the black phone, (mostly the first one.) star wars, any kind of cross overs (doesn’t matter time line.) (this will be updated as time goes on.)
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ MY AGE GROUP / RANGE
13-17
this is just where my age line meets lol
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⋮ ⌗ ┆ NO
will not being doing anything non-consensual, mirror / adult (16-18 is workable with context.) racist, homophonic, character / character (just can’t find it in me to do it at the moment.), dead dove do not eat, / batcest, step bro / step sis.
(will update if anything changes / comes to mind.)
Pairing: Brendon Urie x Reader, mentions of Ryan Ross x Reader
Genre: smut, angst
Warnings: cheating, car sex, fingering (f receiving), daddy kink, blowjob, handjob, spanking, protected vaginal sex, based off of “Sex” by The 1975, I wrote this YEARS ago ok bear with me
I wanted to share what I started for these two, I will finish my other fics before offically starting this one.
Rating: Mature
Primary Pairing: Sam/Haley
Warnings/Content: Angst/Hurt and Comfort, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, More Tags to be Added
Summary:
Sam felt stuck in Pelican Town. His friends all moved on, and he was still doing the same thing every day. He gave up on his dreams of being a musician, and hid away his guitar.
Haley felt lost without her only friend in town anymore. She engrossed herself in her photography, escaping to her darkroom almost daily to run away from the demons in her head.
~~~~~~
When a horrible storm traps the two blondes in Haley's house for a night, the two realize they have more in common than they thought, and an unlikely friendship begins to bloom between them, and maybe.. just maybe.. they can escape the town and their own dark thoughts with each other's help.
A few years have gone by in Pelican Town. The young people of the small, middle of no where town have all grown up and moved on with their lives.
But Sam? Sam was stuck.
Both of his friends seemed to move on without him. Abigail settled down with the farmer here in town, getting to adventure into the mines with her love whenever she pleased, and Sebastian started dating Alex, the town jock of all people! The two men moved to ZuZu city, Sebastian achieving his dreams of getting out of Pelican Town.
All Sam wanted to do was make music. He wanted to tour with his little band of friends once they got successful enough, but.. they moved on. And here he was, still living at home with his parents and his little brother, doing nothing with his life.
He still worked part time at the library of course. After Joja Mart shut down and Morris left for good, he needed a new job. He didn’t feel like working at the movie theater that was constructed in the store’s place, somehow overnight one day, and was grateful he could still find work in town. Gunther was pleased with his work, and even gave him a raise a few times, but it wasn’t enough to get Sam out.
“Sam, Honey, can you come help with dinner?” Jodi poked her head into her son’s room, her voice soft. She knew he was having a hard time lately, and it was clear she didn’t really know how to help.
The blonde looked up at his mother from where he sat on his bed, guitar in his lap and paper strewn about. He was trying to write a new song, but nothing was coming to him. Just like his life, his songwriting was stuck too. Great.
“Yeah, Mom. Be out in a sec.” Jodi gave her son a small, appreciative smile before closing the door behind her. Sam let out a deep sigh before getting up to pick up the music sheets and balled up mistakes, then throw all of it into his trash can. Sam then looked at the last thing on his bed, and picked it up gently. He held his guitar in his hands for a few moments, just staring down at the instrument he loves. He felt tears beginning to well up in his eyes, a totally new hopelessness filling in his chest. He felt like giving up. What was the point if he couldn’t achieve his dreams like everyone else? With a shaky sigh, wiping the wetness from his eyes, he opened his closet door, and placed the instrument inside. He took a spare sheet from the top shelf, and opened it up to drape over his drum set. There was no way he could fit any of it in the small space. Everything else that pertained to writing and making music, he gathered up and placed inside the back of his closet as well, and shut the door. His head, usually filled with melodies and beats and lyrics that encouraged him to keep trying, was dead silent.
He was done writing music. He no longer had a reason.
~~~~~~
Haley: Hope you’re doing okay. I miss you!
The text was sent hours ago, and she still hasn’t received a response from Alex. Which was fine. Totally fine! He was a busy man. He had a boyfriend he loved that he lived with, a full time job as a physical therapist, hobbies.. probably new friends.. but that was fine! She had her own life to live.
A life that consisted of online shopping.. and no one to show her new clothes to. Oh! And going to the beach.. by herself on warm days. Ah, and how could she forget, her photography! That.. she did alone. But that was relatively normal for her.
She really didn’t show anyone her favorite hobby. People knew she took pictures, but that was it. They didn’t know that she knew exactly how much to dilute the developer in her dark room bins, exactly how long to rinse her photos to avoid that ugly yellowing after a few weeks, and she knew that letting any light in was a recipe for disaster. Her photos could be destroyed. So.. she didn’t let anything in. Any light. Any person.
“Haley?” The gentle voice of her sister was accompanied by a soft knock at the darkroom door. “I’m heading to work now. You okay to make dinner for yourself?”
“Yeah, Emily, I’ll be fine. Have a good shift!” There was a long pause before Emily spoke again.
“Let me know if you need anything. At all. I’m here for you, you know that?” Her voice had this edge to it. Sympathy? Pity? Haley didn’t need it.
