bully!mike just started with little jokes. about the way you chewed your lip, how short your skirt was. “cold today, huh?” mike would ask, voice all honey sweet as his eyes dragged down your legs. then came the ‘accidents’ ..bumping into you too hard in hallways, laughing when your books spilled at his feet. but soon enough it wasn’t just teasing: it was him slamming lockers shut near your head just to see you flinch, stealing pencils and scribbling ‘slut' on them before handing them back with a little smirk.
bully!mike who shoves you down onto your knees in the bathroom stalls during passing period, a hand on the back of your neck to make sure you don't try to get away while he gets you to do what he wants.
bully!mike who finds you crying in the stairwell after a rough practice and laughs as he drags you up by your jersey. “aw, baby got hurt?” he mocks, twisting the fabric tighter around your throat when you try to push him away.
bully!mike smiles when he hears someone walk by outside the door, watching your expression twist. “shh,”he murmurs, pulling you up against him to muffle any sounds you might make. “don't want anybody to hear you getting fucked, do you?”
bully!mike who finds out you're working the same shift at the local grocery store and makes sure to show up with his friends. he'll make a point to buy all the ice cream bars you've been tasked with restocking and watch as you have to bend over in those tight uniforms. he'll also make a point to mention, in front of your coworkers, how much of a 'natural' you look when you're cleaning the floors on your hands and knees.
bully!mike who watches your shoulders tense when you pull your work apron tighter around your waist. “that's new,” he says, all fake innocence as his eyes go from the logo stitched over your chest all the way down to your legs. “bet the customers love it.”
bully!mike who finds your number in the school directory and calls you just before bedtime, the landline ringing loud in your ear as you lay awake. when you answer, there's just dead silence at first. then a soft chuckle as mike's voice comes through the receiver, low enough that you almost don't hear him. “hey, sweetheart.” he doesn't give you time to respond before asking: “you alone?”
₊˚⊹⋆ your voice cracks as you demand to know how he got your number, and he laughs. a sharp, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl. “oh c'mon,” he drawls, dragging the words out like it's all a joke to him. “you really think i don't have my ways?” his tone drops suddenly, cold and vicious. “bet u liked having me follow u home too. fuckin’ desperate for attention.”
boah ich hasse dieses update 😭 jetzt filtern die plötzlich explizite inhalte, als hätte ich auf der app noch nie welche gesehen. ich kann das nicht mal ändern, weil ich mein passwort nicht mehr weiß und auf die email, mit der ich mich damals angemeldet hab, hab ich auch keinen zugriff mehr…
kann mir irgendwer helfen pls 😭 jemand der deutsch spricht?
older!college!mike who is usually something of an awkward guy, but gains insane confidence whenever he’s stood next to you because he knows how shy and innocent you are– and how you pretty much squirm the moment he lays a finger on you. he’ll make dirty jokes in public to you or in the library, and put his hand on your exposed thigh while you desperately try not to whine at the contact. sometimes he’ll even slap your ass when you stand up in a crowded room, just because he loves to see how red your cheeks go and how embarrassed you get.
older!college!mike who loves it when you wear his clothes, because the two of you have at least an eight inch height difference and it turns him on to see his sweaters and t-shirts swallow you whole. whenever you go to his dorm, he’ll demand you shed whatever clothes you came in so you can put some of his on instead while he fucks you. to him, there’s nothing hotter than him having his dick in you while your wearing his shirt and smelling like him, because it constantly reminds him that your his girl all while he makes you moan and go insane on his cock.
older!college!mike who doesn’t care when you tell him that you need a minute to adjust to his dick. once he’s settled in your warm, snug walls–all he wants to do is move and watch as you get completed overwhelmed with pleasure. while you beg him to go slower with your nails digging into his bicep, he’ll be huffing out praises, trying to convince you it’s all in your head and you can in fact take him the way he desperately wants you to.
older!college!mike who loves to remind you how easy it is for him to manoeuvre you around and bend you into whatever positions he wants during sex because your a lot smaller than he is. he’ll have your legs up on his shoulders while he demands you to give him your hand to press to your stomach so you can feel the outline of his cock, showing you just how deep he’s going into your tight walls. even in public, he’ll easily pick you up and throw you over his shoulder if you piss him off enough, just to shut you up.
older!college!mike who can be seriously mean when he wants to be. if you tell him you can’t see him on a particular day because or school-work or other reasons, he’ll be petty about it for days. he’ll be off with you and touch you with no interest at all, kiss you like he’s being forced to, and talk to you like your bothering him. it’s only when you get sick of his actions and genuinely get upset that he comes to your dorm to apologise for his stupid behaviour, and makes up for it by bringing your favourite flowers with him.
older!college!mike who has a serious problem when it comes to jerking off. he’ll text you while your in a class, trying to pay attention, that he needs photos of you to stroke his dick to. it happens so often that you take photos of yourself naked or in mike’s favourite bra and panties and keep them in a folder on your phone so that when he calls or texts you, you don’t have to go to the bathroom to take photos of yourself. and if you don’t respond– mike will literally scroll on your instagram and have no shame in cumming all over a photo of you fully clothed and smiling innocently up at the camera.
mean bully!mike ignores you after he got what he wanted:(
part 1
he acts like it never happened. like the whole thing only existed in your head or something. in the halls he walks right past you, shoulder almost bumping yours, and he doesn’t even look. not once. in class he sits there laughing with his friends like normal while you’re two rows behind him trying not to stare at the back of his stupid head.
at first you think he just regrets it. maybe he’s embarrassed. maybe what happened between you made things weird and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it. so you thought.
you never really understood why he picked you. but you didn’t ask.
and now it’s worse, because he acts like none of it ever happened. not the bullying, not the night you spent together, nothing.
he just ignores you. completely. and that somehow hurts more than when he used to make fun of you.
you tell yourself you’re not gonna say anything. you really try. but when he brushes past you in the hallway again without even looking at you, something tight and panicky rises in your chest.
“wait—“ your voice is small. you hate how small it sounds.
he stops, slowly turning around. his expression already looks irritated.
“what.” the word is flat. you instantly feel that familiar nervous heat crawl up your neck.
“i just.. um…” your brain feels empty. you practiced this in your head but now everything’s gone.
“spit it out.”
“did i… do something?” your hands twisted together.
he frowns at you like the question is stupid. “what?”
“because you… you don’t talk to me anymore so i thought—“ you feel ridiculous saying it out loud.
his eyes narrow faintly. “we didn’t talk before either.”
your chest tightens. his coldness hurting more than it should.
“i mean after…”
you can’t even say it. the word feels stuck in your throat.
he watches you struggle for a second and then he just snorts.
“oh my god.” your stomach drops. “you’re still thinking about that?”
your face burns. “i just thought maybe you were mad or something,” you mumble pathetically, cheeks pinkish and heated.
he laughs sharply, looking down at you as if you were a piece of shit. “why would i be mad?” he found all this way too amusing. it feed his ego how much you seemed to want him.
you shrug a little, shoulders curling in. “i-i dunno—“
he stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why you’re being so weird, biting the inside of his cheek as his half lidded eyes roamed all over your body, picturing you naked from last time.
“it wasn’t a big deal, was it?” words hitting somewhere deep in your chest.
“i know,” you say quickly. too quickly. trying to convince yourself more than him.
your voice gets quieter. “i just didn’t think you’d ignore me,”
he rolls his eyes. “what do you want from me exactly?”
you shake your head fast. “nothing. i just—“
your voice catches. your body suddenly feeling like it did months ago. standing awkwardly in hallways while people laugh. you hate that feeling.
he notices the way you shrink a little and his expression turns colder instead of softer.
