✨A✨

[mattsobvimyfav]

Master List

matthew sturniolo

series- Roommates , Neighbors , unknown

one-shots- American wedding 1, American wedding 2 , no one noticed

christopher sturniolo

series - coming soon

one-shots - coming soon

requests are open, dm's are open, message or comment to be on tag lists, enjoy <3

[kamryyy-deactivated20110627]

reblog if you're willing to answer anything that comes to your ask box right now

[mattsobvimyfav]

fuck should i write another matt fic, i have the whole plot

write it

yes yes

u literally never finish stories

Voting ended onMar 15

[2collegegirlss]

Introduction

Hellloooo here’s our first post on here just wanted to introduce us and the whole point of the page.

Me and my best friend made this page, we are just going to post about our days maybe talk about what’s going on in our life’s, think about this as a reference to anyone going to live at college or living at home and going to college.

Basically I just wanted somewhere to talk about what’s goes on in my life and all the stupid drama and the life i live. so welcome.

Also if you have anyyy questions about life, school, anything u can always ask us im so honest it hurts sometimes.

This page will be so much more put together at some point. It’s the start of second sem and i will get it together at some point.

🩶

[mattsobvimyfav]

i literally love stuff like this bc i love seeing school through other peoples eyes and opinions its so fun and i love blogs god i just love girls so much

[mattsobvimyfav]

i only watched the last few episode of Stranger Things bc my friend is obsessed but your Mike fic has me CLOCKED TF IN i lovee it

thank uuu i will get back to it at some point!!

[mattsobvimyfav]

would you ever make another matt series?

i would if i got some requests

[mattsobvimyfav]

Before the bell (Mike Wheeler)

Part 4

*plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+* this was written before my girl el gets slimmed out @ch0llies

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Mike doesn’t look at me.

He keeps staring out the window.

I don’t say anything.

I don’t breathe.

I just sit there.

Silent.

Too silent.

Steve glances at me through the mirror. “You okay back there?”

My fingers curl into my palms.

“Pull over,” I say.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Pull the car over.”

“Hey, chill—”

“Pull the fucking car over!” I yell suddenly, voice cracking. “Pull over! Let me out! Let me the fuck out of this car!”

“Whoa, whoa—” Dustin says. “What the hell—”

“Y/N, relax—” Mike starts.

“I said pull over!” I scream.

Steve swears under his breath and jerks the wheel toward the shoulder, gravel spraying as the car stops hard.

Before anyone can react, I shove the door open.

I climb straight over Mike’s lap, barely registering his hands reaching out for me.

“Y/N, wait—” he says.

I’m already out.

Already running.

I sprint into the trees without thinking, branches whipping at my arms, roots catching my feet. I don’t care. I don’t stop.

Behind me I hear them.

“Y/N!”

“Stop!”

“Come back!”

I don’t.

I just run — into the dark, into the woods, away from the car, away from the truth, away from the feeling that just hollowed me out.

My lungs burn.

My heart slams.

And I don’t know if I’m running from Vecna…

…or from Mike Wheeler.

The farther I run, the darker it gets.

Not just night-dark. Wrong-dark.

The trees stretch taller. Thicker. The air turns heavy, like I’m breathing through fabric. My feet barely make sound on the ground anymore — like I’m not even running on dirt.

Then I see them.

The particles.

Tiny black flecks floating in the air like ash. Like spores. Like dust that doesn’t fall.

My stomach drops.

Dustin wasn’t lying.

“No,” I whisper.

The clock chimes.

Once.

Deep. Hollow. Loud enough that I feel it in my ribs.

I run faster.

Branches whip at my arms, thorns tear at my skin, but I don’t slow down. The chime sounds again.

Closer.

Louder.

I turn my head just long enough to see how far I’ve gone from the road.

I don’t see the car.

I don’t see lights.

I don’t see anything but black.

I turn back—

And he’s there.

Right in front of me.

I slam into him so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs and throws me backward onto the ground. My vision blurs. My head spins.

He stands over me.

Vecna.

My body goes ice-cold.

I scramble up, panic screaming through me, and turn and run the other way.

“You can’t hide here,” his voice booms — not loud, but everywhere. Inside my skull. In the air. In my bones.

I start screaming their names.

“Mike!”

My heart stutters.

“Dustin!”

I sob, not even realizing it.

“Steve!”

My legs burn.

“Lucas!”

I scream.

“Mike!”

Again.

Louder.

I don’t know where I’m running anymore.

I don’t know what’s real.

All I know is he’s behind me 

The fog changes color.

Not slowly.

Not naturally.

It bleeds.

Gray melts into red, thick and pulsing like something alive. The air turns warm and wet. My shoes stick to the ground when I walk, like I’m stepping through something that doesn’t want to let go.

The forest isn’t a forest anymore.

The trees are wrong — bark peeled back like exposed muscle, branches twisted into jagged shapes that look too much like bones. The leaves drip.

Red vines snake across the ground like veins.

Then I see the stairs.

Floating.

Made of something that looks like bone and stone fused together, rising up into nothing.

My breath comes out in shaky gasps as I climb them.

At the top —

A lair.

A massive, ribbed structure made of stone and sinew and root. Vines wrap around it like a cage.

Inside, floating in the center of the space…

The grandfather clock.

Behind it, the ruins of a house — walls broken, furniture smashed, everything warped and decayed like it’s been rotting for years.

Then I see them.

Bodies.

Chrissy.

Fred.

Suspended in the air by thick red tendrils, twisted unnaturally, eyes open and empty, mouths frozen mid-scream.

My stomach flips violently.

“No,” I whisper.

A voice echoes behind me.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?”

I spin around.

Vecna stands across the room.

Tall.

Still.

Watching me like I’m an insect he’s already decided to pin.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, backing up. “I didn’t— I was just trying to get away.”

He tilts his head.

“You cannot run from what you are chosen for.”

I turn and run.

I don’t make it three steps.

Something wraps around my ankle.

Hard.

Tight.

I’m yanked backward so violently I hit the ground and the air punches out of me in a sharp cry.

I claw at the floor as the vine drags me across the room — across bone, across root, across the sticky red surface — pulling me toward one of the broken wooden posts of the ruined house.

“No, no, no— please—” I sob.

More vines snap out.

They wrap around my wrists.

My waist.

My shoulders.

They lift me and slam me back against the post, pinning me upright.

My feet barely touch the ground.

I gasp as something coils around my throat — not crushing yet, just tight enough to make me aware of it.

Just tight enough to make me panic.

Vecna steps closer.

Slow.

Measured.

Predatory.

“You have seen too much,” he says calmly. “You felt what they felt. You heard what they heard.”

Tears run down my face.

“I don’t want this,” I whisper.

His eyes darken.

“None of them did.”

The vines tighten just a little.

Enough to steal my breath.

Enough to make my vision blur.

Enough to remind me that I am not in control here.

The vine around my throat constricts harder, forcing a sound out of me that isn’t a scream — it’s too thin for that — just a broken, wet gasp. I tilt my head back instinctively, trying to steal more air, but it only makes Vecna tighten his grip.

My vision tunnels.

The red fades at the edges into gray.

Then —

A tear opens behind him.

Not like a rip.

Like a wound.

A soft oval of light splits the dark, pulsing faintly, unstable.

And sound leaks through it.

Silver Springs.

Low at first.

Muffled.

Then clearer.

A heartbeat of music.

My heart lurches.

I look past Vecna.

Through the portal.

And I see them.

Mike.

Dustin.

Steve.

Lucas.

Looking down at me.

Not here — not in this place — but over my body.

My real body.

Standing still in the woods.

A pair of headphones pressed over my ears.

A Walkman resting on my chest.

They look terrified.

They look desperate.

They look like they’re already losing me.

Vecna notices.

He turns his head slowly, studying the light behind him like it’s an inconvenience.

Then he looks back at me.

“They cannot help you, Y/N,” he says calmly. “There is a reason you are running from them.”

The vine tightens again.

“You belong here with me.”

Another vine coils around my throat.

The pressure doubles.

My vision flashes white.

I choke, the sound wet and broken — and force the words out anyway.

“You’re not really here.”

He pauses.

Then he smiles.

“Oh,” he says softly, “but I am, Y/N. I am.”

His long, spiked fingers rise.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Reaching toward my face.

Toward my eyes.

Toward the place where I feel most like myself.

Behind him, the music gets louder.

The portal pulses brighter.

My body begins to lift — not here, but there — my real body rising off the ground as the others shout my name.

Vecna’s eyes roll back into his head.

The room trembles.

The vines vibrate like tuning forks.

My chest burns.

My ears ring.

And then —

I feel something pull me.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like a hook behind my ribs.

Like a hand inside my heart.

Mike’s voice cuts through the noise.

Not loud.

Not yelling.

Just raw.

Just real.

“Y/N. Stay.”

The words hit harder than the vines.

My vision snaps.

The portal flares.

Vecna stiffens.

“No,” he says sharply.

The vines jerk tighter.

But it’s too late.

The music surges.

I hear them.

Not as sounds.

As anchors.

My name layered over itself.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N!”

“Stay with us.”

Mike.

Steve.

Dustin.

Lucas.

Their voices overlap, distorted, echoing like they’re calling from underwater.

I close my eyes.

Silver Springs swells in my head.

And I stop fighting.

I let myself remember.

My mom’s laugh in the kitchen, the way she used to hum while cooking.

My dad before the bottles — before his eyes got tired and his voice got mean.

The way Hawkins smelled different in the morning.

My room back home.

My old friends.

Then —

Mike’s face when he first turned around under the streetlight.

The way he looked at me like he wasn’t expecting something good to happen anymore.

Dustin cheering when I won the game.

Eddie’s grin.

The way Mike told me, you’re here now — I’ll take care of you.

The way he said it was like a promise.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

My chest tightens.

Not with fear.

With anger.

With clarity.

With no.

My eyes snap open.

The vines around me twitch.

I pull my arm back —

And shove it forward.

Not to destroy.

Not to kill.

Just to break free.

My hand tears through the vine binding me, snapping it apart like wet paper.

Vecna recoils, shrieking — not in pain, but in shock.

The control breaks.

The room stutters.

The air cracks.

I hit the ground hard, lungs burning, but I don’t stop.

I scramble up and run.

Toward the light.

Toward the music.

Toward them.

Behind me the world is coming apart.

Vecna lifts his hand and the air shudders. Pieces of the broken house rip free — chunks of concrete, shattered doors, jagged splinters of bone and wood — flying toward me like weapons.

Something slams into my shoulder.

I stumble.

Hit the ground hard.

My palms burn.

I gasp — roll — push myself back up.

Run again.

Another impact grazes my leg. Pain flashes white.

I scream but I don’t stop.

The portal glows ahead of me — the only real thing in a place that isn’t real.

I trip again.

Get up again.

Vecna doesn’t chase.

He watches.

Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll actually make it.

I do.

I throw myself forward —

Into light.

Into sound.

Into nothing.

Everything cuts out.

No color.

No sound.

No weight.

Just black.

For a long, terrifying stretch of time where I’m not sure I exist.

Then I’m floating.

There’s wind.

Cold air rushing around me.

My arms drift upward like I’m underwater.

My hair lifts.

I’m not on the ground.

I’m above it.

I hear my name echoing upward.

“Y/N!”

“Y/N!”

“Come back!”

My eyes flutter open.

I’m suspended in the air above the trees.

Just a few feet.

But enough.

Enough to make my stomach drop.

I gasp sharply —

And gravity snaps back on.

I fall.

Mike catches me.

Hard.

His arms wrap around me mid-drop and pull me into his chest, stumbling back a step but keeping me upright.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I thought I lost you — I thought I—”

Steve is right there.

Dustin is sobbing.

Lucas is shaking.

Hands grab my arms, my shoulders, grounding me.

The woods are real.

The air is real.

I collapse into Mike and we fall onto the ground.

The Silver Springs Walkman is still playing over my ears.

Mike holds me tighter, forehead pressed to my hair like he’s afraid to let go.

I’m shaking.

Breathing too fast.

Still half somewhere else.

But I force the words out.

“I’m still…” I gasp. “I’m still here.”

The words come out broken, barely louder than breath, but they land like something sacred.

Mike lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob and pulls me tighter, his hands shaking as he cups the back of my head like if he lets go I’ll disappear again.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You scared all of us.”

Steve drops to a knee beside us, hands braced on the dirt, chest heaving. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You just— you were gone.”

Dustin wipes his face hard with his sleeve, not even trying to hide it. “You were floating, man. Like— like a horror movie. We thought—” He chokes and stops.

Lucas kneels on my other side, steady and quiet. “You’re back now,” he says firmly. “That’s what matters.”

The forest feels different.

Not warm. Not safe. But quieter. Like something pulled away at the last second.

I try to sit up and instantly regret it. My head spins, the world tilts, and Mike’s arms tighten around me again.

“Hey—nope,” he says quickly. “You’re not going anywhere. Just—just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

His voice shakes on the last word.

I nod weakly, pressing my face into his shoulder. My whole body feels wrong—like my bones are buzzing, like something scraped through me and left echoes behind.

Steve glances around, tense. “We need to move. Now. Before Vecna can get her back.”

Dustin nods. “Agreed. And she’s not walking.”

Mike doesn’t argue. He just shifts, sliding an arm under my knees and lifting me carefully into his arms.

I make a weak sound of protest, more reflex than resistance.

“I’m fine—”

“No,” he says softly but firmly. “You’re not. And that’s okay.”

I don’t have the energy to argue.

As he carries me through the trees, I rest my head against his chest. His heartbeat is fast and real beneath my ear. Proof. Anchor. Reality.