“I know. I’m fine. Bye, Emily.” Haley’s tone came out a little sharper than she meant for it to be, but that was fine. People were used to that. Used to thinking she was a stuck up bitch. That’s fine. Alex saw through it. He was the only friend she needed. Even.. if he did leave her. That’s fine. It’s fine. Just like her. Fine.
Emily didn’t say anything else. Just stood in front of the darkroom door for a moment, then Haley heard her footsteps fading, and the sound of her bedroom door opening and closing. The blonde sighed as she set what looked like a blank sheet of paper into the tub of liquid in front of her, and gently agitated the water. Slowly, an image of a beautiful shell on the sands of the beach began to emerge.
It was a good thing that Emily never opened that door. If anything other than the special red light illuminating the room were to shine on her work, the image would be destroyed. All the beauty and the one thing that made her happy after her best and apparently only friend had LEFT HER.. would be ruined. So yes. She didn’t need to let anything in. Any person in. They didn’t need to see. Didn’t need to see her. See that she was actually completely alone now that Alex ran off with Sebastian.
Yeah, no one needed to be let in. Letting someone in would be a disaster.
would anyone be interested in stardew valley one shots/ c.ai bots ? ( specifically sam..) if so please lmk because i’ve been crushing on him since hard and i feel like i already read all the good shit, plus i lowk kinds want fluffs bur all i’ve been reading is dogboy / dog!reader ☹️
warnings- smut, unprotected piv(don’t do it), rough sex?, oral(f! receiving), no plot, just straight filth, size kink, size difference, age gap(both consenting adults), ass play?, multiple rounds, overstimulation, a lottt of dirty talk, tummy bulge, manhandling, dacryphilia?, not proofread
notes- still writing this because i don’t care what the stupid hater says. writing this for a lovely anon. sorry if this isn’t what you wanted, this is what my take on it would be but if you want something else you can send me a request more specific!
based on this request<3
masterlist
part two
you barely make it inside the door after a party before he’s already on you. he pushes you against the door, his lips locking with yours immediately.
your fingers grip his hair as his tongue mixes with yours. he grips your thighs, lifting you up and walking towards your bedroom, not pulling back from your lips.
he kicked the door open and walked in kicking it shut behind me and tossing you on the bed. he yanks his shirt off and crawls on top of you.
he kisses your neck, drawing a small whine from you as he sucks on your soft skin.
he pulls back and pulls your shirt off tossing it to the side. he reaches behind you and unclips your bra, tossing it as well.
he immediately leans back down to suck at your nipples and knead the soft skin, grinning against you every time you moan.
he kisses down your stomach and pulls your jeans and panties off in one go. he spreads your legs, looking at your slick folds and pulsing bud.
he licks his lips and presses a faint kiss to your clit
“this what you wanted, hm? wanted me to ruin you? all that teasing, ‘m gonna make you regret it” he says before spreading your folds and licking a long stripe up your pussy.
you moan. he swirls his tongue around your sensitive nub slowly and sucks it in his mouth. you whimper.
he starts to devour you as if he hadn’t eaten anything in months. he grips your thighs to keep you in place. you whimper and squirm, gripping his hair.
“ah-finn-oh! i'm gonna-“ you whine. he thrusts his tongue in and out of you, nose rubbing your clit with each movement.
your orgasm slams into you, crying out and trembling as you cum all over his face. he licks you up, letting you ride out your high before crawling back up your body.
his jaw is covered in your juices but he savors it. “such a good girl, cumming f’me” he coos. he kisses your lips softly before unbuckling his belt.
he strips his pants off tossing them to the side. he tosses his boxers with them, cock springing out.
he’s already achingly hard, cock throbbing and precum leaking from his tip. he gathers some of your slick with his fingers and pumps himself a few times.
you would never get used to how big he was. his long girthy cock that never failed to make your eyes roll back, the vein rubbing against your gummy walls every time.
“open up f’me” he tsks and you open your mouth. he spits in your mouth “swallow” you obey and he grins.
he was an absolute freak, and so were you. “if you’re a good girl i’ll let you sit on my cock tomorrow while i work.”
you nod. you needed him near all the time, so you loved cockwarming.
and he always ended up fucking you after so that’s a bonus too.
he rubs his tip against your entrance “ready f’me sweetheart?” you nod quickly and he chuckles. he pushes the tip in slowly, hissing at the feeling of your walls already clenching.
he pushes in devastatingly slow, stopping halfway to admire the way your eyes are wide and cheeks flushed from how full he’s making you. he snaps his hips forward pushing the rest of the way in.
you cry out. he starts a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours over and over. you grip at his biceps and whimper and whine as his tip kisses your cervix with each thrust.
“fuck, look at that. can see me in your stomach baby” he presses a hand on the faint bulge in your stomach.
he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, lifting your hips and slamming back in. your face is buried in the pillow as he pounds into you, gripping your hips to meet each brutal thrust.
his thumb slides on your asshole, not pushing in, just putting pressure. you whine against the pillow and he chuckles
“you like that? my sweet little freak” he drives into you drawing another and another orgasm out of you. “maybe sometime i’ll fuck you here instead, you’d like that?” he murmurs and you nod.
his pace is relentless.