“seriously this is why i didn’t wanna deal with this.”
your fingers pressed harder together, fidgeting against your crotch.
“deal with what?” “this.” he gestures at you vaguely.
“you’re acting all awkward and sad like i did something bad to you.”
you stare at the floor.
“i didn’t say that.”
“you didn’t have to.” his voice gets more impatient. “it was just sex you knew that.”
you nod quickly even though your holding back tears, and your chest feels painfully tight. “yeah, i know.”
“then forget about it.” what you didn’t see was the way he slowed down a little once he turned the corner.
he watched you for a moment before looking away again.
truth was, he noticed you all the time.
he noticed when you walked into a room. when you sat in class two rows away pretending not to look at him. when you got quiet the second he passed by.
he noticed everything. thats why he igrore you. because he knew what it did to yoUz.
he knew the way your shoulders tensed when he walked past like you didn’t exist. he knew how your voice got smaller when you talked to him. how you started stumbling over your words when he gave you that blank look.
and he liked it. made him feel powerful in a way.
he liked seeing you confused. liked watching you try to figure out what he was thinking. liked watching seeing you quietly try to win him back.
pairing: step-brother mike wheeler x coddled afab reader
heed the warnings, this is no joke: stepcest!, mike is aged up, he's readers stepbrother since childhood so they refer to each other as siblings, no penetrative sex, he's a real sick perv so this isnt a light psychological read, plz dont read if you are sensitive to these topics.. mike is joe goldberg levels of odd
a/n: this ones kinda long, im trying to push my limits here! its sorta slow(?), its not a slow burn but it's fairly detailed so things dont happen quickly. im trying to figure out my prose. if people likey it enough i may finish with smut x3
preview: Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself. A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
The first time you see it you act on pure instinct.
Noisy steps raining hell on aged basement stairs, acting as a siren, telling everyone 'I'm here' before they can even see you.
"Pervert." You're crying when you reach the bottom. Your lips moving on their own accord, fighting off your self-restraint with ease, "I know what yo-you're hiding you disgusting, filthy, pervert."
"I saw everything." You confronted the crowded room, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, your eyes frantically scanning for Mike, who was already staring at you. But he wasn't the only one.
They were all staring at you. Dustin, Lucas, Will.
Their faces twist with confusion and concern, and a layer of disgust they couldn't even pretend to hide. Or maybe they didn't want to, would rather you see it written on their face, the turmoil your presence brought. It's unwanted.
And Mike, who stood from his seat and laughed perfunctorily, the corner of his eyes crinkling as they met everyone rounded at the table.
Probably his way of diffusing tension, you can't tell. You can barely breathe.
"Let's get you some water." He walked towards you, smooth and unconcerned strides. And he placed his palm atop your back to guide you upstairs, "Go ahead and continue without me, guys." He reassured his group before disappearing with you.
The kitchen is where he saw your grief, your jagged breaths; your desperation.
The part of you that sought comfort in someone you're so sure you should be running from. It's a tether, but that didn't stop you from sobbing your heart out, only pushed the confessions to pour from your trembling mouth.
And he's not denying it.
He didn't outright say 'no', if not, talked circles around your accusations. Telling you not to believe everything you see, like you're being fooled by media.
"You're being ridiculous, do you hear yourself? I stole from you? I keep a collection of you?" He's telling you more than he's asking you anything, and he said it with genuine disbelief, bewilderment clouding his expression.
"I mean, what is this? Where is this coming from? I'm your brother." He scoffed, reminding you of his place in your life, like that means anything.
You know men who do worse for less, real brothers who hurt their real sisters.
Girls who are turned into statistics, who are horror stories for the Hawkin's news, who showed up on in your mothers warnings after your father remarried. And one of those warnings, the first person you look at for reassurance, the only person you believed wouldn't be depraved enough, existed quietly with you.
"I know what I saw." You defend yourself, even if weakly.
"What'd you see?" There's a vague urgency in his voice, but it's subtle enough to brush off.
He'd pin it on some bullshit concern if need be.
"Ph-photos of me in bed," your speech faltered, uneven in its inflection, your throat clicking as you swallowed dryly, "al-almost naked."
"And where's the proof for that?"
"I..." You paused, blinking as the realization settles, his words ringing in your head.
You didn't have any of it, any of what he asked for, of what you've so confidently accused him of, of what you dragged him out of his dungeon for.
"I don't have it on me." You admit curtly, the tremble in your voice slipping through, your knees threatening to give out from beneath you.
And his gaze softened immediately, responding to your vulnerability with a tenderness only he was capable of. That reeled you into his comforting arms, that held you soft and kissed you warm.
"You know what I think it is?," He's pressed his lips against your temple, sighing, "you're jealous, hm? Jealous I don't spend all my time with you anymore, right?"
You soaked in his words and shook your head. "N-no," you sniffled, crumbling into his embrace and giving in.
"Don't scare yourself into seeing these things," he whispered, "You'll just worry yourself sick."
What had you seen?
And how can you be so sure any of it was yours?
How are you so sure any of it was Mike's?
The second time it happens, you're in his bedroom, helping him look for a book for his new campaign.
You weren't meant to be in there for more than a minute--you knew you needed to be quick because everyone's waiting for you downstairs. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and tonight, Mike's girlfriend.
Still, it calls your name as you pass by it on your way out.
A piece of notebook paper, crumpled to its smallest form, abandoned in a metal bin, asking to be left alone.
Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself.
A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
But you reach for it anyways, prying open its furled body with curious hands. You make out a few things. Like the fact that it's only a fragment of a longer entry. Handwritten print of your name tacked alongside a mention of items.
Of your items.
Words about your hair after shampoo day, your sleeping body and every way it contorts when you're in a deep sleep, what time of night you're deadweight, a thin swipe of your current lipstick, a comment about the shade of your soft nipples, and the color of your thighs when stretched taut.
Your cycle. Your college schedule. How warm you'd like your coffee those Fall mornings.
There's an uneasy certainty etched into his writing- unequivocal observations that make your skin crawl, telling you to stop while you can, to stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Instead, it set you off. Sent you to his dresser, pulling open his drawers and the rest is blurry. Anxious hands diving wherever they can, groping blindly, begging for something to prove you right, or wrong, or anything to keep you grounded.
But it all comes up blank.
So you tripped into his closet, crawled into every nook and cranny. Tossing back pants and shirts that'd knock against the door behind you, that forced the door into the wall, a resounding thud with every throw, but you didn't care. You couldn't.
Your knees ached, pressed harsh into thin carpet that's certain to give you a burn, trembling fingers rummaging through everything it can find, until they land on a shoebox. On a lid that's thrown off within seconds, that sends reality crashing down you.
The room feels like it's spinning, tossing you every which way, and blood is rushing to your head. Bile sticking to your already dry throat, that just burns and crawls and digs into your chest, makes your heart quake.
Lingerie, undergarments, patterned and printed, socks, all ones you had emotionally grown out of after your last birthday. A few you mentioned wanting to throw out, because you were a different girl now. Because you were grown up and going to college and wanted to feel it, too.
"So weird, I was gonna toss out a bag of clothes but I can't remember where I put it..." You mentioned.
"Huh, that is weird," Mike followed, "but I guess if you were gonna toss them out anyways, doesn't matter where they went, right?"
And you agreed, stupidly.
It's all hitting you at once.
Tubes of spent gloss. The last of your signature roll-ons tucked into their own corner. He built a home out of you. A vault of your past and present, kept you hidden.
Was he going to do that you?
Keep you hidden?
Kept away from everything and everyone, just like everything in this box?
You kept looking, you don't know why, but you couldn't stop, finding yourself in front of a familiar stack.