The world feels far away. Like I’m still halfway between places.

Steve walks ahead. Dustin and Lucas trail behind, watching every shadow.

And as we move, I realize something that makes my stomach twist in a different way.

The ride back to Mike’s house is quiet in a way that makes my ears ring.

No one talks. No one even turns the radio on.

Steve drives with both hands locked on the wheel like he’s afraid if he lets go, the whole night will cave in. Dustin sits up front, knees bouncing nonstop. Lucas stares out the window, jaw tight. Mike’s in the back seat with me, sitting too close but not touching, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again if he blinks.

Every bump in the road makes my stomach twist.

When we finally pull into Mike’s driveway, the house looks normal. Warm porch light. Curtains drawn. A place that doesn’t know what almost happened.

Steve kills the engine. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Everybody inside. No arguing.”

No one argues.

Inside, the basement feels different than before. Not unsafe—just heavier. Like the walls remember something they shouldn’t.

Mike grabs a blanket from the couch and drapes it around my shoulders without a word. I don’t protest. My hands are still shaking.

Dustin paces. “Okay. So. We need a plan before Vecna can take her again, because he almost did this time. We got lucky. ”

“Not almost,” Steve says. “He did. We just got her back.”

Lucas crosses his arms. “So what now? We take shifts? Nobody sleeps?”

Mike finally speaks. His voice is quiet but steady. “Yeah. We take turns. Someone’s always awake.”

He looks at me then, and for a split second his composure cracks.

“She’s not being left alone.”

Something tight in my chest loosens.

Robin sits cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a notebook she grabbed from her bag. “We also need information. Patterns. Weaknesses. Because Vecna is learning.”

“About her,” Dustin adds.

The room goes quiet again.

I swallow. “He knew my fears,” I say softly. “Stuff I don’t talk about. Stuff I don’t think about.”

Mike looks at me sharply. “What did he show you?”

I hesitate. Then shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not real.”

His jaw tightens. “It mattered to you.”

Silence.

Finally Steve claps his hands once, sharp. “Okay. Here’s the deal. We rotate. One person stays up with her at all times. No exceptions. If anything weird happens—anything—you wake everyone.”

Dustin nods. “I’ll take first watch.”

“I’ll take second,” Steve adds.

Mike doesn’t say anything.

He just sits next to me on the couch, close enough that our shoulders touch. His knee bounces once, then stills.

“I’m staying,” he says finally. “All night.”

No one argues.

They start setting up—blankets, pillows, lights left on low. A kind of makeshift command center.

I curl into the corner of the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to me. My eyes burn. My body feels heavy, like gravity doubled when I wasn’t looking.

Mike sits on the floor beside me, back against the couch, arms folded on his knees.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

I want to say something sarcastic. Something normal.

Instead, my voice comes out small. “If I start… if I say something weird—”

He shakes his head immediately. “We’ll wake you. You’re not doing this alone.”

My eyelids flutter.

The last thing I see before sleep takes me is Mike’s profile in the dim light, eyes fixed on the room, alert, protective.

And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I feel it.

Waiting.

Watching.

But this time, I’m not alone.

Sleep drags me under like a hand around my ankle.

I’m standing in Mike’s basement again.

But it’s wrong.

The lights flicker, buzzing too loud, too harsh. Shadows cling to the corners of the room like they’re alive. The air feels thick, pressing against my chest.

“Mike?” I call out.

No answer.

I take a step forward.

The floor creaks beneath my feet, stretching too long between steps, like the room is expanding just to mess with me.

Then I see him.

Mike stands near the stairs, his back to me.

Relief floods my chest. “Oh—thank God.”

He doesn’t turn.

“Mike?” I say again.

Slowly, he turns around.

My stomach drops.

His face is wrong. Not disfigured—worse. Empty. His eyes are hollow, dark, reflecting nothing. His mouth twitches into something that almost looks like a smile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

The sound of his voice is off. Too flat. Like someone mimicking him without understanding how he’s supposed to sound.

“I—what?” I whisper. “What are you talking about?”

He tilts his head. “You don’t belong with us.”

The room shifts. The walls stretch taller, closing in.

“I saved you,” he continues calmly. “And you ruined everything.”

My chest tightens. “That’s not true.”

He takes a step closer.

“You’re always in the way,” he says. “You show up, and things go wrong. People get hurt.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“That’s not you,” I say, backing up. “You wouldn’t say that.”

His mouth twitches again—almost a smile.

“I didn’t,” he replies, voice distorting. “But he would.”

The lights flicker violently.

The walls start bleeding shadows, dripping downward like melted ink.

Behind him, something moves.

A shape stretches up the wall, its outline crawling like a spider’s shadow.

Vecna.

My stomach twists.

Mike’s eyes go completely black.

“You don’t belong here,” he says again, but this time the words aren’t his.

“They’ll all be better without you.”

The room tilts violently. I stumble, grabbing for something—anything—and my hand passes straight through him.

He’s not solid.

He was never real.

The floor cracks open beneath my feet.

I fall—

“Hey. Hey, hey—wake up.”

A hand grips my shoulder. Firm. Real.

I jolt awake with a sharp gasp, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.

My eyes fly open.

Mike is kneeling beside the couch, his face pale, hair messy, eyes wide with panic.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

I suck in a shaky breath, then another. The room comes back into focus—the dim lamp, the blankets, the quiet hum of the house.

My hands are shaking.

“I—I was—” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t move.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You were breathing fast. You kept saying my name.”

I freeze.

His expression shifts—concern mixing with something unreadable.

“You were scared,” he adds quietly. “It’s okay.”

I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around myself like armor. My chest still aches, and my eyes sting.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he says immediately. “I was already awake.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

The words tumble out before I can stop them.

“I didn’t know,” I say, staring at my hands. “About… her. About you and Eleven.”

Mike stiffens.

My stomach drops. “I mean—I wasn’t— I didn’t—” I rub my face hard. “I just found out today and now I feel like an idiot. Like I crossed some line or something, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

He exhales slowly.

“We broke up,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

He swallows. “Before she left. The day they moved to California.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

“It wasn’t… dramatic,” he continues, staring at the floor. “Just—distance. Misunderstandings. Things changing.” He lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “We didn’t really know how to talk anymore.”

I nod, my chest twisting.

“I didn’t know,” I say again. “I swear. I would’ve—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence settles between us, heavier now, but different. Softer.

He glances at me. “You’re not a… cheater or whatever your brain’s trying to convince you of.”

I huff out a weak laugh despite myself. “You don’t know what my brain’s capable of.”

He almost smiles.

Then his expression sobers. “You don’t have to carry this stuff alone. Not the nightmares. Not the guilt. Not any of it.”

I swallow. “It’s hard not to.”

“I know.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “But you don’t have to be alone right now.”

He shifts slightly, giving me space—but not distance.

After a moment, I lean back against the couch cushions. He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch again.

I don’t pull away.

Outside, the house is silent. No creaks. No shadows. No voices.

Just the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside me.

The silence stretches again after my last words.

Mike shifts beside me, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to find the right way to say something he’s never said out loud before.

“I never told the party me and Eleven broke up because there’s… more,” he admits quietly.

I look over at him. “More than the nightmare demon?”

He huffs a short, tired breath. “Yeah. A lot more.”

I wait.

He stares at the floor for a long moment, then finally starts talking.

“So—Max.” He swallows. “She’s… she’s in a coma.”

My chest tightens. “Who?”

“Lucas’ girlfriend, she was attacked. Last year.” His jaw clenches. “Same thing that happened to Will. Except this time is different.”

I feel cold all over. “But she’s alive?”

“Barely,” he says.

My throat tightens. “Who is Will? What happened to him? How was it different with him?”

His shoulders tense at the name.

“Will was the first,” he says. “Back in middle school. Before any of this had a name. He was taken into the Upside Down. The first time, his body was gone, missing, Max's body is still here. The second time he was possessed. Controlled. Used as a spy.”

My stomach twists.

“He could feel it,” Mike continues. “Even after he got back. I think he still can, sometimes. Like a connection that never fully went away.”

I stare at the floor, my chest tightening with every word.

“So all this time…” I whisper. “You guys have been dealing with this. Fighting it. Since middle school?”

Mike nods. “And trying to keep other people safe. Especially people we care about.”

I look at him then. Really look at him.

His eyes are tired. Not just sleepy — tired in the way that comes from carrying too much for too long.

The silence settles again, heavier now that the truth is out in the open.

It’s strange how much can happen in three days.

Three days since I got to Hawkins.

Three days since I thought my biggest problem was starting over.

I rub my arms, suddenly aware of how tired I am. “It’s only been… what, seventy-two hours?” I murmur. “It feels like months.”

Mike lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Yeah. That’s kind of how it goes.”

I glance at him. “How do you do this? Just… live like this all the time?”

He shrugs, but it’s a hollow motion. “You stop thinking about how long it’s been and just focus on what’s right in front of you. That’s how you survive it.”

Something about that hits me harder than it should.

“You shouldn’t have to,” I say.

He looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s weighing whether to say what’s actually on his mind.

“I didn’t,” he admits. “At first. But after a while, you don’t really get a choice.”

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Each second feels louder than the last.

I wrap my arms around myself. “I keep thinking… if I hadn’t come here, none of this would’ve happened.”

Mike’s head snaps up. “Don’t. This would've happened with or without you. Venca has a reason for picking you. We just don't know what it is yet.” His voice is firm now. Not angry. Certain. 

“And because you’re strong,” he adds. “Even if you don’t feel like it.”

That makes my throat tighten in a way I don’t like.

I look down at my hands. “I don’t feel strong. I feel… tired. And scared. And like I’m one bad dream away from losing it.”

Mike shifts closer, careful, not touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth.

“That’s normal,” he says quietly. “Anyone would be scared after what you’ve been through. The fact that you’re still standing? That matters.”

I breathe out slowly.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The house creaks. Somewhere down the hall, the furnace kicks on.

Three days.

It’s only been three days.

[mattsobvimyfav]

Before the bell (Mike Wheeler)

Part 3

*plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+* this was written before my girl el gets slimmed out @ch0llies

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Dustin squints at Mike suddenly, like something just clicked in his head. “Wait,” he says slowly. “If you’re here, then why aren’t you in California—”

Mike cuts him off a little too fast. “I just didn’t go,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Plans changed.”

Dustin blinks. “But you were supposed to see—”

“—Yeah,” Mike says quickly, louder than necessary. “I know. But it didn’t work out. They said it was fine.”

That shuts Dustin up, at least on the surface. He studies Mike for a second, clearly sensing something off, but then he lets it go with a small nod.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Cool.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Guess that makes things easier.”

I don’t miss the way Mike avoids my eyes after that. Or the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for a question he doesn’t want to answer.

I don’t ask.

Instead, I say, “So what now?”

Dustin’s expression shifts back into focus, serious again. “Now we find Eddie.”

Mike straightens. “Before the cops do.”

“Or before Jason and his psycho basketball cult,” Dustin adds. “Because if they get to him first—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

I fold my arms, “Where would he even go?”

Dustin exhales through his nose. “Eddie’s not exactly a ‘run and hide in a hotel’ kind of guy. He doesn’t have money. Or a car. Or a plan, probably.”

“Which means he’s scared,” Mike says quietly. “And scared people make bad choices.”

“So,” I say finally, “we have to find him before he does something stupid?”

Dustin nods. “Exactly. I know a few places he might go. The woods near Lover’s Lake. The old railroad shed. Maybe Reefer Rick’s place.”

Mike looks between us, resolve settling into his face. “Then we start there.”

I meet his eyes, something electric passing between us again—fear, adrenaline, trust, all tangled together.

The bell above the door jingles as we push into Family Video, A young man looks up from behind the counter, mid-lean, hair perfect as ever. A girl is beside him, sorting returns and talking a mile a minute.

“—and I’m just saying, if you alphabetize by director and genre, it saves—”

She stops cold when she sees us.

He squints. “Uh… hi?”

Before anyone can say anything else, he points between me and Mike. “And who are you?”

Dustin jumps in immediately. “Y/n, Steve and Robin, Robin and Steve, Y/n - no time to explain We’re in a situation.”

I give a quick, awkward little wave. “Hi.”

Steve blinks. “Okay…”

Dustin doesn’t let him process it. “Chrissy Cunningham is dead.”

That lands like a bomb.

Robin’s mouth drops open. “What?”

Steve straightens instantly. “Dead how?”

“They found her this morning,” Dustin says. “In Eddie Munson’s trailer.”

Robin’s face drains of color. Steve’s jaw tightens.

“And now Eddie’s missing,” I add quietly.

Steve exhales through his nose. “Of course he is.”

Dustin presses on. “We think he’s hiding. And if the cops get to him first—”

“He’s done,” Steve finishes. “Yeah. I know.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Mike says. “We need to find him before they do.”

Steve stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” Dustin snaps.

“No. Eddie Munson is a walking disaster,” Steve says. “The guy sells drugs, plays death metal, and scares freshmen for fun. I’m not getting involved in whatever ritualistic nonsense he’s mixed up in.”

“He didn’t do this,” Dustin insists.

I fold my arms. “You don’t actually know that.”

Everyone looks at me.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, embarrassed but honest. “From the outside? It looks bad. And if we get caught helping him—”

Steve points at me. “Thank you. Voice of reason.”

Dustin throws his hands up. “You’re both missing the point! Eddie is not a killer. He’s weird, yeah, but he’s not violent. He wouldn’t hurt Chrissy.”

Robin, who’s been quiet, tilts her head thoughtfully. “Okay, but hypothetically—if he didn’t do it—where would he go?”