“too much-oh!” you sob, body trembling. “shh, you can take it. just gimme one more, yeah?” he reaches around rubbing your clit until you shatter once more.
he groans “look at that baby, squirting and making a mess all on my dick.” he keeps pounding.
with a few final brutal thrusts, he buries himself deep inside you, ropes of cum spilling into you. he leans down pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you both pant
“such a good girl for me” he flips you over gently and brushes your sweaty hair out of your face. “let’s get you cleaned up, sweet girl”
he picks you up looping one arm under your knees and the other supports your back as he walks to the bathroom. he sets you on the toilet so you can pee, and starts the bath.
he makes sure the waters perfect temperature before picking you up and gently setting you in it before slipping in behind you and pulling you close, your back against his chest.
he strokes your hair and you guys just sit there for a moment, relaxing. he washes you gently and massages shampoo and conditioner in your hair.
he covers your eyes to make sure it doesn’t get in them when he rinses the conditioner out. he stands up and wraps a towel around his waist before scooping you up.
he wraps you in a towel and carries you to the room. he sets you on the edge of the bed and walks to the closet. he pulls on a tshirt and some sweatpants and helps you into some boxer shorts and one of his hoodies.
he chuckles when you fail to stand up and moves you to the armchair in the corner while he changes the soaked sheets.
finally, he carries you to bed and crawls in with you, tucking you into his chest. you doze off pretty quick. he smiles and kisses your head.
a/n hope this was good, I have the worst migraine so I was trying my best to write through it
realized i dont like the taste of coffee, live laugh love red bull also im so excited i get a laptop for my birthday coming up (june) and i finally get to play modded games (minecraft, stardew, hogwarts legacy) i can’t wait for all the sebastian sallow mods legit can’t wait for my second run on that and for sdv there’s sooo many mods especially expanded that i legit can’t wait for i have my eyes on victor but idk i heard he’s not a great dateable i’ve already married harvey and for my second vanilla run i wanna go for sebastian or sam but i have no idea lmk good bachelors. also so excited for 1.7 im legit shaking in my boots about it JUST I CANT BELIEVE WE HAVE CLINT AS A FUCKING MARRIAGEABLE. im probably gonna get a acer nitro 5 because it’s in budget (anything under 530 USD) but if there’s anything better and for a good price im open to suggestions i also really want game suggestions aswell OH and i would LOVE fanfic recommendations especially for draco malfoy, im sooo picky with fics it actually hurts.
like i always look for pureblood (or halfblood) oc (y/n works too ig..) around 3rd to 4th year any trope is fine but friends to lovers / enemies to lovers or just a toxic start that ends up in a happy marriage ( thanks restricted.) i tried to read filthy and dead draco. i legit just couldn’t do it.. i like when MC is in slytheirn but when she’s in ravenclaw or gryffindor is just amazing literally obsessed.
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ you’re already extremely thankful your dad had approved of mike wheeler as your boyfriend, despite knowing you two were freshly eighteen with a lot of teen spirit and rebellion, and even being eighteen, hopper is still super protective over you.
there’s nothing you can do! as long as you’re living underneath his roof, you have to follow his rules. that means every time you have mike come over to your room, your door MUST be left open. not even slightly, FULLY opened. that’s the only way he’d be sure to himself nothing would go on between you two.
but mike wheeler lives by his own rules. the second time he took a trip in your bedroom, he’d test the waters by cuddling you in your bed, trapping you with his harms and giggling. he’d roll his eyes whenever you warn him that your dad is going to kill you when you get caught, “come on! you're a big girl now!” you hit him lightly, “but i swear, he’s really strict…!” “it’s just cuddling, sweets, ‘course i know better to not do anything! you’d be whining real loud by just a single touch, i know..” his hand would grope your breast as if to further prove his point, you squeak, hitting mike in the head, not-so-lightly. “mike!” you scold him in whispers afterwards.
but he doesn’t stop there, he was JUST testing the waters, he’d cuddle you on your bed every single day to get you to be normal and not whiny about it.
the next few times, he’d try to kiss you the way he’d kiss you hidden in the alleyways, far from home. fingers holding your chin, his tongue intertwining with yours. his hands conveniently moving past the waistline of your shorts, "mikey... dad will see, don't wanna risk it-"
"let him come," you blink, was he out of his mind? "what's he gonna do about it , hm?, yell at me for loving my sweet girlfriend?" he lets out a quiet laugh, knowing he's pushing your boundaries just a bit too much, yet can't help himself.
"he could hurt you or something..." you murmur, his mouth finds their way to your neck, teeth grazing against your pulse point. "but so what..." his hands slide down to your thighs, wrapping around the back of them as he guides your legs further apart, settling himself in-between. this boy doesn't have a care in the world on how the door was wide open. "you really think i care right now? i have an idea,"
you tilt your head slightly to the side, "what's this s'posed to be..." before any warning, he'd tug your shorts to your ankles in one swift pull, "you trust me, don't you?" you gasp, pressing your thighs together as an effort of hiding your exposed underwear, "mike!" he'd fully take off your shorts now, sighing. "let me, what are you so worried about?" "he'll uh,, hear us..." he nods, "exactly, that's why..." he'd carefully discard your underwear fully from your legs, scrunching up the piece of fabric, "say 'ahh'..." you look at him confused, yet still do it nonetheless, "ahh..." without any second thought, he shoves the piece of fabric inside your mouth, you let out a muffled cry.
he smirks as he watches you, eyes glinting with mischief. your cheeks are flushed pink, your breath coming faster now. with the panties stuffed in your mouth—his little trick to keep you quiet—he leans in even closer between your legs, dragging his hands up the inside of your thighs until they’re spread wide for him.