Dirtied polaroid's bound together by a tan band that snaps open at your distress, pictures slipping from your head, broadcasting inscribed dates and descriptions and photos of you, your body, every angle possible.
And you can feel it crawling up your spine.
That night worming its way out of every dark corner in his room, closing in on you, enshrouding you icily, when your eyes land on the photo.
A photo that was meant to be a fairytale, something you had scared yourself into believing, something you hallucinated because he said so. Because he was spending time with his girlfriend and you were jealous, he said. That's what he said, and he promised. So why is it here? Why is it real and firm in your clammy fingers, why can you see it?
Your heart beats so loud in your ears you don't hear the shoes on carpet, or the weight shifting beneath your reddening knees.
"What are you doing?" His voice is what slams you back to the present.
Your heart skips a beat, a thick silence lingering between you.
"Mike..." You tremble, but you're refusing to look at him, staring into the galleria of your life instead.
He doesn't respond to you, though.
He reaches over to close the box, nudging it back in place, then he steps away, picking up after you. You hear it, the way he calmly folds tousled articles of clothing, placing them onto his bed.
"I saw-" You're cut off as soon as you speak.
"You don't know what you saw." He brushes off your concern, a cold edge to his voice, stripped of the affection he'd always meet you with.
Devoid of any patience he'd previously carried all those times you'd gotten too close.
When you'd run into his room, excited about some band, or some news, or something he'd set aside his day for. And he'd pretend like he wasn't just adding to his trophy of a shoebox, like that one night.
But he wasn't angry, you could tell. He was never angry, not with you, at least. He was indifferent, uninterested in your tears, and for some reason that was worse.
For some reason- some disgusting reason- you wanted him to care, to make it feel better, to pull you into his arms and against his chest while you doze off to some track on his vinyl.
It makes you want to curl into yourself, so you can hide from him, from your feelings.
You thought that maybe if you hid underneath your hands and cowered, you'd be small enough to trigger a shell, one that'd take you in and protect you from his hostility. Replace his job as your brother.
"You can't be doing this t-to pe-people," you mustered up the courage, slurred speech and all, but you said it.
You can feel the warmth of his body radiating onto yours, hugging you, tempting you.
"Doing, what?" He's on his knees, draping himself over your frame as he speaks, his chest pressed into your back. "What am I doing?" He asks with soft lips, dragging them across your skin.
It makes you shudder.
"Normally," the palm of his hand rests on your arm, weighing on you and warming you, comforting you as his thumb rubs in lazy circles, "you shouldn't be making a mess in someone else's room."
His comments churn in your brain.
They push on all the right buttons--that was his thing, seeing people for who they were.
What made them weak or strong, what made them tick, what they want or don't want to hear. And him, always knowing when to reach what.
"You know," His words are a serrated knife; threatening to break the seal. "You worried everyone tonight." He punctured.
You forgot. Everyone was still here.
You made a scene, you know that. You gave him no choice.
Mike recalled what he told the group. That you were probably hurt, that this isn't anything new, and that you probably just need your big brother. Telling them you don't know how to be by yourself.
And he didn't say it, he just made you feel it. Expertly chipped away at your confidence.
You've spoiled their night because you needed your big brother to save you, needed him to watch you throw your tantrums, because you don't like it when he's with his girlfriend and without you.
It is your fault yet again. Had you kept to yourself, you would've never seen what you did. You wouldn't have ruined tonight, you would've been downstairs with everyone.
"You shouldn't be doing this to people," his words crept against your earlobe, hardly above a whisper.
You whimpered in response, the only thing you do, and it sounds pathetic. Like you were going to cry.
"I know, I'm being so mean," he crooned, gingerly coating your nape in wet kisses, as he cradled you with gentle hands--an emotional whiplash. But you couldn't help it, he knew you couldn't when you softened under his touch.
"Are you... am I..." You struggled to find the words, your breath picking up, "are you mad at me?"
He pressed another kiss to your temple before standing, "Just disappointed. You should've known better than to do this again, but I forgive you."
He doesn't tell you that he sent everyone home earlier, that he was never pulled away so selfishly, but ignorance is bliss.
Always.
Michael took you to bed that night.
He helped you up off the ground and dusted off your carpet-burned knees, then he walked you to your room, until your legs met the mattress and you were forced into its comfort.
Neither of you bothered with the lights on the way in, the moon illuminated enough bluey hues.
Words aren't exchanged when his fingers hooked onto the belt loop of your bottoms and he tugged them down your thighs, until they pooled around your ankles.
To get you ready for bed, he said at some point, you can't remember when.
When you blinked up, all you saw was Mike, peering into your teary eyes from where he stood. He bent towards you for a moment only, fingers brushing your hair back lovingly.
The heat soothed you and it was so tender you could sob into his hand.
It was demented that you knew how he felt.
That he tore down your privacy, never let you have it, saw you for who you were in every way. Yet deep down, you found yourself feeling self-conscious.
In a way you shouldn't.
In a way schoolgirls feel around their crushes, when she wonders if her hair looked nice, and the thought of looking a fool was agonizing and so she sheepishly pats down her flyaways, all to avoid being seen so imperfectly.
He made you want to pat down your flyaways.
You brought your legs up to rest on the mattress, an attempt to cover yourself but he stopped you, only kissed atop your knee. A wet kiss, the kinds you give to a girlfriend.
Has he? You ask yourself. Has he given these to his girlfriend?
You're not sure when this all began, you're not sure you want to know.
No, you know you don't want to.
You don't want to see what he saw. Or what he felt all those times you'd collapse in his arms after a bad day, a bad date, when he'd watch your eyes puff and swell with sadness. Or what he thought during those evenings your father would upset, when you'd stomp, stomp, stomp back to your room and slam the door.
You bottom lip quivered and he leaned in, snug between your legs, before you could cry. He caught your lips on his and brought you to a quiet.
He let out a sigh of relief that same second, and his hands briskly found themselves on your waist.
It all makes your stomach hurt. None of it takes away from who he is and what he's done.
"Stop," you sobbed into the kiss while melting into it--under him.
You don't know why you want him to stop either.
Is it because of his girlfriend? Or because he's your brother?
But his movements stilled, warm lips nestled above yours, "You want me to stop?" His whisper brushed against you, and you don't respond, only turned your face the other way, his lips on your cheek this time.
Your throat tightened as you swallowed.
"You can't do this to me. I'm..." you paused, wanting to collect your thoughts. "I am not your girlfriend." You whispered with an averted gaze, staring at your dimly lit window.
Not, 'I am family' or 'I am your childhood', but 'I am not your girlfriend.'
"Is that it?" He purred against you, kissed along your cheek to the side of your mouth, where he kept himself pressed, and his hand pushed underneath your chin. "You want to be my girlfriend?" He smiled, you knew because you could feel his lips stretch thin as he spoke.
But he didn't wait for an answer this time.
He used the hand under your chin to turn your face back to his. Then he dove back in without restraint, the kiss eliciting a moan you could tell he was holding back.
He kissed you fervently, like you were meant for him, and him you, and he let you sob under him. He let your hands weakly nudge at his biceps, let you make weak noises.
"Tell me to stop again," he breathed against your lips, "tell me."
He was testing you, what you really wanted, and like clockwork you never knew.
So he made the choice for you and left your swollen lips alone, pulling back and breaking strings of spit with him. Choosing, instead, to stamp your cheeks with wet kisses.
Then along your jaw and down your neck, like he was tasting you or savoring you, the way a devoted man would. And he kissed until he reached your bare navel.
Your mind drifted.
Each memory mingling with your emotions.
Did it start on the night of your sixteenth birthday?