Dustin exhales. “Somewhere off the grid. Somewhere no one would think to look.”

Robin’s eyes light up. “Oh. Oh, I know exactly where.”

She rushes behind the counter, grabbing a clipboard and flipping pages. “Eddie used to come in here all the time, right? Always talking about this guy he buys drugs from—Reefer Rick. Lives out near Lover’s Lake.”

Steve groans. “Of course he does.”

“And,” Robin adds proudly, “I may or may not have his address saved. Used to buy pot from him.”

Dustin’s face breaks into a grin. “You’re a genius.”

Steve sighs like the weight of the world just dropped on his shoulders. “I hate that I’m involved in this.”

I glance at Mike. He’s quiet, focused, jaw set like he’s already committed.

“So,” I say softly, “we find Eddie before the cops do.”

The drive out to Reefer Rick’s place is quiet, the kind of silence that presses on your ears. Trees blur past, the road narrowing the farther we go, until it’s nothing but dirt and darkness swallowing the headlights.

We park near the edge of the clearing.

The house looks abandoned—windows dark, porch sagging, the kind of place you’d expect something bad to happen in.

Dustin hops out first. “Okay. This is it.”

We approach together, shoes crunching on gravel. The air feels wrong—too still.

Dustin cups his hands around his mouth. “REEFER RICK!” he shouts. “REEEFER RIIICK!”

Nothing.

He tries again, louder. “REEFER RICK!”

Silence answers back.

“This place gives me the creeps,” I mutter.

Steve exhales sharply. “Yeah. Let’s just do a quick sweep and get out.”

We split slightly, circling the house. That’s when I noticed it.

“Guys,” I say quietly, pointing past the trees. “Over there.”

A shed sits a short distance away, half-hidden behind brush. The door is cracked open. Light spills out onto the dirt.

“That’s… not ominous at all,” Steve mutters.

I don’t wait for permission. I start toward it.

“Hey—!” Dustin hisses, hurrying after me. “Don’t just—”

But I’m already closer, heart pounding. “Guys,” I call softly. “There’s something in here.”

They join me at the doorway. Inside, the shed is cluttered—tools, crates, old junk everywhere.

And then I see it.

A pile of empty food wrappers. Soda cans. A blanket tossed over a crate.

“Someone’s been here,” I say quietly.

Steve steps in front of us automatically, protective instinct kicking in. “Stay back.”

In the center of the shed sits a small boat on a trailer, a tarp draped over it.

Dustin squints. “Why is there a boat in a shed?”

Steve grips a wooden oar leaning against the wall and nudges the tarp cautiously. “I’m just gonna check—”

“Steve, don’t—” I start.

Too late.

The tarp flies back—

And something moves.

“AHHH!” I scream as a figure launches out of the boat, crashing straight into Steve.

They both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, Steve shouting, “WHAT THE HELL—GET OFF ME, YOU PSYCHO—”

Dustin shrieks. “EDDIE?!”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he yells.

Everyone freezes.

Eddie Munson stands there, chest heaving, eyes darting like a trapped animal.

For a split second, no one says anything.

Then Dustin blurts, “Oh my God, Eddie, you’re alive.”

Eddie stares at us like we’ve all lost our minds.

“…Why are there so many of you?”

Eddie finally lets go of Steve, scrambling backward like he’s just realized he tackled a human being and not a monster.

Steve groans, rolling onto his side. “Okay—yep—great—love being attacked in abandoned sheds.”

I rush over without thinking, dropping to my knees beside him. “Are you okay?” I ask, hands hovering over his shoulders, checking for blood or broken bones.

“I’m fine,” Steve mutters, wincing a little as he sits up. “My pride took the worst hit.”

From across the shed, I feel it before I see it.

Mike’s staring at us.

Not angry—just tight. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking from my hands on Steve’s arm to my face like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t bother him.

I don’t say anything. I just help Steve to his feet and step back.

Dustin moves past me, straight toward Eddie. “Dude. What the hell happened?”

Eddie looks like he hasn’t slept in days—eyes bloodshot, face pale, hands shaking as he runs them through his hair.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he says hoarsely.

Mike crosses his arms. “Try us.”

Eddie lets out a shaky laugh. “No, seriously. You’ll think I’m insane.”

Eddie swallows hard, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to wipe the memory off his skin.

“She just—” His voice cracks. “She lifted. Like… straight up. Off the ground.”

No one breathes.

“She was hanging there,” he continues, eyes unfocused now, staring somewhere far past us. “Not screaming. Not moving. Just—floating. And then her bones…” He swallows again, harder. “They started snapping. One by one. Like something was twisting her from the inside.”

A cold chill crawls up my spine.

“And her eyes,” Eddie whispers. “They weren’t hers anymore. It was like something was in there. Looking out.”

Silence slams down around us.

Even the woods feel quieter.

Eddie lets out a broken laugh. “So yeah. I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. I just—ran.”

No one speaks.

The air feels thick, heavy, like it’s pressing down on my chest.

Finally, Eddie mutters, “You all think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

At the exact same time, Dustin blurts, “No.”

I blink. “What?”

Dustin shoots me a look like shut up, then turns back to Eddie, shaking his head hard. “No. We don’t think you’re crazy.”

I open my mouth to argue—because come on—but Dustin leans in closer to Eddie, serious now. “We’ve seen things. Weird things. Things that don’t make sense.”

I mutter under my breath, “Speak for yourself.”

Steve immediately bumps my arm with his elbow, a warning glance that says not helping.

I sigh and shut my mouth.

Eddie swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

“Don’t bullshit me, man,” he says quietly. “I know how this sounds. I know I sound crazy.”

Mike doesn’t hesitate. “We’re not bullshitting you.”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

Robin steps in, voice calm but certain. “We believe you.”

That stops him cold.

He looks between all of us, searching for the joke, the punchline that never comes.

Dustin steps forward then, glancing at me before looking back at Eddie. “Okay. What I’m about to tell you—” he pauses, “—both of you—might be a little difficult to take.”

I point to myself looking around to see if it's really me he's talking to, Robin just nods at me.

Eddie swallows. “Try me.”

Dustin takes a breath. “You know how people say Hawkins is cursed?”

Eddie nods slowly.

“Well,” Dustin continues, “they’re not totally wrong. There’s… another world. Kind of underneath ours. And sometimes it leaks through.”

Eddie lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “So what, like—ghost shit?”

I just look around confused.

Mike cuts in, serious. “There are things worse than ghosts.”

Dustin swallows, then straightens like he’s bracing himself.

“These monsters from this other world,” he says carefully, “we thought they were gone too. But they’ve come back before. And that’s why we needed to find you.” He looks straight at Eddie. “You.”

Mike nods. “If they’re back again, we need to know.”

Robin steps in, eyes sharp. “Did you see anything? Like—anything strange?”

Mike adds, “Dark particles, maybe?”

Eddie shakes his head quickly. “No. No, man. It wasn’t like that.”

Dustin frowns. “It would almost look like dust. Like swirling dust.”

Eddie shakes his head again, more frantic now. “No. Nothing you could see or touch.”

He swallows hard, voice dropping. “I tried to wake her, man. I swear. She wouldn’t move. It was like she was… stuck. Like she was in a trance or something.”

Dustin’s eyes widen. “Or under a spell.”

Eddie nods, breath hitching. “A curse.”

The word hangs there.

Dustin exhales slowly. “Vecna’s curse.”

Before I can even wrap my head around that, Steve blurts out, completely serious, “Who’s Vecna?”

Dustin answers without missing a beat.

“An undead creature of great power.”

Silence crashes down around us.

Not the calm kind—the suffocating, ears-ringing kind where your brain refuses to catch up with what you just heard.

I blink once.

Then twice.

And then I lose it.

“Okay—nope,” I snap, taking a step back. “No. No, absolutely not.”

Everyone turns toward me.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” I say, voice shaking now. “An undead what? A curse? A shadow world? Are you serious right now or is this some kind of messed-up prank? This isn’t dungeons and dragons, this is real life and someone was killed.”

No one laughs.

That makes it worse.

“I just moved here,” I blurt, hands flying as panic finally breaks through. “I don’t even know half of you! And now you’re telling me there’s, what—monsters? Portals? Evil wizard crap? Are you kidding me?”

My chest tightens. “This is insane. You’re all insane.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again.

I shake my head, backing up a step. “This has to be a joke. This town is messed up, and now you’re telling me there’s some—some Vecna-like thing murdering cheerleaders and you’re just… what? Casually explaining it like it’s normal?”

No one says anything.

That’s what scares me.

“I swear to God,” I whisper, voice cracking, “if this is some kind of sick prank, I am done. I am so done.”

Dustin looks at me, eyes soft. “We wouldn’t joke about this.”

That does it.

I laugh—a sharp, panicked sound. “You’re all insane. I move here and suddenly I’m in a horror movie? That’s not real. That can’t be real.”

My breathing gets shallow. My hands shake.

“This isn’t happening,” I mutter. “This isn’t happening.”

And for the first time since this all started, the terror isn’t coming from some monster in the dark—

It’s coming from the horrible realization that they all might be telling the truth.

Mike walks over to me, slow and careful. He reaches out, trying to grab my arm, but I instinctively step back.

“Let’s… talk outside,” he says quietly, voice low.

I hesitate, eyes darting back toward the shed and the rest of the group, but something in his tone stops me. “…Okay,” I finally say.

We step outside, the night air cool against my flushed skin. From inside the shed, I can hear Dustin, Eddie, Steve, and Robin murmuring back and forth, plotting, arguing, debating what to do next.

I cross my arms, pacing a little. “This is some crazy shit, and I do not believe a single fucking word out of you guys’ mouths.”

Mike exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I can see why you think that.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “I mean… floating bodies? Curses? Undead monsters? Honestly, Mike, you could tell me anything and I’d probably believe it before I believed this.”

He steps closer, but keeps his hands where I can see them. “I know it sounds impossible. I get that. And it’s hard to even explain and hell, we don’t even fully understand it ourselves yet but I promise, I’m not making this up.”

I shake my head again, frustrated. “How am I supposed to just… accept that? I don’t even know half the people in there!”

Mike swallows, voice steady, but soft. “I know. You’re new. You have every reason to think this is insane.”

I fold my arms tighter, but my knees feel weak. “Yeah? You really expect me to just… believe that?”

He steps closer, grabs my shoulders gently, making sure I can’t step back this time. “C’mon. I’m not the type of guy to lie. Especially not about something like this. Not to you.”

And then he looks at me—big, brown, puppy-dog eyes that are impossible to resist.

I blink. My heart stutters. My resolve crumbles instantly.

“…Okay,” I whisper, barely able to meet his gaze.

Mike gives a small, relieved smile, and just like that, all the walls I’d built came down.

We head back inside to find the mood completely shifted.

Steve’s already pacing, keys in hand. “Okay. New plan. We call it for tonight. Everyone goes home, gets some sleep, and we meet back here first thing tomorrow. Clear heads. Less… panic.”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. That’s probably smart.”

Robin agrees. “We’ll regroup. Figure out our next move when we’re not caught off guard."

No one argues.

A few minutes later, we’re piled into Steve’s car. The drive is quiet—too quiet. No music. No jokes. Just the hum of the engine and the weight of everything we just learned pressing in on my chest.

Steve drops Mike, Dustin, and Robin off first at family video, then swings by my place last. I thank him quietly and hop out.

The porch light is off.

The house is dark except for the glow of the TV in the living room. I freeze when I hear it—my dad’s voice, slurred and irritated, echoing through the hallway.

“—damn thing never works—”

I don’t even think. I turn around, heart hammering, and start walking back down the driveway.

Fast.

I don’t look back.

It starts raining. Pouring, even.

The street is empty, soaked in shadows, the air thick and heavy like it’s pressing down on me. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and head toward Mike’s house instead, my steps quickening with every creak of a branch or distant sound.

Then—

BONG.

I freeze.

The sound echoes through the trees, low and hollow.

A grandfather clock.

I turn slowly toward the woods.

And there it is.

Standing between the trees, barely lit by the moonlight—an old grandfather clock, tall and crooked, its face glowing faintly in the dark like it doesn’t belong here at all.

My breath catches in my throat.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

The second hand ticks.

Once.

Twice.

BONG

My chest tightens. Every instinct in my body screams at me to run, but I can’t look away. It’s like the thing is watching me.

Then the air shifts—heavy, wrong.

I blink.

And suddenly, I’m sprinting.

The rain was pelting against my body like bullets. I run toward Mike’s house, lungs burning, heart slamming against my ribs. I don’t look back. I don’t dare.

The sound of that clock echoes in my head all the way until I reach Mike’s window, breathless, terrified.

I crouch by Mike’s window, scanning the ground for something I can use. My eyes land on a few small pebbles glinting faintly in the wet grass. I scoop them up, fists tightening around them, and take a deep breath.

I hurl the first one at the window. Tap. Nothing.

Wait a second. Another pebble flies. Tap. Still nothing.

One more, just to be sure. Tap.

I step back, heart hammering, and watch, breath shallow. Thirty seconds pass like eternity.

Then—the curtains move. A small gap opens, and I see the unmistakable shaggy brown hair of Mike. His hand pushes the window up, and he leans his head out.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?”

I freeze, caught in the moment, eyes wide.

“…Can I… come inside?” I manage finally.

Mike’s expression softens instantly as he notices how soaking wet I am. “Yes.”

Before I can even blink, he’s already disappearing down the stairs. I hear the front door click open.

“Quick,” he hisses as I step inside. He moves with that familiar intensity, rushing us through the house without a sound. The quiet is sacred here.