“gotta keep you from screaming n' gettin us caught,” he whispers against your skin, voice low. “wouldn’t want hopper busting through that door right when i’ve got my tongue inside you… would we?”
he gives a slow lick up your center, “relax,” he murmurs, blowing warm air where it makes you shiver. “be good while i make you feel good.” his mouth is hot and relentless as it closes over you completely, one hand pressing into the mattress beside your hip while the other gently spreads you open further so he can taste every part of you. your muffled moans are trapped behind cotton and teeth; hips bucking instinctively toward his face despite yourself.
he chuckles against you, a vibrating hum that sends sparks shooting straight down your spine, he gives another long, languid lick, before shoving his tongue deep inside you. you always liked how long his tongue was when making out, but now that its doing something else makes your muffled moans bleed through the fabric!
"you like that, sweets?" he murmurs, his teeth grazing against the same spot. "feels good, huh?" of course, you couldn't answer, his tongue continues to work inside you at a slow and steady pace, he could feel you twitch as he does it, humming in approval, the vibration sending shockwaves through you. your back arches off the bed like a cat! his hands clamp down on your hips to hold you still, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your lower belly as he angles his mouth just right.
"mmm, you taste so good," he murmurs against you, lips slick, eyes dark when he glances up at your face. your cheeks are flushed and eyes glassy, you looked so silly like this.
he gives an innocent smile, and without warning, he adds a finger. then another.
sliding inside with slow confidence as his tongue circles that swollen little bud above, now relentless, and suddenly it’s too much. you thrash beneath him, legs trembling around his head like you’re trying to push him away… but he just pulls in deeper. and when your volume starts going up way more than he'd anticipated, yet he loves, his free hand replaces the panties in your mouth with his fingers, his digits playing with your tongue. "you're too loud, fuck, can you imagine when he hears you? knows what you're doing right now?" he's so fucking annoying. the fingers inside your other hole moves in a scissoring motion, where did he learn all of this?
“g'nna make you cum like sluts in movies,” he mutters between kisses and licks. “right here. with the door open. while hopper thinks his innocent daughter is just ‘talking.’” he chuckles darkly—the most infuriating sound— you want to tell him off, to tell him to shut the hell up and keep going, but you can't. not with his hand still gagging you. you're stuck like this, completely at his mercy, and you hate to admit you love it.
you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers, his tongue doesn’t let up, circling, pressing, n' flicking with just the right pressure, his fingers curl inside you with to stretch you juuuust right.
“yeah… that’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart. “god, i love how sensitive you are.” he adds a little more pressure to his thumb on that swollen bud above and smirks when your back arches off the bed again. “bet your daddy would have a heart attack if he saw this.” if it wasn't obvious, he prides off on that.
"kiddo!" hopper shouts out from downstairs, you'd hear footsteps on the staircase. "shit." he acts quick, sending a stupid smile over your way as your orgasm gets taken away from you. he'd let your blanket cover your naked half as you try and catch yourself from the dizziness. the way the lower part of his face was fully glistening and wet didn't help much at all. his swollen lips looked like he just put on some lip gloss.
the two of you turn your head to your dad, standing near your doorframe. "hope you two are being civil here." his arms crossed and voice authoritative, you hoped to god he doesn't see how you were still trying to catch your breath, if he ever asks, you'd say you and mike were "working out".
mike, of course, answers first, “just eatin’ snacks mr. hopper,” the fingers that were recently inside you, with juices dripping now being licked by mike’s tongue, “y’know, doing normal stuff.” he always mocked him, “fuck off, wheeler." of course hopper wasn't impressed, sighing as he massages his head. he realizes he doesn't have time for your boyfriend's antics. "anyway, i’ll be buying from the shop, just do as you’re promised kiddo, no kissing, okay?” you nod, like a good daughter, seeing how mike gives him the most obvious eye roll from your peripheral vision.
as soon as you two hear the main door being shut, mr. hopper now outside of the premises, both of you sigh in relief.
“jesus! don’t ever do that again... mike!"
“hey. we weren't doing anything wrong, he said "no kissing".” he hums. "don't you want me to finish what i started?"
"just now i can finally hear you moan loud n' clear, he isn't here anymore..."
he just smiles with that boyish grin, knowing you could never deny him.
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ
stepbro mike next again :p guys pls dont be afraid to send freaky ass prompts i WILL try to do them fr
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 trapped with your catastrophically dramatic, fever-warm boyfriend who insists he’s dying. AKA man experiences the common cold and loses all resolve.