The night he took you down to Benny's because all you talked about was a messy burger with a side of extra soggy fries, topped with the coldest pop, and he watched you eat with all your glory.
Or is that just when it started for you.
Your stomach fluttered in response. You watched through wet lashes as he reached your lower half, where he lightly rubbed his nose into your inner thigh and the ends of his hair tickled your skin.
He bit into the fat of your thighs like the sweetest nectar was promised, with gentle teeth and warmed lips, and he brushed down to your panty-clad mound.
His breath hot above your crotch, and your hand went flying, shoving itself between his mouth and you.
His eyes flicked to look up at you, an eyebrow raised, before he looked back down at your hand. He kissed your knuckles, each one, from thumb to pinky.
He kissed your nails, each one again, then he kissed the pudge of your wrists, nudged at it with his nose. A dog asking, no, fighting for it's treat. And you, the owner, caved by moving your hand.
Michael Wheeler, your childhood, your stepbrother, and what next? Your lover?
a/n #2: hopefully this reaches the right audiences!
older!college!mike who chuckled and ran his tongue over his teeth when you told him you were only in your first year of college at a party, the information only fueling his desire to be the first guy who’d get to fuck you at your brand new school. and how could he resist a girl as cute and innocent as you?
older!college!mike who loves how inexperienced you are at pretty much everything. it shocked him to his core when you told him no guy had ever stuck his dick in you, so it was only natural for him to show you how good sex can be–with the right person, that is. he’d spend hours trying to teach you how to grind your hips the right way on top of him, and how to relax your throat when sucking him off, demanding you look up at him the whole damn time. on top of that, it turned him on even more to find out he barely fits inside you. every-time the two of you want to fuck, there has to be at least ten minutes of him fingering you to stretch you out for him before he can even dream about having his way with you.
older!college!mike who took you under his wing in your first week of college, giving you no time to make your own friends–leaving you the only fresher with a friend group of 22 year olds. you didn’t mind it however, because that meant you got to hang out with mike all the time. he’d have his arm draped around your shoulder constantly at study periods in the library, fingers toying with the lace of your bra as he yapped away to his friends.
older!college!mike who demands you still make time for him despite being busy during your very first set of exams which had you way too anxious. he’d show up to your dorm at 10pm while your busy learning flash cards, demanding you let him fuck the nerves out of you, claiming “it’s the best medicine” to curing stress. –and when you say no, he says you at least owe him a photo of you bent over in his favourite pink panties to jerk off to.
older!college!mike who steals quite literally all of your undergarments from your dorm. he wouldn’t even try to be discreet about it either, making eye contact with you as he grabs a pair of lace panties from your drawer, raising his brows at you as he shoves them into his pocket. –and when you’d get them back, you’d be able to smell the detergent off them from a mile away, confirming the suspicions you had about what exactly mike was doing with your underwear.
older!college!mike who fucks you wherever and whenever, because to him there’s nothing hotter than shoving a girl wearing all pink and smelling like vanilla into a dirty maintenance closet and fucking the shit out of her. he’d purposefully push your face against the wall when he’s trying to hit all those impossible angles, so your hair and makeup would get messed up enough for people to know how you spent your lunch break, your button up babydoll top all crumpled to accompany it.
older!college!mike who made it no secret when you were both still talking that he liked you. he’d show up to your dorm to “talk”, then stare at your tits for an hour while biting his bottom lip and looking up at you with stars in his eyes. he’d make any excuse to touch you, demanding it was absolutely necessary for him to run his hands up and down your sides after the two of you had been outside, claiming he was “checking for bugs.”
I loved your bully!mike reader ! Would you ever consider writing a whole smut fic for him
TW: this fic is darker than my usual stuff. it includes power dynamics and non-vanilla themes. also definitely mischaracterizing mike; this isn’t canonically accurate. read at your own discretion.
he’s been at it for months now. little comments. pulling on your hair just to make you squeak. whispering little meanies when he passes you in the corridor. so close his warm breath embraces your ear. “you get all dressed up for me or what?”
you tell him to fuck off. and he laughs like you just flirted with him.
it’s pathetic really, because you should hate him. you do hate him. you think you do. until the night you don’t.
you’re home alone when the doorbell rings, and you already know it’s the plumber your mom hired to fix that stupid bathroom sink that’s been leaking for weeks. you definitely don’t expect him to be him. mike. as in mike wheeler standing on your porch in work boots and a faded shirt, toolbox in hand, looking mildly amused but just as surprised when you just stare at him like you’ve seen a ghost.
“seriously?” you say, shoulders dropping from the tension built up before. he shrugs as he steps inside without waiting for permission, like he’s done this a hundred times. the house now suddenly feeling smaller, quieter. he disappears into the bathroom to check the sink, and the fact he doesn’t tease you once throws you off. yet you tell yourself you’re not going to hover. you do anyway. you lean against the doorway, arms closed, pretending you’re supervising. he crouches under the sink and then pauses.
“you gonna keep staring or you gonna say somethin’?” he mutters, not even looking at you directly. when he finally stands he’s way closer than you expected him to be. wiping his hands slowly on a rag, eyes dragging over you just like he does at school. not accidental at all. “didn’t picture you like this at home,” he says, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of your pajama shorts. your skin goes warm under his hand, pulse jumping stupidly fast, and you hate that your body reacts before your pride does.
“let go,” you say. but it doesn’t come out sharp, it comes out thin. painfully weak.
his thumb shifts slightly against the fabric, barely grazing your hip bone. it’s small but calculated. and he watches your face the whole time, not your body. that’s what makes it worse. he’s measuring you. watching the way your struggle to not let yourself fold under his touch. it’s about how you both built this ritual out of friction; the arguments, the eye contact, the push and pull that lets you pretend you’re victims of each other instead of willing participants.
you tell yourself you hate him cause it’s safer than admitting that you like the chase, the imbalance. the way your pulse spikes when he corners you. that little acting of pretending that you’re scared, that you’re so innocent. and how small he makes you feel. you like it. all of it. and he knows, that’s the real problem. he knows this isn’t one sided, he knows you lean into the tension just as much as he does. he knows you’ve been pretending this is conflict when it’s always been something darker, something chosen.
the sink drips behind him. plink, plink. the sound feels louder than it should. you suddenly become hyperaware of everything: the thin fabric of your shorts, the cool tile under your bare feet, the way he’s still standing too close for this to be neutral. and the fact that mike wheeler is at your fucking house. yet you refuse to step back.
“thought you were here to work,” an unexpected sassiness lingering on your tone. there’s a faint shift in his expression, not a smile, smaller. looks like he’s adjusting to a new variable.
“i am,” he answers, but doesn’t move. not one inch. the air between you stays tight.
you tell yourself you hate him. you’ve been telling yourself that for months. every hallway stare, every snide comment, every time he’d stand a little too close just to see if you’d stepped back first. and you never did. because you like him. you like it. the game. the way your stomach flips when he invades your space. the way he harasses you and acts bored about it. like it’s nothing. like you’re nothing.
now you’re both in your bedroom.
it feels different in here. smaller. your bed unmade, pink sheets half twisted from this morning. pillows thrown everywhere. your vanity’s a mess! lip gloss tubes rolling around, perfume bottles crowded together, mascara uncapped like you were in a rush this morning. your full length mirror leans against the wall, and for a second you see both of you in it. him standing there in heavy boots. you in thin pajama shorts and oversized tee, barefoot.
pink lamp in the corner casting a low glow. stuffed animals shoved carelessly near your pillows like you forgot to hide them. a hair clip on the floor by the bed. small things. intimate things. he notices them. of course he does.