Once inside, he guides me upstairs, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear.

Finally, he pushes open the door to his room and gestures me inside. “Okay… in here. Safe for now.”

I close the door behind me, and for the first time in what feels like hours, I can breathe—though my chest is still tight, and my hands shake from the run and the cold and the fear that hasn’t left me yet.

Mike leans against the wall, eyes on me, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The storm outside, the rain pelting the roof, and the chaos of Hawkins feel miles away… just for a second.

I slump onto Mike’s bed, shivering, still trying to calm down from the run. “I… I didn’t know where else to go,” I admit, voice shaking. “My dad… he was super angry, drunk when I got home. I didn’t want to deal with him. I—” I pause, trying to hold it together. “…I’m sorry.”

Mike kneels beside me, shaking his head. “Hey. It’s totally fine. You came here because you needed to. That’s all that matters.”

I look down at myself—my clothes are soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to my skin. Mike notices and gives a small smile. “Okay. We need to get you out of those wet clothes. I’ll grab you something dry.”

A few minutes later, he comes back with a fresh set of clothes—soft sweatpants and a hoodie that smells faintly like him. He lets me shower first, giving me privacy, then hands me the dry clothes.

“Here,” he says quietly. “You’ll be warm, at least. And dry.”

I nod, grateful, and slip into the clean clothes. The hoodie is big on me, but it’s comforting.

Eventually, we settle into bed together, small and quiet, trying to rest. The warmth of the blankets and Mike wrapped around me helps my racing thoughts slow… until sleep takes me.

But sleep doesn’t mean peace.

I’m pulled into a nightmare—vivid, sharp, and suffocating.

I see my mom… and she’s hurt, crying. My dad—angry, unsteady on his feet, reeking of alcohol—looms over her. Every word, every motion feels unbearable. He hits her, blames it on something else. My chest tightens, my throat closes as I watch him get away with it. And then… 

I wake with a gasp, heart pounding, sheets twisted around me. Mike stirs, reaching over to pull me close, wrapping an arm around me. “Hey… it’s okay. I’m right here. It's morning now.  You’re safe,” he whispers.

I bury my face in his chest, shaking slightly, trying to convince my body and my mind that this isn’t real. That I’m not back there. 

And slowly… with his warmth and steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, I start to believe it, just a little.

“Uh—my mom’s still asleep,” Mike whispers from the other side. “I grabbed you some clothes. From my sister Nancy’s room. Don’t ask.”

He slides a bundle of clothes through the door: a pair of jeans, a faded band tee, and a flannel. 

Ten minutes later, I’m slipping out the side door, heart pounding like I’m committing a crime. 

“You’ll be okay today?” he asks quietly as we get to the front doors of the school.

I nod. “Yeah. I just… have that meeting with the guidance counselor.” I give him a small smile. “Thanks. For last night. For everything.”

He hesitates, then smiles back. “Anytime.” Opening the doors for me.

Second day. New school. And now I’m carrying nightmares and secrets that feel way too big for my body.

At exactly 10:00 a.m., I step into the guidance counselor’s office.

Empty.

The lights are on, though. A mug of coffee sits on the desk, still warm. Papers are neatly stacked, folders labeled and organized.

I sit down, tapping my foot. A minute passes. Then two. Then five.

I sigh and stand up, stretching my legs, wandering toward the desk out of boredom more than anything else.

That’s when I see it.

A folder, half-tucked under another stack.

The name on the tab makes my stomach drop.

Cunningham, Chrissy.

I freeze.

My heart starts racing. I glance toward the door—empty hallway. Quiet.

I told myself not to. I really did.

But my hand moves anyway.

I opened the folder.

Inside are session notes. Dates. Observations.

And then the words that make my breath catch:

Patient reports recurring visions of a grandfather clock.

Auditory hallucinations described as loud chiming.

Recurrent trauma responses tied to past emotional distress.

Fear of being watched.

My fingers tremble as I turn the page.

Patient describes feeling “pulled” or “called” during episodes.

My stomach drops.

“Oh my god…” I whisper.

They weren’t lying.

Every word Mike said. Every word Dustin said.

It’s all right here.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I snap the folder shut, hands shaking, and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans.

I glance around one last time—no footsteps, no voices—then quietly slip out of the office.

As I walk down the hallway, my mind is spinning.

This isn't a coincidence.

This isn’t imagination.

And whatever killed Chrissy…

It’s real. And it seems I'm its next victim. 

I barely make it three steps into the hallway before I spot them.

Mike and Dustin are standing by the lockers, talking in low voices. The second Mike sees my face, his expression changes—concern snapping into place immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I don’t even slow down. “We need to leave. Now.”

Dustin blinks. “Uh—what?”

“I mean now,” I say, grabbing Mike’s sleeve and pulling him closer. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Steve and Robin are at Family Video,” Dustin answers automatically. “Why—”

“Good,” I cut in. “We’re going there. Right now.”

Mike studies my face, then nods once. “Okay. Lead the way.”

The second we burst through the doors of Family Video, Steve looks up from the counter.

“Hey—whoa, what’s with the panic sprint?”

I don’t stop walking. “We need everyone. Now.”

Robin’s already alert. “Okay, that’s not ominous at all.”

Dustin shuts the door behind us. “What happened?”

I reach into my back pocket, hands shaking, and pull out the folded papers.

“This,” I say, dropping the file onto the counter. “I found this in the guidance counselor’s office. It’s Chrissy’s.”

Steve’s face drains of color. “You… you stole that.”

“I borrowed it,” I snap. “And you’re gonna want to see it.”

They crowd around as I flip the pages open.

“Read,” I say. “The parts about the visions.”

Robin leans in first. Her face changes instantly.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

Dustin reads over her shoulder. His eyes widen. “Clocks. Nightmares. Hallucinations.”

Mike looks at me when Dustin says ‘nightmares’ reminiscing to waking me up this morning from one.

I nod. “She was seeing things before she died. Hearing things. The clock, the voices—same as what he described.”

Before I can say anything else, a voice cuts in.

“That’s how Fred died.”

We all turn.

Nancy’s standing near the door, arms crossed tight like she’s holding herself together. Her face has gone pale.

“My friend from the paper,” she continues. “He said he was seeing things. Hearing things. A clock. Said it felt like something was watching him all the time.”

The room goes dead silent.

“He died last night.” Nancy finishes quietly.

My stomach drops.

Dustin swallows hard. “So… it’s not just Chrissy.”

“No,” Nancy says. “And it’s not random.”

My throat tightens. “There’s something else,” I say, my voice barely steady.

Everyone looks at me.

“I saw it. The clock.”

Silence slams down hard.

Dustin’s eyes widened. “You—what?”

“I saw it,” I repeat. “Last night. On my way to Mike’s. In the woods. Just… there. A grandfather clock.”

Robin’s face drains. “That’s not possible.”

“Wait, why were you going to Mikes?” Dustin asked, confused. 

“I know, it shouldn’t be possible.” I say quickly, ignoring Dustin. “I thought I was losing it. I thought I was tired or scared or—” I shake my head. “But it was real. I heard it. The ticking. The chime.”

Mike looks like the air’s been punched out of him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” I whisper. “But it was the same sound. The same thing Chrissy heard.”

Dustin stares at me, fear written all over his face. “That’s… that’s exactly what she described.”

Steve drags a hand down his face. “Okay. No. Nope. I don’t like this.”

Robin exhales slowly. “So it’s not just targeting people randomly.”

My stomach twists. “I think it already chose me.”

No one says anything.

Then Steve straightens, jaw tight. “Alright. New rule. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Ever.”

Mike steps closer to me without thinking. “We stick together.”

I nod, heart pounding. “Because if this thing is real—and now I know that it is—then it’s not done.”

After the tension in Family Video finally settles, Steve slumps against the counter. “Okay… so now what? We can’t just sit here waiting for this thing to kill y/n.”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. We need a plan.”

Mike glances at me, then back at the group. “Alright. We split up. Nancy and Robin can dig into research—see if there’s any pattern in these murders, past or present. The rest of us—Steve, Dustin, me, and Y/N—we’ll check on Eddie. Make sure he’s safe, bring him food. Keep him in the loop.”

Everyone agrees. It’s the first time since all of this started that I feel like there’s some kind of direction.

Meanwhile, the rest of us—Mike, Steve, Dustin, and me—make our way to Eddie at Refurb Rick’s.

“Man, I still can’t get over yesterday,” Steve mutters as we ride up. “This kid’s house is basically ground zero for us.”

Dustin jingles a bag of food nervously. “I hope he eats. He’s been through… a lot.”

Mike pushes the gate open, motioning us all in. Eddie’s sitting in the corner, looking ragged, hair unkempt. He glances up when we enter.

“Food,” I say, setting the bag down near him. “We brought you food. You gotta eat, Eddie.”

He blinks at us, hesitant, before finally reaching out and taking a sandwich. “Thanks,” he mutters.

I fold my arms, looking at him. “We’re not leaving you out of this. You’re part of the plan. We just need to make sure you’re safe and sane for now.”

Eddie nods slowly, still chewing, clearly processing everything. Dustin leans against the wall, giving him a little smile. “We’re in this together, man. No one’s getting taken alone.”

Mike crouches slightly to Eddie’s level. “And we’ll figure out what’s happening—step by step. You just hang tight.”

Eddie swallows, finally letting himself relax a little. “Alright… I’ll trust you guys. But this… this thing is messed up.”

I glance at Mike and Dustin, a grim kind of determination settling over us. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “And it’s not done yet.”

The air inside Refurb Rick’s feels heavier than it should.

Eddie finishes the sandwich slowly, like eating is something he has to remember how to do.

That’s when feet pounding against the leaves outside.

A tall black guy rounds the corner and into the front yard.

He’s frantic. Wild-eyed. Dressed in a varsity jacket with a basketball emblem stitched onto the chest.

He scans the yard like he’s expecting a demon to crawl out of the ground.

Then he sees us.

“Oh thank God,” he says, jogging over. “You guys are here.”

We all stare at him.

“…Who are you?” I ask.

He blinks. “Lucas.”

Blank stares.

“Sinclair?” he adds.

Nothing.

He exhales sharply. “Right. New girl.”

He rubs his face with both hands. “Okay. So Jason’s losing his mind.”

“Jason?” I repeat.

“Chrissy’s boyfriend,” Mike says quickly. “Basketball captain. Town golden boy.”

“Oh, right.” I say.

“He thinks Eddie did it.” Says lucas. 

Dustin stiffens. “He doesn’t know that.”

“He thinks he does,” Lucas snaps. “He’s got half the team out looking for him. They’re calling him a cult leader. A Satanist. They’re armed.”

My stomach drops.

“That’s bad,” Steve mutters.

“That’s very bad,” Lucas says. “So if you’re helping Eddie, you need to be careful. Because if Jason finds you with him, he won’t listen.”

There’s a pause.

Eddie swallows hard.

“…Thanks,” he says quietly.

Lucas nods, then looks at me. “And you — you’re the one who saw the clock, right?”

My chest tightens. “…Yeah?”

He studies me for a second. “Dustin told me over the walkie.”

I feel a horrible headache come on and just want to be home. “Steve, can we go to my house. I want to change and grab a bag if we are all staying together”

“Yeah everyone lets go” Steve says standing

The car ride is quiet.

Steve drives. Dustin sits up front. Lucas is to my left, Mike’s to my right knee bouncing nonstop.

Streetlights blur past the windows.

When we pull up to my house, something already feels off.

There’s a light on.

That never happens.

Steve notices too. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” I say. “My dad’s usually… not around.”

He parks anyway.

“We’ll wait here?,” Steve says. 

I nod and step out.

The house is too quiet.

Too clean.

Too normal.

I open the door.

“Y/N?” a voice calls gently.

My chest tightens.

“Dad?”

He steps into the hallway light.

He looks… good.

Sober.

Showered.

Smiling.

“Oh honey,” he says warmly. “What are you doing home?”

It almost hurts.

“I— we had a long day,” I say slowly.

He opens his arms. “Come here.”

And I do.

Because I miss him.

Because I miss the version of him that existed before the bottles.

I hug him.

He hugs me back.

Tight.

Too tight.

Something is wrong.

The air shifts.

His grip tightens further.

His breath changes.

I pull back instinctively — and when I open my eyes, he isn’t my dad anymore.

He’s a gray vinny looking monster. “Y/N” He says in a deep voice looking down at me, he's much taller than my dad.

My heart slams into my throat.

I shove him hard.

He stumbles back.

I turn and run.

I don’t remember opening the door. I don’t remember the steps. I just know I’m outside, gasping, shaking, tearing toward Steve’s car.

I yank the door open and fall inside, right across Lucas and Mike.

“Drive,” I choke. “Drive.”

Steve doesn’t ask questions.

The car lurches forward.

Mike turns around immediately. “What happened?”

I’m shaking too hard to speak.

“I saw him,” I whisper. “I saw it. It’s not just the clock. It’s… it’s wearing people.”

Dustin turns around in the front seat and his face drains of color.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “Oh no, no, no.”

Mike grips my hand.

“We’re not leaving you alone,” he says. “Not again.”

I nod, tears burning behind my eyes.

The car hums low beneath us as Steve drives, headlights cutting through the dark road.

No one’s really talking.

Then Lucas shifts in his seat.

“Mike,” he says, frowning, “where’s Eleven? We need her.”

The word hangs in the air.

Mike coughs once — sharp and sudden — then turns his head to stare out the window like something just punched him in the gut.

No one explains.

No one fills in the silence.

And the longer it stretches, the worse it feels.

“…Who’s Eleven?” I ask finally.