MIKE WHEELER IS FAIRLY CERTAIN THIS IS HOW ITS GONNA END.
not in a cool way. not in a saving-the-world way. not even in a tragically noble way. no—this is worse. it involves tissues.
a lot of tissues.
it involves his nose being blocked on one side for reasons current medicine has yet to explain, his throat feeling like it’s been sandpapered every time he swallows, and a headache that pulses like it’s offended by light, sound, and the concept of consciousness.
he’s been sick for three days. three days is not nothing. three days is long enough for something to escalate. three days is long enough for a cold to turn into something else. something that requires bed rest and soup and concerned looks and, potentially, hospitalization. he doesn’t know. he’s not a doctor. that’s kind of the problem.
being sick is the worst thing that has ever happened to him. ever. and yes, he is including everything else. he’s thought it through. extensively. this is worse. he clears his throat experimentally and immediately regrets it when hot pain blooms trailing after the spit. bad idea. noted.
fuck this. he hates being sick. there’s nothing to do. just waiting it out, which feels suspiciously like doing nothing, which mike has never been good at.
waiting implies patience. patience implies acceptance. mike has neither.
he shifts, tangled in blankets that feel simultaneously too heavy and not heavy enough, and sniffles hard enough that his head throbs in retaliation. his nose is completely useless now. fully decorative. he breathes through his mouth and immediately regrets that too because his throat feels swollen and traitorous, like it’s trying to sabotage him from the inside. this is how people die. in their childhood bedrooms. drowning in their own congestion.
there’s a knock at the door before it opens anyway. “michael,” his mom acknowledges him, in that voice. the one that’s soft and worried and hovering already. she’s holding a bowl. steam curls up from it. “i brought soup.”
of course she did.
he makes a noise that is meant to be a protest but comes out more like a congested whine. “i’m fine.” he says automatically, even though nothing about this situation supports that statement. he does not need to eat something. swallowing hurts. also, soup is a scam. soup is what people give you when they want to feel like they’re helping without actually fixing anything. “i had soup earlier.”
she gives him a look, the look that says she knows that’s a lie and is choosing to let it go for now. “you had three spoonfuls. and then you fell asleep.”
he opens his mouth to argue and coughs instead. it starts small and then snowballs, his chest tightening, his throat burning, his eyes watering. by the time it stops he’s lightheaded and furious and very aware of how closely his mom is watching him. she reaches out, reflexive, and he flinches away on instinct. “i’m fine.”
she smooths his hair back anyway, cool hand against his forehead. hovering. he endures it, because pulling away feels like more effort than he has in him right now. “you’re warm.”
“i’m always warm.”
she hums, unconvinced, and presses her lips together like she’s deciding whether to argue or let him have this one. mike can tell which way it’s going immediately. she pulls the thermometer out of her pocket anyway. of course she has one.
“mommmm.”
“open your mouth.”
he considers refusing, how much effort that would take, then opens his mouth. she waits about a minute. his nose drips traitorously and he sniffles, shoulders hunching. his head feels too heavy for his neck.
the thermometer beeps.
“one hundred point four.”
“that’s bad.”
“it’s a low-grade fever.”
“mom, that’s still a fever.”
“you’re sick. you have a cold. possibly the flu. drink some water.”
his throat tightens—he swallows and hisses when the pain flares again, drinking some water out of the bottle his mom hands to him before giving it back. “i don’t feel good.” he says, which feels like the understatement of the century.
“i know.” she says, softening despite herself. she smooths his hair back again, cool fingers against his overheated skin. he hates it and leans into it at the same time.
she gives him a look. the you are being ridiculous look. he hates that look. it feels dismissive, like she’s not taking this seriously enough. “i feel hot,” he insists. “my head is burning.”
“you feel congested,” she corrects. “and tired.”
“and like i’m dying.”
she sighs and sets the thermometer down. “you’re not dying.”
she reaches for the soup again and he scowls at it. “i don’t want soup.”
“you need fluids.”
“i had water.”
“when?”
shit. he draws a blank. three hours ago? yesterday? time has stopped meaning anything.
“…earlier.”
she does not look convinced.
“can my girlfriend come over?” he asks suddenly, because the thought has been circling his brain like a vulture and he’s too tired to keep swatting it away.
“michael—”
“i feel worse. i feel really bad. she could help.”
“she could get sick.”
“i wouldn’t let her,” he argues. “i’d stay over here. she could stay over there. we wouldn’t—” he gestures and starts coughing again. it takes a few seconds longer to stop this time. his mom waits it out, hand hovering uselessly in the air like she’s trying not to smother him with care. when it finally passes, he slumps back, breathing through his mouth, furious and exhausted and dizzy. “see,” he says hoarsely. “that’s bad.”
“that’s why you’re not having visitors.”
“she’s not a visitor, she’s my girlfriend.”
“no, michael.”
his heart breaks.
if he survives this, he deserves some kind of award. at the very least, visitation rights. “i have a fever,” he adds, helpfully. “my head hurts. my throat feels like it’s on fire. i can’t breathe through my nose. i keep coughing like i’m—” he breaks off to cough again, shorter this time but still miserable. “—like that.”
she waits. lets the silence do some of the work. “and you’re telling me,” she says, “that seeing your girlfriend will fix this.”
“not fix,” he corrects. “help.”
“how.”
he frowns. thinking feels like wading through molasses. “she just… does. she knows what to do.”
“what to do about a cold.”
“yeah.”
she arches an eyebrow.