“look at ya,” he murmurs, voice dripping with something between mockery and awe. hand grips firmly on your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror, forcing you to watch yourself flush under his scrutiny. “all fucking shaky just ‘cause i’m in your room.” his thumb swipes roughly over your bottom lip, smearing the strawberry gloss you’d applied earlier. “pathetic bitch.”
you don’t argue. you just cant. not when his other hand slips under your shirt, stroking your ribs with surprising tenderness.
“bet you thought about this,” he continues, still facing the mirror. breath hot against your ear as his knee slots up between your thighs. “bet you touched yourself imagining it. me finding out how desperate you are.” a small kiss on your neck punctuates the accusation.
the vanity rattles when he bends you over it, scattering your makeup bottles. one hand pins your wrists behind your back while the other yanks your shorts down past your hips. the sound of his belt unbuckling is obscenely loud in the quiet of your room.
“still wanna pretend you hate me?” his fingers hook into your panties, tearing them aside with a snap of elastic. the mirror reflects it all. the way your body arches when he palms you roughly, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. his smirk is victorious. like he’d won and you’d lost.
the mirror shows too much.
it shows the way your hips buck forward when he drags his thumb across your clit. rough, deliberate, like sandpaper on raw skin. how your lips part on a plea that doesn’t come out loud enough for him to hear. mike sees it all before you do. as always.
"look at you," mike snarls, pressing down on the back of your neck so your cheek smushes into the hard wood, drool pooling under your parted lips. “fucking dripping down your thighs before i even got my dick in you. you’re disgusting.”
and after some teasing, when he finally pushes inside, it’s with a single brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.
“this.. uunf— what you wanted, huh?" he doesn’t wait for an answer before setting a punishing pace, each snap of his hips punctuated by another hissed insult. "could’ve ju-just asked instead of playing hard to get. fuck— but no, little whore needed me to ruin her first."
your thighs stick to the wood of the vanity with sweat. your reflection is a mess of flushed skin and smeared lip gloss, your mouth hanging open around silent pleas. enjoying how the head of his cock kissed your cervix with every thrust.
“yeaah,” he growls, forcing your gaze up to the mirror again. a hard yank on your hair to keep your little head upwards. lips are swollen, pupils blown, throat flushed where his handprint is already blooming. “gonna fuck you just like this-” it hurt so good. he was big. “like the filthy little slut you are.”
his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to blur the edges of your vision as he fucks into you with short, punishing strokes. there’s nothing sweet about the way he fucks you. and now he’s got you on your hands and knees on your childhood princess bed.
he’s splitting you open with a groan so rough it scrapes down your spine. “fuck— knew you’d be this tight,” he grits out, hands vise locked on your hips. “knew you’d drip for me the second i got my cock in this greedy little cunt.”
the stretch burns. you whimper. half pain, half something worse. you liked it. and his fingers dig harder into your skin, yanking you back onto him. over and over and over again. “uh-uh. take it, bitch.” a slap lands sharp across your ass, the sting blooming hot under your skin.
the mirror’s still there, still watching. reflecting the mess of your body bent over for him, your thighs trembling every time he pulls out just to slam back in harder. your face is flushed, lips swollen from biting back moans, but he won’t let you hide. he makes sure to grab a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head up, finding it amusing how hard you tried not to look.
his palm stays locked around your throat like a collar, now pulling you above him. controlling every stuttering roll of your hips as you bounce in his lap. his free hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise before landing another sharp smack that makes you clench around him.
“christ.. squeezing me like your dumb little cunt’s tryna milk me dry." his hips jerk up to meet your next grind, forcing a broken moan out of you as he bottoms out. “you want me to come in you? that why you’re bouncing on my dick like a starved bitch?"
you whimper. a protest and a plea all at once. but he just tightens his grip on your neck and smiles. half lidded eyes staring right into yours. not a hint of sympathy behind them.
“too late." his teeth sink into your shoulder as his thrusts turn jagged and brutal. "gonna pump you so full you’ll drip me for days."
he shoves you onto your back so fast your head spins, your thighs still trembling from your last orgasm when he spreads them with his thumbs and dives in like he’s starving. nibbling on the inner thighs before going to the main course.
“mike—!” his name cracks in your throat as his tongue drags through your folds. slow, like he’s savoring the taste of his own cum mixed with your arousal. “fuck,” he mutters against your clit, the vibration making your hips jerk. “drenched.”
mike flattens his tongue and laps hard at your pink bud until your back arches off the bed. he slides two fingers back inside you, crooking them just right as his mouth seals over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking like he’s determined to wring another orgasm out of you.
“mike please—!” you tug at his hair, but he just pins your hips down with his free hand, digging his fingers even deeper into your already bruised skin. “quit fucking whining,” he growls, pulling back just long enough to smirk up at you, lips glossy with you. “you love getting your little pussy eaten, don’t lie.”
his mouth is cruel. not the soft, worshipful kind. he nibbles at your clit just to hear you whimper, lapping at your folds like he’s punishing you for being wet. “gonna lick you clean even if you cry.”
his tongue licks a final, derisive stripe up your slit before he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he's just finished a meal. before you can even catch your breath, he's already looming over you. one knee pinning your thigh down, his other leg straddling your shoulder as he fists his cock right above your face.
mike says “open.” and you do instantly.
his groan is ragged as he pumps himself, the swollen head of his cock smearing precome across your lips before he shoves inside deep enough your throat flutters around him. and you happily gag on it.
“just like that,” he grits out, hips stuttering as he spills onto your tongue, forcing your chin up so you swallow every pulse. “swallow.” his thumb hooks into the corner of your mouth when he pulls out, dragging your bottom lip down to inspect the mess.
“knew you were just a cock-hungry slut at heart.”
he pulls out with a wet pop, tucking himself back into his jeans like nothing happened. like your bedroom wasn’t just fucking wrecked, like your body isn’t still trembling from the aftershocks.
“gonna think of this every time you see me in the halls now, huh?” he laughs, snatching his discarded shirt off your floor. “don’t be all shy now, we both know you’d do it again.”
his laugh is sharp as he kicks your panties aside with his boot, stepping over them like trash. "didn’t even have to try.”
the door slams behind him.
you curl into yourself, sheets sticking to your sweat-slick skin, legs still shaking. you should feel disgusted. you should scrub his taste from your mouth. but your fingers dip between your thighs absentmindedly, smearing his cum where it’s leaking out of you.
fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.
your pillow muffles the sob that rips out of you. which was shame and want. because the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you’d let him do it again.
I loved your bully!mike reader ! Would you ever consider writing a whole smut fic for him
TW: this fic is darker than my usual stuff. it includes power dynamics and non-vanilla themes. also definitely mischaracterizing mike; this isn’t canonically accurate. read at your own discretion.
he’s been at it for months now. little comments. pulling on your hair just to make you squeak. whispering little meanies when he passes you in the corridor. so close his warm breath embraces your ear. “you get all dressed up for me or what?”
you tell him to fuck off. and he laughs like you just flirted with him.
it’s pathetic really, because you should hate him. you do hate him. you think you do. until the night you don’t.
you’re home alone when the doorbell rings, and you already know it’s the plumber your mom hired to fix that stupid bathroom sink that’s been leaking for weeks. you definitely don’t expect him to be him. mike. as in mike wheeler standing on your porch in work boots and a faded shirt, toolbox in hand, looking mildly amused but just as surprised when you just stare at him like you’ve seen a ghost.
“seriously?” you say, shoulders dropping from the tension built up before. he shrugs as he steps inside without waiting for permission, like he’s done this a hundred times. the house now suddenly feeling smaller, quieter. he disappears into the bathroom to check the sink, and the fact he doesn’t tease you once throws you off. yet you tell yourself you’re not going to hover. you do anyway. you lean against the doorway, arms closed, pretending you’re supervising. he crouches under the sink and then pauses.