Everyone turns to look at me.

“It’s a she?” I add.

Dustin blinks. “Yeah. Eleven. She’s our friend. She’s… our superpowered friend.”

My stomach tightens.

“And,” Dustin continues, quieter, “she’s also Mike’s girlfriend.”

Lucas nods. “Yeah. Since, like… seventh grade.”

The words land wrong.They don’t crash — they sink. Slow and heavy, straight into my chest.

[mattsobvimyfav]

Before the bell (Mike Wheeler

Part 2

TW- SMUT *plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+* lowkey im destroyed over the finale it was so sad, so for all other purposes. i hate life. co-writer @ch0llies

The basement feels quieter without him.

Dustin flops back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe that worked.”

I smile, leaning back against the table. “You should believe in me more.”

“Oh, I do now,” he says immediately, sitting up. “Trust me.”

Mike’s still standing near the table, hands resting on the edge like he forgot what to do with them. He looks… lighter. Less wound tight. The sharpness from earlier dulled down.

“That move you pulled at the end,” he says, nodding toward the board. “The timing—most people would’ve panicked.”

“I hate panicking,” I reply. “It wastes turns.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.

Silence settles again—but this one’s comfortable.

“So,” Dustin says suddenly, sitting straighter. “Where do you live?”

I tell him the street name.

He squints. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s like—completely the opposite side of town from me.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can walk.”

“It’s dark,” Dustin argues instantly. “You’re new. And you don’t have a bike.”

I open my mouth.

“And,” he adds, pointing between us, “you literally live like a block away from Mike.”

I blink. “I do?”

Dustin’s already decided. “Yes so, Mike can take you.”

Mike stiffens. “What?”

“You have a bike,” Dustin says like this is airtight logic. “She doesn’t. She’s a girl. And new. And you’re basically neighbors.”

“I—” Mike starts.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “Really. I don’t want to—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dustin insists. “Right, Mike?”

Mike looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Then he exhales. “It’s not a big deal.”

Outside, the night air is cool, quiet. Crickets hum somewhere nearby. Mike wheels his bike out onto the driveway, movements careful, like he’s hyper-aware of me standing there.

Dustin straps his radio project onto his own bike again, already halfway gone. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says, grinning. “Don’t die.”

“Encouraging,” Mike mutters.

Dustin pedals off, leaving us alone under the streetlight.

Mike holds the bike steady. “Same deal as before,” he says. “Just—hold on.”

I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him again, familiar now.

As I reach for the back of the seat—

That’s where it stops.

The bike is steady beneath his hands.

I’m just about to climb on when I stop myself.

“Mike,” I say softly.

He turns around.

And—oh.

The streetlight above us washes him in this warm, amber glow that feels unfair. The sharp angles of his face soften, shadows cutting just enough to make his eyes look darker, deeper. His hair’s a mess, curls falling into his forehead, and finally he isn’t scowling.

He just looks… good.

Really good.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I swallow. “Are you, like… super busy right now?”

His eyes flick over me before he can stop himself. Not rude. Not obvious. Just a quick, quiet assessment—like he’s clocking that I’m standing closer than before, that the night feels different than it did five minutes ago.

“Not really,” he says. “Why?”

I hesitate for half a second—then go for it.

“Could you… maybe give me a quick tour?” I ask. “Of the town. Just for a little bit. While no one’s around.”

His brows knit together. He should say no. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts his weight like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.

But then I look at him.

Really look at him.

And something about the way his shoulders drop tells me he’s already lost.

“…Yeah,” he says finally. “Fine.”

I smile, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, quieter this time.

I climb onto the back of the bike again, settling in. He starts pedaling, the tires crunching softly against the pavement as we roll down the street.

We don’t get far.

Suddenly, he slows—and then stops.

“What—?”

Before I can finish, he reaches back and grabs my wrist gently, fingers warm against my skin. He guides my hand forward, pressing it against his jacket, closer to his waist.

“You’re gonna need to hold on more,” he says. “I’m gonna go faster this time.”

I freeze.

“I—”

He glances back at me, mouth tilting into the faintest smile. Not smug. Just teasing. Almost shy.

“What?” he says. “I’m not gonna bite you.”

I hesitate.

Then I slide my other hand forward too, fingers curling into his jacket properly this time. My chest presses lightly against his back, close enough that I can feel his breath hitch.

“Better?” I ask.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

The bike lurches forward, faster now, the wind rushing past us as Hawkins blurs into streaks of light and shadow. His body leans into turns with easy confidence, and I move with him instinctively, holding tighter when he accelerates.

And for a moment, as we disappear down the street together, it feels like the town is ours.

Just us.

Just the night.

And the way Mike somehow, inexplicably, can’t say no to me.

The bike moves faster this time.

Not reckless—just enough to make the wind bite and my fingers tighten in his jacket. Hawkins slips past in pieces: dark houses, porch lights, quiet streets that feel abandoned in the way only small towns can at night.

Mike keeps glancing back at me as he rides. Not fully turning—just those quick looks over his shoulder, checking if I’m still there.

“So,” he says, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the wind, “that over there is the middle school. Where Dustin set a trash can on fire in seventh grade.”

I laugh. 

“And that,” he adds, nodding toward a darkened storefront, “used to be a RadioShack. It closed. Obviously.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “You really know how to sell this place.”

He huffs. “I never said it was impressive.”

We slow at a stop sign, and he plants one foot on the ground. The streetlight above us flickers, bathing him in that same warm glow again. He looks stupidly good like this—hair wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes brighter than they were earlier in the day.

“You cold?” he asks.

“A little.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t leave him in just a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, veins faintly visible along his forearms.

I slide it on.

It smells like him.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes flicking away a little too quickly.

We keep riding.

The banter comes easy now—snide comments about Hawkins, jokes about teachers, quiet laughs when our knees bump at stoplights. Every once in a while, I catch him looking at me in reflections—store windows, dark car doors. Every time I do, he looks away like he got caught doing something illegal.

Eventually, the streets change.

Trailers replace houses. Gravel crunches under the tires. The air feels heavier out here, like the town forgot this part existed.

Mike slows.

“This is the trailer park,” he says. “Eddie lives here.”

“Eddie from Hellfire?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

We stop just as a trailer door opens.

Two figures step out.

I recognize Eddie immediately—messy hair, leather jacket, animated even when he’s just walking. The girl beside him makes my stomach drop a little.

Perfect hair. Cheerleader jacket. Pretty in a way Hawkins worships.

Mike stiffens beside me.

“What the fuck,” he mutters.

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

He stares as Eddie holds the door open for her, laughing, letting her walk inside first.

“That’s Chrissy Cunningham,” he says slowly. “She’s dating Jason Carver.”

I blink. “The basketball captain?”

“Yeah,” he says, disbelief sharp in his voice. “And Eddie is—”

“A loser?” I finish quietly.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

We watch the door close behind them.

The trailer goes dark.

Something uneasy settles in my chest, like we just witnessed something we weren’t meant to see.

“Huh,” I murmur. “Guess people aren’t always what Hawkins thinks they are.”

Mike glances at me. Really looks at me this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess not.”

The silence between us stretches—not awkward. Charged.

He clears his throat. “We should probably… keep going. I still owe you the rest of the tour.”

I smile, tightening my grip on him again. “Lead the way, Wheeler.”

We ride away from the trailer park like nothing just shifted in the universe—even though it definitely did.

The road smooths out again, quieter now. Mike relaxes, shoulders loosening as he starts pointing things out again like he didn’t just short-circuit five minutes ago.

“That’s the park,” he says, nodding to a dark stretch of swings. “We used to camp out there all summer.”

“I’m sensing a pattern,” I say. “You guys did everything everywhere.”

He scoffs. “There’s literally nothing else to do here.”

I laugh, leaning in closer so he can hear me. Somewhere along the way, my hands slide lower—less jacket, more him. My fingers hook casually into one of his belt loops, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He stiffens immediately.

“Uh—” he starts, then clears his throat. “You good back there?”

“Yeah,” I say innocently. “Why?”

His ears turn pink. Actually pink.

“N-no reason.”

The bike wobbles just a little.

I grin to myself.

We keep talking—about music, about how much Hawkins sucks, about how Dustin never shuts up. Mike’s wit sharpens when he’s relaxed, dry and quick, and I find myself smiling more than I mean to. Every once in a while, he laughs fully, head tipping back just a bit, and it does something unfair to my chest.

By the time we turn onto my street, it feels too soon.

He slows in front of my house, rolling to a stop under another streetlight. He hops off first, steadying the bike.

“Here,” he says, offering a hand to help me down.

I take it.

His grip is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing.

I land, still close, his jacket hanging off my shoulders. For a second, neither of us moves.

“Thanks for the tour,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Anytime.”

I take a step back. Then another.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

I turn.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

I hesitate for exactly half a second—then walk back to him, heart pounding. I reach up, fingers curling lightly into his hoodie, and kiss him.

It’s soft. Quick. Just enough.

When I pull back, he’s frozen—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned in the most endearing way. Like a puppy that just got surprised with affection.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

Then he blinks. “I—I meant my jacket.”

I laugh.

“But,” he adds quickly, stepping closer, hands finding my waist like he finally decided to stop overthinking it, “that works too.”

He kisses me again—longer this time, surer, like he’s figured something out mid-motion.

When we part, he’s still flustered, still pink, still looking at me like he can’t quite believe this is real.

I pull back just enough to breathe.

Mike barely lets me—his hands still warm at my waist, forehead resting against mine, lips chasing like he hasn’t caught up yet.

“Mike,” I murmur.

He opens his eyes.

Up close like this, he looks wrecked—in the best way. Hair mussed, mouth pink and swollen, pupils blown like he forgot the rest of the world exists.

“Yeah?” he says, breathless.

I glance toward my front door, then back at him. “Do you want to come inside?”

His breath stutters.

“…Inside?” he repeats, like the word needs a second to load. He doesn’t look away from me when he asks, quietly, “What about your parents?”

“It’s fine,” I say easily, fingers sliding up into his hair. “My dad’s not home yet. Bar night. My mom’s not… around.”

That’s all it takes.

He swallows.

I don’t wait for him to overthink it.

“C’mon,” I whisper, already stepping back and tugging him with me.

He follows.

The door barely clicks shut behind us before he’s kissing me again—harder this time, like the permission flipped a switch. His hands find my waist, my back, pulling me flush against him as we stumble down the hallway.

We bump into the wall. I laugh against his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.

I grab his collar and pull him with me, kissing him as I walk us backward, toward my room. He makes this quiet sound—half laugh, half breath—that sends heat straight through me.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re—”

“Mike,” I warn softly, smiling.

He shuts up immediately. Kisses me deeper instead.

By the time we reach my room, we’re both a mess—hands everywhere but never crossing a line, tension coiled so tight it’s almost dizzying. He backs me toward the bed, then stops himself, forehead dropping to my shoulder like he’s grounding himself.

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I’m trying really hard to be cool.”

I smile, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You’re doing great.”

He looks at me like that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.

We kiss again—slower now, deliberate, like neither of us wants to rush what we’re building. His hands settle at my hips, steady, protective, and I realize how rare it is to feel this wanted and this safe at the same time.

Outside, Hawkins stays quiet.

Inside, everything feels like it’s just getting started.

The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the world out.

Mike’s hands stay on my waist like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that we’ve stopped moving. He’s breathing hard, forehead resting against mine, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like he can’t believe any of this is happening.

“This is—” he exhales, chest rising against mine. “Definitely not how I thought tonight was gonna go.”

“Disappointed?” I tease, brushing my mouth over his again.

His laugh is low, a little wrecked. “Not even close.”

We stumble back together, kissing. His hoodie bunches in my fists as I drag him closer, his fingers skimming up my sides, slow and intentional, like he’s memorizing every reaction I give him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against my jaw, lips trailing heat down the side of my throat.

I moan, tugging him by his belt loop again—slow this time, deliberate.

He freezes for half a second. A sharp inhale. His hand tightens on my hip.

“You keep doing that,” he says, voice deeper than before, “like you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly.” My thumb hooks under the denim again, pulling him closer, watching the way his breath stutters. “What I’m asking for, Mike.”

His self-control cracks right there.

He kisses me harder, pushing me back onto the bed, the two of us landing in a messy tangle of limbs and laughter that dissolves instantly into heat. His mouth finds mine again—hungrier now, focused. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and sure, and the sound he makes when I arch into him goes straight through me.

“Damn,” he whispers against my skin, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I tug at the hem of his hoodie, and he sits up just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside. His hair is even more ruined now, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Come here,” I murmur.

He does—immediately, like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

The weight of him settles over me, careful but wanting. His hands slide down my thighs, slow, teasing, as he kisses me again, deeper this time. Every brush of his mouth feels like a question he already knows the answer to.

“You sure?” he asks quietly, breath warm against my lips. “Because I’m not stopping once you say yes.”

I cup his face, pull him back down, and kiss him like I mean it.

“There’s your answer.”

He groans—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving—before his lips crash into mine again. His hands explore with intent now, bolder, slipping beneath clothes with purpose. I feel his breath hitch when I pull him closer, our bodies aligning perfectly.

The room gets smaller, warmer, quieter except for the sound of our breathing and the soft hum of the mattress under us. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, everywhere I react, and he smiles against my skin each time I do.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers, voice low, honest.

“Good.”

He laughs, short and breathless, before rolling his hips against mine, slow but unmistakable. The tension snaps like a live wire. His forehead drops to my shoulder as he exhales a shaky sound he tries and fails to hide.

“Okay,” he mutters, smiling into my skin. “Yeah. I need you.”