“she’d sit there,” he continues, gesturing toward the empty space beside his bed. “and she wouldn’t keep trying to make me eat soup every five minutes.”
“you need to eat.” she says, done, and folds her arms.
“this is cruel,” he barrels on, voice wavering just a little, and he hates that it does but also notes it as useful. “i could literally be dying and you won’t even let me see my girlfriend.”
“you are not dying.”
“you don’t know that,” he mutters. “people die from the flu.”
“you don’t have the flu.”
“you said possibly.”
she closes her eyes for a second. “i said possibly to get you to drink water.”
betrayal. he shifts in bed, restless, blankets tangling around his legs. he feels hot and cold at the same time, skin prickly, head pounding harder now that he’s been talking so much. his throat hurts worse. his nose drips again. he sniffs and wipes it with the back of his hand, then looks offended by the result. “i just want to see her. for a little bit.”
his mom looks at him. the flushed cheeks, the glassy eyes, the way he’s slumped. the way he’s still fighting anyway, but only once you were mentioned. “michael—”
“i’ll wear a blanket,” he blurts. “like a barrier.”
she blinks. “a blanket.”
“yes. like quarantine.”
“that’s not how that works.”
“i’ll wear two.”
she rubs her temples.
there’s a long pause. his mom studies him like she’s weighing something. he can practically see the internal debate. responsibility versus peace. germs versus sanity. his sanity. her sanity. he waits, breathing shallowly, nose clogged, throat aching, heart pounding with the effort of having made his case. finally, she sighs. deep. defeated.
he perks up a little. “so that’s a yes?”
“i’m not happy about this.”
“that’s fine.”
“she’s not staying long.”
“that’s fine.”
“she’s not getting sick.”
“i won’t let her.”
she points at him. “you are staying in bed.”
“yeah. obviously.” he assures her.
she stares at him for one last moment, then turns toward the door. “i’ll go call her.”
the relief hits him so hard it almost makes him emotional. almost. instead, he slumps back into his pillows with a dramatic exhale. “thank you,” he says weakly, “if i survive this, i’ll remember this.”
she pauses in the doorway. “drink your soup.”
he groans, already exhausted again, but this time it’s different. this time, at least, he’s not dying alone.
you knock softly, because his mom told you to, and because you’re vaguely afraid of waking the dead, or making things worse. or both. when you step into mike’s room he looks up like he’s been waiting the entire time, which he has. obviously. “you’re here..” he says, hoarse and dramatic and very much alive.
he sounds like this is the last thing he’ll ever say. actually, it was almost cinematic. like the final line of a beloved character in a franchise before they die tragically.
you barely have time to put your bag down before he starts talking again. “i’m dying,” he informs you, solemn. “she won’t say it, but i know. i have a fever, my throat is wrecked, and i can’t breathe.”
his mom, standing behind you with a bowl of soup, clears her throat pointedly.
“and,” mike adds, glaring past you at her, “i’m being force-fed.”
“you’re being given soup.” she corrects.
“against my will.”
you glance at the bowl. it’s still steaming. “hi, mike.”
his eyes soften, just a fraction. “hi.” he says back, quieter now. still miserable. “you took forever.”
“i got here as fast as i could.”
“it felt longer,” he mumbles. “i missed you.”
this, apparently, is enough to convince his mom to set the soup down on the nightstand and step back. “he needs to eat,” she tells you, already tired. “and drink water. and rest.”
mike scoffs weakly. “she’s lying to you.”
“i am not.”
“she keeps hovering. and she keeps touching my forehead.”
“because you have a fever.”
“i don’t like it!”
you move closer to the bed, and mike immediately shifts, making room without thinking about it. his hand twitches like it wants to reach for you, then stops halfway, like he’s suddenly remembered he’s supposed to have some dignity. “she made me eat soup already.” he tells you.
she gives you a look. the look of a woman who has been dealing with this for three days straight. “i’ll be downstairs. yell if his fever spikes. or if he collapses. or if he starts being dramatic.”
“i’m not dramatic.”
the door closes.
mike exhales, then he looks at you again, and his face crumples a little. “i feel really bad,” he admits. “everything hurts. my head feels weird. and my throat hurts. and my nose is useless. and every time i cough it feels like my chest is trying to turn itself inside out.”
his eyes flick down to the empty space next to him on the bed, then back up to you. then down again. pointed. “…you don’t have to stand,” he says, carefully casual. “you can— sit. if you want.”
you hesitate. his brows knit together, offended. “i’m not contagious from looking at me.”
“i know that.” you roll your eyes.
“i’m already dying, you can’t make it worse.” he shifts again, clearly uncomfortable, clearly warm, clearly annoyed that you’re still standing.
“i just don’t want to get sick,” you say, reasonable. calm. unfair, apparently.
mike makes a face like that’s the most hurtful thing anyone’s ever said to him. his mouth twists. “so you think i’m gross.”
“i think you have a fever.”
“same thing.” he mutters bitterly.
you sigh, already resigned, and reach for the glass of water on his nightstand. “drink.”
he eyes it suspiciously. “why do you get to boss me around.”