“you gonna keep staring or you gonna say somethin’?” he mutters, not even looking at you directly. when he finally stands he’s way closer than you expected him to be. wiping his hands slowly on a rag, eyes dragging over you just like he does at school. not accidental at all. “didn’t picture you like this at home,” he says, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of your pajama shorts. your skin goes warm under his hand, pulse jumping stupidly fast, and you hate that your body reacts before your pride does.
“let go,” you say. but it doesn’t come out sharp, it comes out thin. painfully weak.
his thumb shifts slightly against the fabric, barely grazing your hip bone. it’s small but calculated. and he watches your face the whole time, not your body. that’s what makes it worse. he’s measuring you. watching the way your struggle to not let yourself fold under his touch. it’s about how you both built this ritual out of friction; the arguments, the eye contact, the push and pull that lets you pretend you’re victims of each other instead of willing participants.
you tell yourself you hate him cause it’s safer than admitting that you like the chase, the imbalance. the way your pulse spikes when he corners you. that little acting of pretending that you’re scared, that you’re so innocent. and how small he makes you feel. you like it. all of it. and he knows, that’s the real problem. he knows this isn’t one sided, he knows you lean into the tension just as much as he does. he knows you’ve been pretending this is conflict when it’s always been something darker, something chosen.
the sink drips behind him. plink, plink. the sound feels louder than it should. you suddenly become hyperaware of everything: the thin fabric of your shorts, the cool tile under your bare feet, the way he’s still standing too close for this to be neutral. and the fact that mike wheeler is at your fucking house. yet you refuse to step back.
“thought you were here to work,” an unexpected sassiness lingering on your tone. there’s a faint shift in his expression, not a smile, smaller. looks like he’s adjusting to a new variable.
“i am,” he answers, but doesn’t move. not one inch. the air between you stays tight.
you tell yourself you hate him. you’ve been telling yourself that for months. every hallway stare, every snide comment, every time he’d stand a little too close just to see if you’d stepped back first. and you never did. because you like him. you like it. the game. the way your stomach flips when he invades your space. the way he harasses you and acts bored about it. like it’s nothing. like you’re nothing.
now you’re both in your bedroom.
it feels different in here. smaller. your bed unmade, pink sheets half twisted from this morning. pillows thrown everywhere. your vanity’s a mess! lip gloss tubes rolling around, perfume bottles crowded together, mascara uncapped like you were in a rush this morning. your full length mirror leans against the wall, and for a second you see both of you in it. him standing there in heavy boots. you in thin pajama shorts and oversized tee, barefoot.
pink lamp in the corner casting a low glow. stuffed animals shoved carelessly near your pillows like you forgot to hide them. a hair clip on the floor by the bed. small things. intimate things. he notices them. of course he does.
“look at ya,” he murmurs, voice dripping with something between mockery and awe. hand grips firmly on your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror, forcing you to watch yourself flush under his scrutiny. “all fucking shaky just ‘cause i’m in your room.” his thumb swipes roughly over your bottom lip, smearing the strawberry gloss you’d applied earlier. “pathetic bitch.”
you don’t argue. you just cant. not when his other hand slips under your shirt, stroking your ribs with surprising tenderness.
“bet you thought about this,” he continues, still facing the mirror. breath hot against your ear as his knee slots up between your thighs. “bet you touched yourself imagining it. me finding out how desperate you are.” a small kiss on your neck punctuates the accusation.
the vanity rattles when he bends you over it, scattering your makeup bottles. one hand pins your wrists behind your back while the other yanks your shorts down past your hips. the sound of his belt unbuckling is obscenely loud in the quiet of your room.
“still wanna pretend you hate me?” his fingers hook into your panties, tearing them aside with a snap of elastic. the mirror reflects it all. the way your body arches when he palms you roughly, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. his smirk is victorious. like he’d won and you’d lost.
the mirror shows too much.
it shows the way your hips buck forward when he drags his thumb across your clit. rough, deliberate, like sandpaper on raw skin. how your lips part on a plea that doesn’t come out loud enough for him to hear. mike sees it all before you do. as always.
"look at you," mike snarls, pressing down on the back of your neck so your cheek smushes into the hard wood, drool pooling under your parted lips. “fucking dripping down your thighs before i even got my dick in you. you’re disgusting.”
and after some teasing, when he finally pushes inside, it’s with a single brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.
“this.. uunf— what you wanted, huh?" he doesn’t wait for an answer before setting a punishing pace, each snap of his hips punctuated by another hissed insult. "could’ve ju-just asked instead of playing hard to get. fuck— but no, little whore needed me to ruin her first."
your thighs stick to the wood of the vanity with sweat. your reflection is a mess of flushed skin and smeared lip gloss, your mouth hanging open around silent pleas. enjoying how the head of his cock kissed your cervix with every thrust.
“yeaah,” he growls, forcing your gaze up to the mirror again. a hard yank on your hair to keep your little head upwards. lips are swollen, pupils blown, throat flushed where his handprint is already blooming. “gonna fuck you just like this-” it hurt so good. he was big. “like the filthy little slut you are.”
his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to blur the edges of your vision as he fucks into you with short, punishing strokes. there’s nothing sweet about the way he fucks you. and now he’s got you on your hands and knees on your childhood princess bed.
he’s splitting you open with a groan so rough it scrapes down your spine. “fuck— knew you’d be this tight,” he grits out, hands vise locked on your hips. “knew you’d drip for me the second i got my cock in this greedy little cunt.”
the stretch burns. you whimper. half pain, half something worse. you liked it. and his fingers dig harder into your skin, yanking you back onto him. over and over and over again. “uh-uh. take it, bitch.” a slap lands sharp across your ass, the sting blooming hot under your skin.
the mirror’s still there, still watching. reflecting the mess of your body bent over for him, your thighs trembling every time he pulls out just to slam back in harder. your face is flushed, lips swollen from biting back moans, but he won’t let you hide. he makes sure to grab a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head up, finding it amusing how hard you tried not to look.
his palm stays locked around your throat like a collar, now pulling you above him. controlling every stuttering roll of your hips as you bounce in his lap. his free hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise before landing another sharp smack that makes you clench around him.
“christ.. squeezing me like your dumb little cunt’s tryna milk me dry." his hips jerk up to meet your next grind, forcing a broken moan out of you as he bottoms out. “you want me to come in you? that why you’re bouncing on my dick like a starved bitch?"
you whimper. a protest and a plea all at once. but he just tightens his grip on your neck and smiles. half lidded eyes staring right into yours. not a hint of sympathy behind them.
“too late." his teeth sink into your shoulder as his thrusts turn jagged and brutal. "gonna pump you so full you’ll drip me for days."
he shoves you onto your back so fast your head spins, your thighs still trembling from your last orgasm when he spreads them with his thumbs and dives in like he’s starving. nibbling on the inner thighs before going to the main course.
“mike—!” his name cracks in your throat as his tongue drags through your folds. slow, like he’s savoring the taste of his own cum mixed with your arousal. “fuck,” he mutters against your clit, the vibration making your hips jerk. “drenched.”
mike flattens his tongue and laps hard at your pink bud until your back arches off the bed. he slides two fingers back inside you, crooking them just right as his mouth seals over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking like he’s determined to wring another orgasm out of you.