His hands guide mine to his waistband, helping, inviting, giving me control even as he trembles with how badly he wants this.

His hands guide mine the rest of the way, fingers brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding himself through the contact. The click of his belt opening feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He exhales, slow and shaky, watching my face the entire time—checking, reading, trusting.

“You don’t rush anything, do you?” I murmur.

He huffs a breath of laughter. “Not this.”

He closes his eyes briefly when my palms slide over his chest, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re killing me.”

My turn comes next, and he’s reverent about it—slower than I expect. His fingers hook under the hem of my top, lifting it carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. When it comes away, he pauses, just looking at me, eyes dark and steady.

He leans in again, kissing me deep and unhurried, hands warm and confident as they trace curves like he’s committing them to memory. Clothes start to disappear without ceremony—dropped, kicked aside, forgotten—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and breath and the soft press of skin against skin.

He nudges me back onto the bed again, following immediately, bracing himself over me without smothering. His mouth moves slow and purposeful, like he’s savoring every reaction, every sound I don’t quite manage to hold back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine. “You’re unreal.”

Mike’s mouth finds mine again, but this time there’s no hesitation in it—just heat and purpose. His hands settle on my bare hips, firm, guiding, pinning me beneath him without using any real weight. He doesn’t have to. The intention alone sends a rush through me.

He shifts, settling between my legs, and the press of his naked body against mine is slow, deliberate, undeniable. His breath drags against my neck as he moves, and the quiet sound he makes when my hands grip his shoulders is low and satisfied.

“Stay right here,” he murmurs, voice rough for the first time.

He lowers himself, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding my thigh up around his waist. The shift pulls our bodies flush, and he exhales sharply against my cheek as he settles into me, slow and controlled.

His hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips to meet him as he runs the tip between my folds. When he finally puts it in, the sound that slips out of him when our bodies align sends heat straight through me. He buries his face at my neck, breath warm as he sets a steady, deliberate pace—each movement rolling through both of us with building intensity.

His fingers lace with mine briefly before he presses my wrist into the mattress beside my head, not forcing—just holding, guiding, anchoring me there as his other hand stays firm on my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

“God,” he murmurs against my jaw, more to himself than to me, like he’s adjusting us into perfect sync.

Every shift of his hips is stronger now, more certain, his breath hitching each time my body responds to the force and angle he uses. His control is unmistakable—tight, consistent, the kind that leaves no space for second-guessing.

He moves with intention, with weight, with purpose—his forehead dropping to mine for a moment as the pace deepens, steadier, more consuming. The bed creaks softly beneath us; his hand tightens on my hip to keep me grounded; his breath grows heavier against my skin.

The room feels smaller with the way he’s moving, the way he holds my body under his, the way he doesn’t break rhythm even when the tension builds sharply between us.

His grip adjusts, fingers spreading wider over my hip as if to lock the angle in place, and every movement after that lands deeper, surer. The rhythm he sets is unbroken, each roll of his body controlled and deliberate, like he’s counting it out in his head. The mattress dips beneath the strength of his movement, the soft creak underscoring how firmly he’s got me.

His mouth drags from my jaw to my collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath stutter. One hand stays planted beside my head, keeping me right where he wants me, while the other slides along my thigh again, thumb pressing in, steadying me as he drives the pace forward.

The heat between us builds fast now—slick skin, shallow breaths, the sound of him exhaling hard through his nose each time his hips pull back and push forward again. He doesn’t break contact, doesn’t pull away to look—he stays close, chest to chest, the tension living in the way his muscles tighten and release with every movement.

His lips brush my ear.

“Just like that,” he mutters, voice thick, almost breathless.

The grip on my wrist tightens—not painful—just enough pressure to remind me he’s there, anchoring me, keeping me open to the rhythm he’s chosen. His other hand slides beneath me again, lifting my hips higher, changing the angle until the response from my body is immediate and unmistakable.

His breathing turns uneven, heavier now, the control still there but strained at the edges as the intensity climbs. His forehead presses to mine again, jaw clenched, movement stronger, deeper, still measured but relentless.

The room fades down to sensation—heat, pressure, the steady sound of skin meeting skin. He keeps the pace exactly where it is, refusing to let it slip or falter, holding you there with him as everything tightens and builds.

Mike stays over me the entire time until the tension peaks sharp and consuming, both our bodies finally giving into it with a low sound against my throat as he holds me still through it.

Only then does he slow.

Not all at once—just enough to keep me there with him, breath to breath, bodies still pressed close, his hand lingering on my hip like he hasn’t forgotten for a second exactly where I was.

Morning comes too fast.

I wake up tangled in warmth—sheets twisted, sunlight leaking in through the blinds in thin gold stripes. For half a second I forget where I am.

Then I feel him shift beside me.

Mike.

He’s on his stomach, arm loose around my waist like it belongs there, hair completely wrecked, expression soft.

There’s a bang on the front door.

Then another.

“Y/N—HELLO—OPEN UP—”

I jolt upright. “Oh my god.”

Mike groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Is that—”

“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s Dustin.”

The knocking gets louder.

“I’ll get it,” I say quickly, already reaching for clothes. I yank on a shirt, shove my feet into shorts, and point at Mike. “You—put something on.”

He fumbles for his sweater from last night, tugging it over his head, then steps into his jeans like he’s still half asleep. He looks unfairly good like this—rumpled, flushed, very obviously just woken up somewhere he didn’t plan on waking up.

I rush down the hall and open the door.

Dustin Henderson stands on my porch, pale and panicked, mid-breath.

“Thank god,” he blurts—then freezes.

His eyes flick past me.

To Mike.

Standing behind me. In yesterday’s clothes.

Silence.

“…What,” Dustin says slowly, “is this.”

My stomach drops.

Mike reacts instantly. “Nothing.- She asked for a town tour,” Mike continues, talking quickly now, hands shoved in his pockets. “And by the time I got back here it was really late so I just—crashed. That’s all.”

Dustin looks between us.

Then at me.

Then back at Mike.

His mouth twists like he absolutely does not buy it—but whatever’s on his mind is bigger than that.

“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Sure.”

The pause hangs there, heavy and weird.

Then Dustin exhales sharply. “Anyway—this is bad. Like, really bad.”

Mike straightens immediately. “What happened?”

Dustin swallows. “Chrissy’s dead.”

The words hit like a slap.

“What?” I breathe.

“They found her this morning,” he says, voice shaking now. “In Eddie’s trailer. And no one knows where Eddie is.”

Mike goes still.

“Dead how?” he asks.

Dustin shakes his head. “I don’t know. No one does. They’re saying it’s… it’s messed up. Like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

The porch feels too small. The morning was suddenly too quiet.

“They’re already blaming Eddie,” Dustin adds. “Jason’s losing his mind. The cops are everywhere.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, eyes dark, brain clearly racing. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” Dustin says. “That’s why I came here. We need to figure out what actually happened.”

I glance at Mike.

He looks back at me—something unspoken passing between us, something that didn’t exist yesterday morning.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. We will.”

Dustin nods, then hesitates, glancing between us again. “You guys… good?”

“Yeah,” Mike says immediately.

The silence after Dustin’s words feels wrong—too heavy for a sunny morning.

I turn slowly toward Mike.

“…We saw them,” I say.

Both of them look at me.

“Last night,” I continue. “At the trailer park. Eddie and Chrissy. Together.”

Mike nods immediately. “Yeah.”

Dustin’s head snaps between us. “You what?”

“We were on Mike’s bike,” I explain. “We watched them walk into Eddie’s trailer.”

Dustin pales. “Okay. Okay—then we definitely can’t tell the cops.”

“What?” I snap.

Mike shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if we should—”

I stare at him. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

My voice rises despite myself. “Mike, a girl is dead. We’re witnesses. That’s not optional.”

Dustin steps forward quickly. “No—no, listen to me. You don’t get it yet.”

“Get what?” I shoot back. “From where I’m standing, your freak-show friend probably killed his secret girlfriend and ran.”

“That’s not funny,” Dustin says sharply. “And it’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Because it looks pretty bad.”

Dustin’s voice breaks just a little. “I know Eddie. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not—he’s not like that.”

“You don’t know that,” I argue. “You just like him.”

“I do know that,” Dustin insists. “He’s weird and loud and everyone hates him, but he’s not a murderer.”

I turn to Mike, expecting backup.

He doesn’t give it.

Instead, he looks torn—hands flexing at his sides, eyes darting between Dustin and me. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

My chest tightens. “So you’re just… what? Protecting him?”

“I’m protecting the truth,” Dustin says. “And you can’t tell anyone. Not the cops. Not your friends. No one.”

“That’s insane,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”

Mike finally looks at me fully.

And his expression—

It kills my momentum instantly.

No anger. No defensiveness.

Just that soft, worried look. Brows pulled together, eyes dark and earnest, like he’s silently begging me not to push him away right now. Like he’s already scared of losing something he just found.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Just… trust us. For now.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s messed up. But if we’re wrong—and we tell the cops—Eddie’s done. Forever.”

Dustin nods desperately. “They already hate him. They’re looking for a monster, and he fits what they want.”

I look between them.

Logic tells me this is stupid. 

But Mike’s eyes don’t leave mine—and there’s something in them that wasn’t there yesterday. Something fragile. Something asking me to choose him.

“…For now,” I say slowly.

Both of them exhale at the same time.

“But,” I add sharply, pointing between them, “if I find out you’re wrong—if you’re hiding something from me—I’m going straight to the police. No warning.”

Dustin nods quickly. “Fair.”

Mike swallows. “Yeah. Fair.”

The moment hangs there—uneasy, electric.

And I hate that part of me already knows:

Whatever this is, I’m in it now.

[ch0llies]

BEFORE THE BELL

a mike wheeler fanfic

*plot takes place during season 4 however we used season 5 Mike for what he looks like so for his face/hair/outfits/etc. For all intensive purposes all characters are 18+*

cowritten by @ch0llies & @mattsobvimyfav

Part 1

I met them because Dustin Henderson does not believe in easing people into things.

He spots me in the cafeteria like I’m a puzzle he’s already decided to solve. I’m halfway through sitting down when he slides into the seat across from me, grinning like we’re old friends.

“You’re new,” he says. “You look like you’d survive a demobat attack.”

I blink. “Is that… a compliment?”

“It is,” he says seriously. “Do you play Dungeons & Dragons?”

And that’s how I end up at their table.

Dustin drags me over like I don’t weigh anything, narrating the whole way. “Okay, so this is Hellfire Club, which is basically the coolest thing at Hawkins High, and you’re perfect for it, and—”

A guy with long curly hair leans back in his chair, boots hooked around the table leg, eyes lighting up the second he sees me. “Well hello there.”

I give him a small smile. His energy is loud but harmless. Curious, not sharp.

Then there’s the boy sitting across from him.

He looks at me like I’ve personally offended him by existing.

Dustin plops down beside him. “This is Mike, Eddie, Gareth and Jeff” He says pointing around the table “Guys, this is Y/N. She just moved here. I was thinking she could maybe—”

“No,” Mike says immediately.

Just—no.

I raise my eyebrows. Eddie’s head snaps toward him. “No?”

“We don’t need more people,” Mike adds, arms folding across his chest. He doesn’t look away from me. “Hellfire’s full.”

Eddie snorts. “Since when, Wheeler?”

“Since always,” Mike says, clipped. “It’s not really a drop-in thing.”

I smile politely, because I’m good at that. Because I’ve learned it throws people off when you don’t react the way they want you to.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you too.”

He scoffs under his breath.

Dustin groans. “Dude, what is your problem?”

Mike shrugs, like this isn’t personal—like he isn’t actively being hostile. “Just being honest.”

I tilt my head. “About what?”

He pauses. Just for a second.

Then, “About people joining things they don’t understand.”

Eddie leans forward, elbows on the table. “Damn, man. Who died and made you the gatekeeper?”

Mike’s jaw tightens. Something dark flickers across his face. He looks away.

“Look,” Dustin says quickly, “she doesn’t even have to play. She could just watch—”

“I don’t need to,” I say, cutting in.

Three heads turn toward me.

“I don’t need to join,” I repeat calmly. “I just came because he asked.”

Dustin looks stricken. Eddie looks impressed.

Mike looks… caught off guard.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I add, grabbing my tray. “Good luck with your super important game.”

I don’t wait for a response. I don’t rush, either. I walk away like I don’t feel his eyes on my back, like his attitude didn’t hit something tender.

Behind me, Eddie mutters, “Oh, I like her.”

Dustin says, “Mike, what the hell?”

I don’t expect to see them again that day.

But Hawkins has a way of putting the same people in your path whether you want it to or not.

I’m at my locker when I hear my name.

“Y/N.”

I turn. Mike’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.

“Yeah?”

He looks uncomfortable. Which feels like a small victory.

“Dustin said you’re… new,” he says.

“That’s usually how that works.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Look. I was kind of an asshole earlier.”

Kind of.

I wait.

He doesn’t say sorry. Not yet.

“I’ve got a lot going on,” he adds, like that explains it.

I study him. He looks wrecked up close—eyes tired, mouth set too tight, anger sitting right under his skin like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“Okay,” I say. “That doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me, you don't even know me.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

“I know.”

The silence stretches.

“I wasn’t going to join Hellfire anyway,” I say eventually. “But you should probably work on how you talk to people.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

I turn back to my locker. When I close it, he’s still standing there.

“See you around, Wheeler.”

Teachers mispronounce my name. I get handed a map I don’t need. People stare in that subtle, Midwest way—trying not to look while very obviously looking. Hawkins High feels like it’s permanently holding its breath.