“because i’m the only one you’re not actively arguing with.”
he opens his mouth to protest, then stops. considers this. his shoulders slump. “…fine.” he takes the glass from you with both hands, like it’s heavier than it should be, and takes a careful sip. his throat works as he swallows, face pinching briefly with discomfort. “see?” he whines. “it hurts.”
“drink anyway.”
it seems he got what he wanted. you to be there and validate his misery, and so he does. another sip. then another. slower this time. he’s still frowning, but noticeably less combative. when you take the glass back he doesn’t complain, just watches you set it down. “i don’t know, i guess you’re nicer about it.” he admits.
“about what?”
“everything. she tells me what to do like i’m five.”
“you are acting like you’re five.”
he glares weakly. you step closer without thinking this time and sit down on the edge of the bed. not fully next to him, but close enough that your knee brushes the blanket. you lift a hand and run your fingers gently through his hair, damp with sweat and sticking up in every direction. it’s softer than usual, curls loose and messy. he makes a small sound before he can stop himself and his eyes flutter shut. when he opens his eyes, they’re huge and glossy and absolutely unfair. big, miserable, hopeful. the famous mike wheeler puppy eyes.
“how bad is it?” you ask, gently, already regretting phrasing it like that because mike immediately seizes it as an opportunity to give a full medical report.
“terrible,” he says flatly. “…i mean—obviously.” he coughs once, then groans. “my head is pounding and my throat is like fire.”
“okay, but your fever isn’t that high?”
“it’s high enough! high enough to be concerning! listen, i know my body. i’ve been alive long enough to know that—if i live through this, which i might not—i will be telling stories about this for the rest of my life.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re fine. you’re sick, but you’re fine.”
his shoulders slump a fraction. “…but… you shouldn’t have to deal with this... i’m inconvenient…. i’m warm... i’m a burden…. i cough and sneeze and produce gross fluids….”
“i can handle it.” you say.
he sighs, head falling back into the pillows, eyes half-lidded. “you’re right. you should.”
“okay.” you murmur, hand brushing through his damp, moppy hair again, which earns a tiny, helpless noise somewhere between a whine and a sigh, basking in the fact that you’re here. that you’re not his mom. that you’re not forcing him to eat soup. that someone is giving him this much attention without complaint.
“…how much longer do i have? …before i die?”
you bite back a laugh. “a while. you’re fine.”
he blinks at you slowly, like he’s weighing something important, like the answer to life itself, then his mouth twists. “…a while,” he repeats, skeptical. “you say that now.”
you snort, shifting closer on the bed anyway, because for all his theatrics he looks genuinely wrecked—cheeks flushed, lashes clumped just a little from watery eyes, hair sticking up in damp, defeated angles. he tracks the movement immediately. always does. even half-dead, apparently.
mike wheeler does not like being taken care of. this is a known fact. he hates feeling helpless, hates the implication that he can’t handle himself, hates soup being pushed at him and adults hovering and the whole humiliating production of being sick. you? you’re different. it’s like the perfect excuse to have all of your attention falls right into the palms of his hand.
and he knows it.
“i just feel like if i fall asleep i might not wake up.”
“mike.”
“i’m serious,” he insists weakly. “that’s how it happens. people underestimate these things.”
“you have a cold.”
“a bad cold.”
you reach out, press the back of your fingers to his forehead again, mostly to shut him up. his eyes close like his body just gives up the fight entirely. he leans into the touch without even thinking about it, you can practically see the relief wash through him at being allowed to be miserable out loud.
he stays like that for a second too long for it to be accidental. mike hates this. he hates being seen like this. helpless, sniffling, visibly not okay. he hates the idea of being handled. hates the implication that he needs someone hovering over him, checking his temperature, reminding him to drink water like he’s five years old again. but he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, forehead nudging into your fingers. his lashes flutter, and when his eyes open they’re glassy and unfocused and very deliberately fixed on you. “see? i told you.”
you don’t even ask what he means. you just sigh softly, fingers sliding into his hair, and that’s when he really melts. mike wheeler is a sucker for pity. he’d never admit it—not in a million years—but sympathy hits him somewhere deep, somewhere he doesn’t have good defenses for. it makes him feel seen without having to ask. cared for without having to explain himself.
right now? he’s absolutely clocked that you’re giving it freely. it starts subtle. a scoot closer. then another. then suddenly he’s tugging gently at your wrist, like he’s not even sure he’s allowed to ask, but hoping you’ll understand anyway. “can you— .. can you lay down? just— for a minute.”
you hesitate, enough for him to clock it, and his face immediately folds into that look. the one that should be illegal. the one that says i’m sick and i’m fragile and why would you deny a dying man his last wish all at once. “…please.” he adds, quieter.
so you give in. of course you do. the second you settle beside him he moves like he’s been waiting for the cue. he turns onto his side and hooks an arm around your waist, pulls you in with surprising strength for someone who’s supposedly on death’s door. his head tucks against your chest, cheek pressing into you, nose warm through the fabric.
it’s funny how selective mike is about being taken care of. on paper, he’s terrible at it. always has been. he flinches at fussing. bristles when his mom hovers in the doorway with that worried crease between her eyebrows, asking if he needs soup, needs a blanket, needs to lie down. he snaps, insists he’s fine when he’s clearly not, pulls himself upright just to prove a point. he’s spent most of his life being the one who watches, who plans, who stays awake longer than he should just in case something goes wrong. letting himself be the weak one feels wrong. embarrassing. but then there’s this. this very specific exception he never questions.