“mike please—!” you tug at his hair, but he just pins your hips down with his free hand, digging his fingers even deeper into your already bruised skin. “quit fucking whining,” he growls, pulling back just long enough to smirk up at you, lips glossy with you. “you love getting your little pussy eaten, don’t lie.”
his mouth is cruel. not the soft, worshipful kind. he nibbles at your clit just to hear you whimper, lapping at your folds like he’s punishing you for being wet. “gonna lick you clean even if you cry.”
his tongue licks a final, derisive stripe up your slit before he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he's just finished a meal. before you can even catch your breath, he's already looming over you. one knee pinning your thigh down, his other leg straddling your shoulder as he fists his cock right above your face.
mike says “open.” and you do instantly.
his groan is ragged as he pumps himself, the swollen head of his cock smearing precome across your lips before he shoves inside deep enough your throat flutters around him. and you happily gag on it.
“just like that,” he grits out, hips stuttering as he spills onto your tongue, forcing your chin up so you swallow every pulse. “swallow.” his thumb hooks into the corner of your mouth when he pulls out, dragging your bottom lip down to inspect the mess.
“knew you were just a cock-hungry slut at heart.”
he pulls out with a wet pop, tucking himself back into his jeans like nothing happened. like your bedroom wasn’t just fucking wrecked, like your body isn’t still trembling from the aftershocks.
“gonna think of this every time you see me in the halls now, huh?” he laughs, snatching his discarded shirt off your floor. “don’t be all shy now, we both know you’d do it again.”
his laugh is sharp as he kicks your panties aside with his boot, stepping over them like trash. "didn’t even have to try.”
the door slams behind him.
you curl into yourself, sheets sticking to your sweat-slick skin, legs still shaking. you should feel disgusted. you should scrub his taste from your mouth. but your fingers dip between your thighs absentmindedly, smearing his cum where it’s leaking out of you.
fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.
your pillow muffles the sob that rips out of you. which was shame and want. because the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you’d let him do it again.
hey guys, just wanted to come on and clarify even though no one asked– my fics aren’t a reflection on how i think mike would actually act. he would definitely not be calling you a good girl and doing tons of freaky shit and whatnot 😭😭 but i also wanted to say that in my recent fic i wrote mike to be kind of a bully to reader and its very commonly known in the show a big part of mike’s character is the fact that he’s bullied for being different and who he becomes as a result of that, and i didn’t want to disrespect his character by making it seem like he would be the kind of person to trip you up in the halls and call you names after everything he went through. everything is entirely fabricated !
| mike wheeler, the same boy who bullies you constantly in school, has a change of heart when he gets a taste of your vulnerability and fear towards him. afab!reader, tension, bullying, foul language, sexual content, mentions of alcohol.
you took the red plastic cup from the jock in front of you, a cocky smirk on his face and lustful look in his eyes that made you want to gag. to be frank, you wanted to be anywhere but another one of stacy’s parties, but it had been a rough week and you needed to get drunk before you went insane.
“so, you wanna head upstairs?” the boy in front of you asked, his tongue running over his bottom lip as his eyes raked up your body, your nose almost scrunching in response. “i think i need to use the restroom, thanks.” you muttered bluntly, turning away without another word, attempting to beeline it through the crowd of people out of the kitchen. that’s what you wouldve done– if you hadn’t collided with the chest of some obnoxiously tall person standing in front of you.
“hey!” you hissed, your expression one of annoyance which melted into something of fear when you realised who it was that you had bumped into.
mike wheeler. the boy who had been shamelessly tormenting you the minute you entered your junior year of hawkins high. some may twist those words and assume mike was only teasing– but no. mike genuinely tormented you, every chance he got.
he’d take great pleasure in executing various acts of ill-mannered behaviour, including extending his foot out in the halls so you’d trip over his leg, leaving your books spilling onto the floor while he turned away and laughed with his friends. he’d drive next to you in his car as you cycled home from school, yelling heinous things at you all in some sort of attempt to get under your skin. he’d go on a little too loud while sat next to you in english about how all cheerleaders were stupid, and how most of them were sluts begging for male attention by wearing their skirts too high at pep rallies. you absolutely despised him with every inch of your body, and you were sure he felt the same about you. that was, until he started becoming weirdly flirtatious with his harassment techniques.
sometimes, he’d linger around your locker as you grabbed your books for the day, leaning against the wall as he watched you desperately try to ignore him. “your cute when your trying to ignore me, sweetheart.” he’d sneer, tilting his head at you as you scoffed and turned away. there were other times where he’d catch you coming out of cheer practice, slightly sweaty and still wearing your matching skirt and top. “swear that little skirt gets shorter every time i see you. can’t say i’m complaining, though.” he’d say, smirking as he watches your eyes roll. it was various acts like these that had you second guessing his hatred, but he always reminded you the next day that he wasn’t a nice guy who was simply teasing you. he was genuinely an asshole.
“taking drinks from anybody now, are we?” he sneered, taking the plastic cup from your hand while sending a glance in the direction of the jock stood behind you, who was looking slightly irritated with you due to your attempted getaway.
“she’s mine, wheeler. don’t even try it.” he almost growled, his voice low as he grabbed your arm harshly, the sudden contact leaving you flinching and instantly sending an elbow in his direction. “ugh, get off me!” you hissed, letting out another yelp as you felt mike’s arm pulling you back in his direction, his hand lingering on your lower arm as he stared daggers at the jock in front of him.
“that’s your go to technique to get laid at parties, huh? grabbing girls and hoping they don’t struggle?” mike scoffed, letting go of you and crossing his arms over his chest as he and the jock continued to go at each other. you thought now would be a good time for you to sneak away, as you didn’t want to deal with mike once the conversation between him and the other boy had ended. that was the last thing you needed.
you had somehow made it through the party full of sweaty teenagers and arrived at the door of the house, opening it and sighing at the cool nights breeze that hit your chest– there was practically nothing you wanted more than to go home and sink into your pink sheets and forget about the night you had just had. but obviously– that couldn’t happen just yet. why? because mike wheeler wasn’t fully satisfied with the level of insults he had sent your way just yet.
you could tell mike was the presence behind you before you even felt his hand sneak around your arm just as you stepped out of the driveway, your body instantly tensing up again as you gasped at the feeling. your body snapped around, frame instantly shrinking under the threatening sight of mike wheeler standing above you, his hair messy as always and dark eyes lit up with amusement at the look on your face.
“woah, where do you think your going, sweetheart?” mike said, tilting his head at you with that familiar cocky grin as you rolled your eyes, beginning to walk away from him without a word to say in response. you squirmed when he pulled you back again, his large hand maintaining a solid grip on your arm.
“i’m not in the mood.” you sighed, looking up at him through your lashes pleadingly.
“not gonna say thank you to me for getting miles to back off? ungrateful bitch.” he scoffed, stepping closer to you and making sure that he was making you feel as small as possible. mike being at least ten inches taller than you meant he always knew how to make you shrink beneath him and immediately feel like you had no power whatsoever. your lips parted slightly, breath caught in your throat as you searched for a response.
“what’s the matter? gone all nervous now, have we?” he muttered, tilting his head at you mockingly as you silently hoped that by saying nothing he’d get bored and eventually leave you alone. however, you were wrong. mike loved how nervous you got, how you froze up and couldn’t speak to him. he loved how your bottom lip got all pouty and your big eyes looked up at him through your lashes, your cheeks all red and expression something of innocence. a kind of innocence he had fantasies about ruining.
“y’know sweetheart, not talking isn’t gonna get you anywhere with me. so you might as well use your words.” he said, his voice laced with fake sweetness and sincerity as you looked away, arms crossing over your chest.
“why do you come after me? i’ve never done a thing to you, mike.” you almost whined, your words coming out abruptly as he bit down on his bottom lip, dark eyes looking down on you, his expression telling you nothing nice was about to come out of his mouth.