I catch Mike Wheeler once in English. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel him tense when I sit two rows behind him. Like he knows I’m there. Like he wishes I wasn’t.

By the last bell, I’m tired in a way that has nothing to do with school.

I’m halfway down the front steps when someone skids to a stop in front of me.

“WAIT.”

Dustin Henderson, again.

I sigh, but it’s not annoyed. Not really. “What now?”

“Okay,” he says, breathless, hands on his knees, “I know Mike was being a jerk—he’s been like that lately, it’s a whole thing—but please don’t judge Hellfire based on him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re very committed.”

“Because you’re perfect for it,” he insists. “Like, statistically.”

“I didn’t even say I wanted to join.”

“I know,” he says, nodding furiously. “But I need to know something.”

He straightens, suddenly serious.

“Do you… know how to play?”

“Kinda,” I say.

His eyes widen. “Kinda how?”

I shrug. “My cousin ran a campaign once. I played a rogue for a few months.”

His mouth drops open.

“A rogue?”

“Arcane Trickster,” I add, because apparently I can’t help myself. “I multiclassed later for utility. High Dex, dumped Strength, focused on Sleight of Hand and Perception. Sneak Attack damage scales fast if you play it right.”

He just stares at me.

“So,” I continue, “what’s the question?”

He fumbles, scrambling for one like his life depends on it. “Okay—uh—if you’re level five and facing a beholder, what do you prioritize?”

“Line of sight,” I say instantly. “You break it. Blind it if you can. And you do not cluster your party unless you want a total wipe.”

Dustin makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. Then louder, “OH MY GOD.”

He grabs my shoulders—not aggressively, just overwhelmed. “You’re perfect. You’re actually perfect. Eddie is going to lose his mind.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, already backing away like he’s planning. “We need you. Like, narratively.”

From somewhere behind him, I feel it before I see it.

Mike.

He’s standing a few yards away, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching us with that same guarded expression. Except now there’s something else there too.

Interest.

Annoyed interest, but still.

Dustin follows my gaze and beams. “See? Even Mike agrees.”

Mike scowls. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dustin says cheerfully. “Your face did.”

I meet Mike’s eyes. He looks like he wants to argue—and like he doesn’t quite know how.

“Well,” I say, stepping around Dustin, “I’ll think about it.”

Dustin lights up like I just saved Christmas. “Yes!”

I try to walk away.

Genuinely. I make it maybe ten steps before I hear sneakers scuffing behind me.

“Hey—hey—wait up!”

I don’t turn around. “I already said I’d think about it.”

“That’s not a no,” Dustin says brightly, immediately matching my pace on my left. “That’s a maybe. And maybes are just yeses that need encouragement.”

On my right—annoyingly silent—I can feel him.

Mike Wheeler

He’s walking with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight, like he’s pretending this isn’t happening. Like he didn’t just argue with me an hour ago. Like he doesn’t care.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I’m going home,” I say.

“So are we,” Dustin replies. “Just… with a quick stop first.”

“Nope.”

“We’re playing tonight,” Dustin presses. “At Mike’s.”

I stop. Slowly turn to face them. “Absolutely not.”

Mike finally speaks. “You don’t have to.”

I look at him. “Wow. First reasonable thing you’ve said all day.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” I say. “I just moved here. I don’t know you. I’m not going to some guy’s house to play a game.”

Dustin looks personally offended. “First of all, rude. Second of all, Mrs. Wheeler is home. Like. Always.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“And third,” Dustin adds, pointing at me, “you answered that beholder question faster than I blink. You have to come.”

I hesitate. I hate that I hesitate.

“I said one hour,” I remind him.

“Yes!” Dustin pumps a fist. “Okay. Transportation.”

I blink. “Transportation?”

He points behind us.

Two bikes.

I look at them. Then at him. “I don’t have a bike.”

“No problem,” Dustin says instantly. “You can ride on the back of Mike’s.”

I laugh. “No.”

Mike stiffens. “She doesn’t have to—”

“Why not yours?” I ask Dustin.

He gestures dramatically to the bulky, duct-taped mess strapped to his bike. “Because I need the back for my science project.”

Mike squints at it. “That’s a radio.”

“It’s a prototype,” Dustin snaps, then looks back at me. “Also, there’s literally no room.”

I glance at Mike.

He avoids my eyes.

“I’m not—” I start.

“Please,” Dustin says. Not joking now. “Just tonight.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he really means it. Like this isn’t just a game to him. Like they need this night to feel normal.

I sigh.

“Fine,” I say. “But if I die, I’m haunting both of you.”

Dustin beams. “Deal.”

Mike hands me a helmet, still not looking directly at me. “Just—uh—hold on.”

I climb onto the back of his bike. It’s closer than I expect. My knees brush his sides. His back goes rigid instantly.

“Relax,” I say lightly. “I’m not going to fall.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Because I’m not great at… catching people.”

Dustin hops on his bike and starts pedaling ahead. “Wheeler! Don’t crash the new girl!”

Mike exhales, starts the engine, and the bike lurches forward.

I grab his jacket without thinking.

He freezes for half a second—then keeps going.

The bike hums beneath us, low and steady, vibrating up through the soles of my shoes.

I hadn’t expected how close it would be.

There’s no polite distance on the back of a bike. No room for pretending. My knees press against his hips every time we hit a crack in the road, and my hands—after hovering awkwardly for a full five seconds—end up clutching the hem of his jacket.

Not his shoulders. That feels too intimate.

Mike sits rigid in front of me, spine straight like he’s afraid to move the wrong way. His shoulders are tense, pulled tight under the fabric, like he’s bracing for impact instead of just riding home.

He smells faintly like laundry detergent and cold air.

I notice stupid things. The way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. The way his fingers tighten around the handlebars every time Dustin swerves ahead of us. The way he keeps glancing left, then right—checking intersections, mirrors, shadows—like he’s used to being responsible for more than just himself.

He clears his throat once.

The bike jolts suddenly over a bump, and my grip tightens without thinking. My fingers curl into his jacket, and my chest bumps lightly into his back.

He stiffens.

Not pulling away. Just… registering it.

“Sorry,” I say, instinctively.

“It’s fine,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. His voice cracks just a little at the end, like he hasn’t spoken much today.

We ride in silence after that.

I loosen my grip a little, resting my hands flatter against his sides instead of clutching the fabric. I can feel the warmth through his jacket, steady and real. His breathing evens out as the road smooths, and eventually—slowly—his shoulders drop a fraction.

Just enough for me to notice.

Dustin whoops ahead of us, pedaling harder, calling something about beating us there. Mike barely reacts, just shakes his head slightly, a fondness he doesn’t even seem aware of flickering across his face.

The bike rolls to a stop.

And when I finally let go, my hands feel cold without him.

Mike’s basement smells like dust, old carpet, and something vaguely metallic—ozone, maybe, from too many electronics plugged into one outlet.

Christmas lights snake along the ceiling, casting everything in that familiar warm glow. The folding table is already set up: dice scattered, character sheets stacked, the battle map rolled out like it’s waiting to be activated.

Dustin immediately drops his bag with the radio contraption and launches into talking at full volume.

“She knows D&D,” he announces, like he’s delivering breaking news.

From behind the DM screen, Eddie Munson looks up.

Slowly.

His eyes flick to me. Then down. Then back up again.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, grinning.

The basement goes quiet in that way it only does when something important is about to happen.

Dice stop clattering. Someone’s foot stops bouncing. Even the Christmas lights seem to hum softer.

Dustin is practically vibrating beside me. “Okay—okay—just sit here. You can use my backup sheet if you want, or we can make you one real quick, or—”

“I’ll make my own,” I say, already pulling a blank sheet toward me.

Mike watches from across the table, expression unreadable. Still guarded. Still skeptical. But he hasn’t told me to leave.

Yet.

I roll my shoulders, take in the map, the miniatures, the positioning. The campaign is mid-chaos—party low on spell slots, terrain working against them, stakes clearly high.

I build fast. Efficient. No wasted stats.

When I slide the sheet forward, Eddie’s brows lift.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Bold choice.”

“Only if you don’t know how to use it,” I reply lightly.

Dustin’s jaw drops. “Oh my god. She min-maxed.”

Mike leans forward despite himself.

The game starts again.

At first, I hang back. Let them play the way they’re used to. I watch how Dustin strategizes, how Mike tracks everyone’s health like it’s second nature, how Eddie narrates with dramatic flair.

Then things go south.

Bad roll. Enemy crit. Someone’s down to two hit points.

Mike swears under his breath. “We’re screwed.”

“Not yet,” I say.

Everyone looks at me.

I move my piece.

“I disengage, use my bonus action to cast Misty Step to higher ground,” I say calmly, already rolling. “Then I take the shot.”

The dice hit the table.

Natural. Twenty.

The room explodes.

Dustin actually shrieks. “NO WAY—”

“I’m not done,” I add, because apparently I woke up confident today. “Sneak Attack damage applies since I have advantage. And I’m targeting the caster.”

Eddie’s grin stretches wide. “Oh, I like you.”

The turn shifts.

I coordinate. I call out positioning. I tell Dustin when to hold, Mike when to push. It’s seamless—like we’ve played together for years instead of minutes.

Mike starts listening without even realizing it.

“You should flank left,” I tell him at one point.

He hesitates. “That puts me in range—”

“Trust me.”

He does.

And it works.

By the final round, the table is dead silent again. Everyone leans in as I roll the last attack. The dice clatter, spin, stop.

Hit.

Eddie slams his hands on the table. “That’s it. That’s game.”

For a second, no one moves.

Then Dustin launches out of his chair and points at me like I just solved world hunger. “SHE WON THE WHOLE THING.”

“I didn’t win it,” I say, smiling. “We did.”

Mike exhales a breath he’s been holding the entire night.

He’s staring at me now. Really staring.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Something closer to stunned.

“That was…” he starts, then stops, shakes his head. “You’re… really good.”

It’s the first compliment he’s given me.

It lands harder than it should.

“Yeah,” I say lightly. “Kinda.”

Dustin grins so hard it looks painful. “You’re never allowed to leave.”

Mike snorts despite himself.

And when I glance back at him, there’s something different in his eyes now—less edge, less armor.

The energy in the basement lingers even after the game ends—like the air hasn’t caught up yet.

Dice are still scattered across the table. Character sheets half-folded. Someone left a mini knocked over on its side, frozen mid-battle.

Eddie stands first.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once, sharp and final, “that was legendary. But I’ve gotta, uh… take care of something.” He grabs his jacket, gives me a two-finger salute. “Hellfire’s doors are officially open to you, newcomer.”

Then he’s gone—up the stairs, door closing behind him, like he was never meant to stay too long in the first place.

#stranger

[mattsobvimyfav]

Before the bell (Mike Wheeler)

Part 1

a/n - alright its been a while but me and @ch0llies are back in the studio cooking again so heres part one, enjoyyy

I met them because Dustin Henderson does not believe in easing people into things.

He spots me in the cafeteria like I’m a puzzle he’s already decided to solve. I’m halfway through sitting down when he slides into the seat across from me, grinning like we’re old friends.

“You’re new,” he says. “You look like you’d survive a demobat attack.”

I blink. “Is that… a compliment?”

“It is,” he says seriously. “Do you play Dungeons & Dragons?”

And that’s how I end up at their table.

Dustin drags me over like I don’t weigh anything, narrating the whole way. “Okay, so this is Hellfire Club, which is basically the coolest thing at Hawkins High, and you’re perfect for it, and—”

A guy with long curly hair leans back in his chair, boots hooked around the table leg, eyes lighting up the second he sees me. “Well hello there.”

I give him a small smile. His energy is loud but harmless. Curious, not sharp.

Then there’s the boy sitting across from him.

He looks at me like I’ve personally offended him by existing.

Dustin plops down beside him. “This is Mike, Eddie, Gareth and Jeff” He says pointing around the table “Guys, this is Y/N. She just moved here. I was thinking she could maybe—”

“No,” Mike says immediately.

Just—no.

I raise my eyebrows. Eddie’s head snaps toward him. “No?”

“We don’t need more people,” Mike adds, arms folding across his chest. He doesn’t look away from me. “Hellfire’s full.”

Eddie snorts. “Since when, Wheeler?”

“Since always,” Mike says, clipped. “It’s not really a drop-in thing.”

I smile politely, because I’m good at that. Because I’ve learned it throws people off when you don’t react the way they want you to.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you too.”

He scoffs under his breath.

Dustin groans. “Dude, what is your problem?”

Mike shrugs, like this isn’t personal—like he isn’t actively being hostile. “Just being honest.”

I tilt my head. “About what?”

He pauses. Just for a second.

Then, “About people joining things they don’t understand.”

Eddie leans forward, elbows on the table. “Damn, man. Who died and made you the gatekeeper?”

Mike’s jaw tightens. Something dark flickers across his face. He looks away.

“Look,” Dustin says quickly, “she doesn’t even have to play. She could just watch—”

“I don’t need to,” I say, cutting in.

Three heads turn toward me.

“I don’t need to join,” I repeat calmly. “I just came because he asked.”

Dustin looks stricken. Eddie looks impressed.

Mike looks… caught off guard.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I add, grabbing my tray. “Good luck with your super important name.”

I don’t wait for a response. I don’t rush, either. I walk away like I don’t feel his eyes on my back, like his attitude didn’t hit something tender.

Behind me, Eddie mutters, “Oh, she’s cool.”

Dustin says, “Mike, what the hell?”

I don’t expect to see them again that day.

But Hawkins has a way of putting the same people in your path whether you want it to or not.

I’m at my locker when I hear my name.