when he’s sick—really sick, feverish and miserable and stripped of the energy it takes to be defensive—something in him softens. not all the way, but enough. “just for a minute,” like minutes haven’t always turned into hours with him, like he doesn’t already know exactly what he wants. the moment you give in, he takes it.
mike doesn’t think he likes attention. he’d say he doesn’t need it. he’d roll his eyes, scoff, make a joke about being babied. the truth is that he’s a sucker for it. not praise or fuss or a whole room focused on him. he likes this kind. singular. undivided. the kind where someone chooses him and stays. the kind where all the noise drops away and there’s just one person paying attention to the way he breathes, the way he shifts, the way his fingers curl weakly into fabric.
he is, objectively, the most dramatic sick person alive. a sore throat becomes a sign. a fever becomes a warning. his head pounds and suddenly he’s thinking about mortality, about how people don’t take him seriously when he says something’s wrong, about how the last time he ignored a bad feeling the world almost ended. of course he thinks he’s dying. his body feels wrong and his brain has never been great at not spiraling. so he sighs like it costs him something. he closes his eyes longer than necessary. he mutters things like “i think i’m getting worse,” in that quiet, rasped voice that’s just this side of pathetic, like he’s reporting facts instead of fishing. he doesn’t ask for reassurance, but he listens very carefully when it’s given.
his arm tightens around your waist, and then his leg slides forward too, tangling with yours in a way that makes it clear he’s not going anywhere. he’s warm—too warm—heat bleeding through layers, through the thin space between you, all fever and proximity and zero regard for personal space. he noses closer, face pressing fully into your chest now, like if he can’t see you then you definitely can’t tell him to move. his breath is hot and a little uneven where it hits your skin.
he clings. that’s the only word for it. fingers gripping fabric at your side, arm locked around you, legs hooked over yours. every few seconds he shifts, minutely, like he’s trying to get even closer, even though there’s no space left. “mike,” you murmur. “you’re really hot.”
he hums, lazy, muffled. doesn’t lift his head. “i know.”
“no, i mean—” you laugh softly, already doomed. “you’re making me hot.”
“oh. sorry.” he says, dutiful. apologetic in theory.
he does not move.
if anything, he settles more, cheek rubbing against you, arm tightening again, stubborn now. you sigh and let it happen. you could tell him to move. you could point out—again—that he’s basically a walking space heater, that he’s sweating through your shirt, that this is the least hygienic decision either of you could be making right now. you could remind him that he hates being coddled and that if he were lucid and healthy he’d already be apologizing himself into a spiral. but you don’t.
he’s content. genuinely, visibly content in a way you don’t get to see very often. even when he’s relaxed sometimes it’s like he’s waiting for the next thing to go wrong. right now, though, there’s none of that. you card your fingers through his hair once more and he reacts instantly. a quiet noise slips out of him before he can stop it, low and pleased, and his forehead presses more firmly into you like he’s trying to disappear there.
there’s something almost funny about it. this is the same guy who gets embarrassed when people fuss over him, who bristles when anyone implies he can’t handle something on his own. the same guy who insists he’s fine right up until he’s very clearly not. with you, he doesn’t bother pretending. maybe because he doesn’t have to explain himself. maybe because he knows you won’t make a big deal out of it. maybe because pity, when it’s gentle, feels less like a weakness and more like permission to be soft. “you okay?” you ask, mostly rhetorical.
he nods against you, the movement small and sleepy. “mhm.” another pause. “don’t stop.”
you don’t. you trace patterns along his scalp, and he relaxes more with every pass, weight sinking into you. his leg stays hooked over yours, anchoring you there just as much as his arm around your waist does. you think about how you’re definitely going to regret this later. about germs and fevers and the fact that he’s been coughing directly into your personal space for the better part of an hour. you think about how you absolutely do not care.
this is rare. mike letting himself be held without making it weird or pulling away at the last second. mike choosing comfort over pride. eventually, his breathing evens out completely. not asleep—he’s not that lucky—but hovering somewhere close, eyes closed, face slack, body heavy with exhaustion and relief. he shifts once, nose nudging into you, and mumbles something unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like your name.
you smile and stay like that for a long time. long enough that your arm starts to ache a little. long enough that you’re pretty sure he’s stealing your body heat and replacing it with whatever plague he’s carrying. worth it.
a few days later, when your throat is scratchy and your head feels suspiciously warm and mike—fully recovered and unbearably smug—hands you a glass of water and goes, “wow. that’s crazy. wonder how that happened.”
you glare at him over the rim.
he grins, unapologetic.
you’d do it again.
based off the first request !
A/N: HI MY LOVELIES. quick little soft!mike blurb i hope this wasn’t too ooc… i got this ask yesterday but i actually had this exact plot in the drafts already so this was perfect.. sorry for the small disappearance !! i missed u all mwa mwas . ALSO??? the amount of love im getting for my mike fics guys THANK YOU!!!! i’m literally him you don’t get it 😭✌️. i’m so happy you’re enjoying my characterization he’s my evil son and i hate him (he deserves the world)