“Y/N.”

I turn. Mike’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.

“Yeah?”

He looks uncomfortable. Which feels like a small victory.

“Dustin said you’re… new,” he says.

“That’s usually how that works.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Look. I was kind of an asshole earlier.”

Kind of.

I wait.

He doesn’t say sorry. Not yet.

“I’ve got a lot going on,” he adds, like that explains it.

I study him. He looks wrecked up close—eyes tired, mouth set too tight, anger sitting right under his skin like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“Okay,” I say. “That doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me, you don't even know me.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

“I know.”

The silence stretches.

“I wasn’t going to join Hellfire anyway,” I say eventually. “But you should probably work on how you talk to people.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

I turn back to my locker. When I close it, he’s still standing there.

“See you around, Wheeler.”

Teachers mispronounce my name. I get handed a map I don’t need. People stare in that subtle, Midwest way—trying not to look while very obviously looking. Hawkins High feels like it’s permanently holding its breath.

I catch Mike Wheeler once in English. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel him tense when I sit two rows behind him. Like he knows I’m there. Like he wishes I wasn’t.

By the last bell, I’m tired in a way that has nothing to do with school.

I’m halfway down the front steps when someone skids to a stop in front of me.

“WAIT.”

Dustin Henderson, again.

I sigh, but it’s not annoyed. Not really. “What now?”

“Okay,” he says, breathless, hands on his knees, “I know Mike was being a jerk—he’s been like that lately, it’s a whole thing—but please don’t judge Hellfire based on him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re very committed.”

“Because you’re perfect for it,” he insists. “Like, statistically.”

“I didn’t even say I wanted to join.”

“I know,” he says, nodding furiously. “But I need to know something.”

He straightens, suddenly serious.

“Do you… know how to play?”

“Kinda,” I say.

His eyes widen. “Kinda how?”

I shrug. “My cousin ran a campaign once. I played a rogue for a few months.”

His mouth drops open.

“A rogue?”

“Arcane Trickster,” I add, because apparently I can’t help myself. “I multiclassed later for utility. High Dex, dumped Strength, focused on Sleight of Hand and Perception. Sneak Attack damage scales fast if you play it right.”

He just stares at me.

“So,” I continue, “what’s the question?”

He fumbles, scrambling for one like his life depends on it. “Okay—uh—if you’re level five and facing a beholder, what do you prioritize?”

“Line of sight,” I say instantly. “You break it. Blind it if you can. And you do not cluster your party unless you want a total wipe.”

Dustin makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. Then louder, “OH MY GOD.”

He grabs my shoulders—not aggressively, just overwhelmed. “You’re perfect. You’re actually perfect. Eddie is going to lose his mind.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, already backing away like he’s planning. “We need you. Like, narratively.”

From somewhere behind him, I feel it before I see it.

Mike.

He’s standing a few yards away, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching us with that same guarded expression. Except now there’s something else there too.

Interest.

Annoyed interest, but still.

Dustin follows my gaze and beams. “See? Even Mike agrees.”

Mike scowls. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dustin says cheerfully. “Your face did.”

I meet Mike’s eyes. He looks like he wants to argue—and like he doesn’t quite know how.

“Well,” I say, stepping around Dustin, “I’ll think about it.”

Dustin lights up like I just saved Christmas. “Yes!”

I try to walk away.

Genuinely. I make it maybe ten steps before I hear sneakers scuffing behind me.

“Hey—hey—wait up!”

I don’t turn around. “I already said I’d think about it.”

“That’s not a no,” Dustin says brightly, immediately matching my pace on my left. “That’s a maybe. And maybes are just yeses that need encouragement.”

On my right—annoyingly silent—I can feel him.

Mike Wheeler

He’s walking with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight, like he’s pretending this isn’t happening. Like he didn’t just argue with me an hour ago. Like he doesn’t care.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I’m going home,” I say.

“So are we,” Dustin replies. “Just… with a quick stop first.”

“Nope.”

“We’re playing tonight,” Dustin presses. “At Mike’s.”

I stop. Slowly turn to face them. “Absolutely not.”

Mike finally speaks. “You don’t have to.”

I look at him. “Wow. First reasonable thing you’ve said all day.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m serious too,” I say. “I just moved here. I don’t know you. I’m not going to some guy’s house to play a game.”

Dustin looks personally offended. “First of all, rude. Second of all, Mrs. Wheeler is home. Like. Always.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“And third,” Dustin adds, pointing at me, “you answered that beholder question faster than I blink. You have to come.”

I hesitate. I hate that I hesitate.

“I said one hour,” I remind him.

“Yes!” Dustin pumps a fist. “Okay. Transportation.”

I blink. “Transportation?”

He points behind us.

Two bikes.

I look at them. Then at him. “I don’t have a bike.”

“No problem,” Dustin says instantly. “You can ride on the back of Mike’s.”

I laugh. “No.”

Mike stiffens. “She doesn’t have to—”

“Why not yours?” I ask Dustin.

He gestures dramatically to the bulky, duct-taped mess strapped to his bike. “Because I need the back for my science project.”

Mike squints at it. “That’s a radio.”

“It’s a prototype,” Dustin snaps, then looks back at me. “Also, there’s literally no room.”

I glance at Mike.

He avoids my eyes.

“I’m not—” I start.

“Please,” Dustin says. Not joking now. “Just tonight.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he really means it. Like this isn’t just a game to him. Like they need this night to feel normal.

I sigh.

“Fine,” I say. “But if I die, I’m haunting both of you.”

Dustin beams. “Deal.”

Mike hands me a helmet, still not looking directly at me. “Just—uh—hold on.”

I climb onto the back of his bike. It’s closer than I expect. My knees brush his sides. His back goes rigid instantly.

“Relax,” I say lightly. “I’m not going to fall.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Because I’m not great at… catching people.”

Dustin hops on his bike and starts pedaling ahead. “Wheeler! Don’t crash the new girl!”

Mike exhales, starts the engine, and the bike lurches forward.

I grab his jacket without thinking.

He freezes for half a second—then keeps going.

The bike hums beneath us, low and steady, vibrating up through the soles of my shoes.

I hadn’t expected how close it would be.

There’s no polite distance on the back of a bike. No room for pretending. My knees press against his hips every time we hit a crack in the road, and my hands—after hovering awkwardly for a full five seconds—end up clutching the hem of his jacket.

Not his shoulders. That feels too intimate.

Mike sits rigid in front of me, spine straight like he’s afraid to move the wrong way. His shoulders are tense, pulled tight under the fabric, like he’s bracing for impact instead of just riding home.

He smells faintly like laundry detergent and cold air.

I notice stupid things. The way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. The way his fingers tighten around the handlebars every time Dustin swerves ahead of us. The way he keeps glancing left, then right—checking intersections, mirrors, shadows—like he’s used to being responsible for more than just himself.

He clears his throat once.

The bike jolts suddenly over a bump, and my grip tightens without thinking. My fingers curl into his jacket, and my chest bumps lightly into his back.

He stiffens.

Not pulling away. Just… registering it.

“Sorry,” I say, instinctively.

“It’s fine,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. His voice cracks just a little at the end, like he hasn’t spoken much today.

We ride in silence after that.

I loosen my grip a little, resting my hands flatter against his sides instead of clutching the fabric. I can feel the warmth through his jacket, steady and real. His breathing evens out as the road smooths, and eventually—slowly—his shoulders drop a fraction.

Just enough for me to notice.

Dustin whoops ahead of us, pedaling harder, calling something about beating us there. Mike barely reacts, just shakes his head slightly, a fondness he doesn’t even seem aware of flickering across his face.

The bike rolls to a stop.

And when I finally let go, my hands feel cold without him.

Mike’s basement smells like dust, old carpet, and something vaguely metallic—ozone, maybe, from too many electronics plugged into one outlet.

Christmas lights snake along the ceiling, casting everything in that familiar warm glow. The folding table is already set up: dice scattered, character sheets stacked, the battle map rolled out like it’s waiting to be activated.

Dustin immediately drops his bag with the radio contraption and launches into talking at full volume.

“She knows D&D,” he announces, like he’s delivering breaking news.

From behind the DM screen, Eddie Munson looks up.

Slowly.

His eyes flick to me. Then down. Then back up again.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, grinning. 

The basement goes quiet in that way it only does when something important is about to happen.

Dice stop clattering. Someone’s foot stops bouncing. Even the Christmas lights seem to hum softer.

Dustin is practically vibrating beside me. “Okay—okay—just sit here. You can use my backup sheet if you want, or we can make you one real quick, or—”

“I’ll make my own,” I say, already pulling a blank sheet toward me.

Mike watches from across the table, expression unreadable. Still guarded. Still skeptical. But he hasn’t told me to leave.

Yet.

I roll my shoulders, take in the map, the miniatures, the positioning. The campaign is mid-chaos—party low on spell slots, terrain working against them, stakes clearly high.

I build fast. Efficient. No wasted stats.

When I slide the sheet forward, Eddie’s brows lift.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Bold choice.”

“Only if you don’t know how to use it,” I reply lightly.

Dustin’s jaw drops. “Oh my god. She min-maxed.”

Mike leans forward despite himself.

The game starts again.

At first, I hang back. Let them play the way they’re used to. I watch how Dustin strategizes, how Mike tracks everyone’s health like it’s second nature, how Eddie narrates with dramatic flair.

Then things go south.

Bad roll. Enemy crit. Someone’s down to two hit points.

Mike swears under his breath. “We’re screwed.”

“Not yet,” I say.

Everyone looks at me.

I move my piece.

“I disengage, use my bonus action to cast Misty Step to higher ground,” I say calmly, already rolling. “Then I take the shot.”

The dice hit the table.

Natural. Twenty.

The room explodes.

Dustin actually shrieks. “NO WAY—”

“I’m not done,” I add, because apparently I woke up confident today. “Sneak Attack damage applies since I have advantage. And I’m targeting the caster.”

Eddie’s grin stretches wide. “Oh, I like you.”

The turn shifts.

I coordinate. I call out positioning. I tell Dustin when to hold, Mike when to push. It’s seamless—like we’ve played together for years instead of minutes.

Mike starts listening without even realizing it.

“You should flank left,” I tell him at one point.

He hesitates. “That puts me in range—”

“Trust me.”

He does.

And it works.

By the final round, the table is dead silent again. Everyone leans in as I roll the last attack. The dice clatter, spin, stop.

Hit.

Eddie slams his hands on the table. “That’s it. That’s game.”

For a second, no one moves.

Then Dustin launches out of his chair and points at me like I just solved world hunger. “SHE WON THE WHOLE THING.”

“I didn’t win it,” I say, smiling. “We did.”

Mike exhales a breath he’s been holding the entire night.

He’s staring at me now. Really staring.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Something closer to stunned.

“That was…” he starts, then stops, shakes his head. “You’re… really good.”

It’s the first compliment he’s given me.

It lands harder than it should.

“Yeah,” I say lightly. “Kinda.”

Dustin grins so hard it looks painful. “You’re never allowed to leave.”

Mike snorts despite himself.

And when I glance back at him, there’s something different in his eyes now—less edge, less armor.

The energy in the basement lingers even after the game ends—like the air hasn’t caught up yet.

Dice are still scattered across the table. Character sheets half-folded. Someone left a mini knocked over on its side, frozen mid-battle.

Eddie stands first.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once, sharp and final, “that was legendary. But I’ve gotta, uh… take care of something.” He grabs his jacket, gives me a two-finger salute. “Hellfire’s doors are officially open to you, newcomer.”

Then he’s gone—up the stairs, door closing behind him, like he was never meant to stay too long in the first place.

[mattsobvimyfav]

make a mike fanfic

yes

no

Voting ended onDec 5, 2025

[mattsobvimyfav]

i feel like i’m the only person on tumblr that does not like byler…. mike & eleven forever over here

[inbred-eater]

been on that finn wolfhard shit since the beginning but he looks EXTRA GOOD this season 😭 the pathetic wet dog look? yeah need that.

[payisbored]

[belle-ee-deactivated20250531]

and i think that if madisyn left because of chrises commitment issues there wouldn’t be tea (since on the stream they were like they wanna know the tea) and they wouldn’t have unfollowed her EVERYWHERE and wouldve understood, and chris would not have been heartbroken from that he would’ve understood 😭😭 im pretty sure he was also with madisyn when he was rly young like in 2020-2021 so i think that was also before he was even scared because seemingly from the pics of them tg they were rllly close, he would’ve said from the start if he didn’t want all of that with her. there’s literally vids and pics of them cuddling and holding hands from 2020-2021 AND nick def wouldn’t have talked about it publicly if they didnt know for sure AND theres literally no evidence of them saying there was a misunderstanding because nick wasnt actually talking he was mouthing 😭😭 but i just had to say this because none of this is a coincidence he def was played hes talked about being heartbroken nick mouthed it on the stream and they never addressed it after its def real he def was played

THANK YOU

fuck the people who side with that hoe who dated another dude while with chris 😭😭

[welovestromboli]

I been knew this just waited for y'all to get it

[mattsobvimyfav]

i also think we should chill on a girl who maybe made a mistake when she was what 15? idk strange to me nobody actually knows what happened & nobody should be rude about stuff that’s not ur business & you actually don’t know what happened. just bc that’s ur fav🤷🏻‍♀️

[mattsobvimyfav]

Hi! sorry to bother! but there's a user that goes by @ forevermore777 and he has been banned alot, but he keeps coming back.

Hes a grown man that sexualizes 17 year old ariana greenblatt. he posts in her tag too and he's really gross… :/

pleas report him!! tagging/telling others about this helps!

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