“cause you let me, sweetheart. you just sit back and take it, with that little pout on your lips like you couldn’t make me stop if you really tried.” he said, a mocking smile on his lips as he stepped closer to you, leaning down until his lips were just about brushing your ear. “and between you and i, i don’t think you want me to stop.” he finished, his final words leaving your brows furrowing.
“your wrong, mike. you fucking infuriate me.” you seethed, looking up at him with an angry gaze with your arms crossed over your chest. you genuinely had no idea how mike could even think that way when every time he spoke to you you’d roll your eyes or look away. not to mention how you’d desperately try to avoid him whether in the halls or anywhere around hawkins. he was genuinely the worst thing you could possibly stumble upon if you were already having a bad day. which is exactly why you hated the way he was making you feel. all of a sudden, rather than being pissed off with the words coming out of his mouth, he had you blushing and stuttering like some sort of fool– and you had never felt so disgusted with yourself for finding him so attractive in a moment like this, where he was trying to make you feel like an idiot. his specialty.
“god, your such a bad liar, you know that sweetheart? you love the attention i give you. you love it when i’m mean, when i tease you and make you all nervous. tell me your not fucking clenching your thighs right now.” he sneered, taking your face harshly in his hand as you yelped, your hands instantly landing on his chest out of instinct.
“mike. stop it.” you whined, looking up at him through your lashes desperately as he tsked at you, his dark eyes filled with lust and a hunger that had you almost afraid of him. your faces were merely inches apart, and you took it upon yourself to pay attention to every freckle that scattered over his nose, and to truly take in how completely black his big eyes were. details you’d never have noticed before.
“awh, poor little thing. want me to take you home baby?” he tilted his head at you mockingly, his voice overly sweet as you bit down on your bottom lip. “yeah? you want me to take you home and fuck your little pussy?” he teased, his words leaving your cheeks red, clearly giving him all the answers he needed. “mhm, ‘bout time i take what i want from you. always think about bending you over and what face you’ll make when i make you cum all over my cock.” he teased with a chuckle, giving your face a playful little slap as you let out a little yelp.
“shame you don’t have that little cheer skirt on, though, always dream about fucking you in it.” he mumbled, running his tongue over his teeth as he led you away from the driveway to where he parked his beat up car, your mind already reeling.
you had no idea how it had come to this, how mike wheeler, the same boy who you let call you a slut on a daily basis now had you in a heinous position bent over on his bed with his cock stretching your little slit wide, but you couldn’t say you were complaining as he whispered cruel things into your ear as his dick continued to kiss your cervix. somehow, he still found it in him to be mean despite the fact he was currently inside you while huffing and grunting in pleasure.
–and when he finished, he was quick to tell you to “get the fuck out of his house” while reaching for tissues on the side of his bed to clean his cum off his dick. you didn’t ask questions. you didnt protest. you just put your clothes back on and left, like he had told you to do. you already felt bad about yourself for letting him relentlessly bully you and then fuck you for an hour, and you knew talking was only going to make things worse.
as you walked home, your skin shivering from the cold, your head couldn’t drop the idea that you knew this wasn’t going to change anything. you knew you’d come to school on monday, and still be met with the same foot extended out for you to trip over. you knew he’d look at you with that same cocky smile before turning around and laughing with his friends. you knew he’d still act like he hated you, even though the both of you fully knew he didn’t. and you couldn’t say you hated him either.
⋆˙⟡ he definitely flirts with you just to get a reaction at first. half because you’re pretty, half because he knows it would irritate theo. “he never tell me he has sister like this,” he says, accent heavier than usual.
⋆˙⟡ he likes that you’re not intimidated by him. you call him out. you don’t romanticize his chaos. that makes him curious and slightly interested.
⋆˙⟡ he’s hyper aware that you’re theo’s sister. that fact sits between you every time your hands brush. but it doesn’t stop him. it just makes everything feel sharper, riskier.
⋆˙⟡ there’s teasing. a lot of it. “you missed me, huh?” he’ll murmur against your neck, dick already hard pressing up against your ass while he hugs you from behind.
⋆˙⟡ he likes control but not silence. he wants you reacting. wants your hands in his hair, tugging him closer instead of lying there pretty. if you pull him back down by the collar, that drives him crazy.
⋆˙⟡ you on top is a big one for him. not because he’s submissive, but because most of the times he’s lazy. and he also likes the control shift. his hands on your hips, guiding you, burying himself deeper inside you. watching you fall apart while pretending you’re the one in charge. he’d tilt his head back slightly, eyes slowly dragging over your naked body, and say in that rough accent, “look at you… think you are boss now, yeah?”
⋆˙⟡ and if you get bold and try to boss him around? easy. he’d immediately get on top again, “oh? now you in charge? we will see.”
⋆˙⟡ doggystyle!!! it usually happens when things escalate fast. kissing turns heated, sloppy. hands start gripping instead of roaming, turning you around with both hands at your waist. he likes the view. he won’t pretend he doesn’t. ass jiggling against his pelvis, hearing your muffled whimpers. there’s just something so satisfying about having you bent over and moaning into the pillow :3
⋆˙⟡ if you push back against him first, he’d say, “ah… greedy girl,” almost impressed. “you can’t wait, yeah? you want that bad?”
⋆˙⟡ as for giving, he doesn’t treat it like a chore. he loves burying his face in between your thighs, watching you fall apart. if you’re sitting on the edge of a bed and he sinks down slowly, eyes still locked on yours, it’s controlled. tongue pressing on your tiny bud plus two fingers deep inside, overstimulating you. he’ll grip your thighs firmly, keeping you steady when you start to squirm. if you try to close your legs he nudges them back open with confidence. “no,” he murmurs. “let me see.”
⋆˙⟡ afterward, he’ll wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at you with that smug expression. “see? i take care of my girl.”
⋆˙⟡ the idea of finishing inside you does something to his ego. it’s not about babies, it’s about closeness. possession in the moment. that raw and intimate finality of it.
⋆.˚ㅤ you don’t meet him at his best. he’s sarcastic, distracted and ready to write you off. but you don’t shrink when he pushes. you don’t laugh too hard at his jokes either. you just look at him like you’re actually listening, which is new for someone who’s spent his whole life being loud just to be heard.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he studies your reactions. not in a creepy way tho. in a careful way. like he’s trying to figure out if you’re safe. when he realizes you’re not collecting his confessions as leverage, something in him settles.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he starts doing small things before you’re even dating. walking on the outside of the sidewalk. texting “home?” after you leave. remembering random details you mentioned once. he pretends it’s accidental. it’s not. he cares. a lot, actually.
ㅤ⋆.˚ the first time he smiles at you without sarcasm attached, it’s quick and almost shy. and you realize he’s softer than he lets anyone see.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he notices when you’re running on empty. if you start minimizing your own feelings or brushing things off, he cuts in. “you don’t have to do that.” not making a big deal out of it either. he doesn’t want the version of you that survives by shrinking.
ㅤ
start dating✶⋆.˚
ㅤ⋆.˚ there isn’t a dramatic confession, just a gradual shift. he starts reaching for your hand without even thinking. introduces you with this subtle pride in his voice. stays a little longer when it’s time to say goodbye.
ㅤ⋆.˚ one night, after you’ve both been laughing about something stupid, it just quiets. he looks at you differently. closer. his hand slides to your jaw as if he’s asking without words. the kiss isn’t rushed. feels deliberate, like he’s been thinking about it for a while.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he’s protective, but not suffocating. if someone crosses a line, he handles it calmly and directly. but he also respects that you can handle yourself. that balance matters to him. after all he’s a ‘feminist’.
relationship✶⋆.˚
ㅤ⋆.˚ arguments happen, but they’re real conversations. he doesn’t disappear when things get hard. if he messes up, you can see it bothering him before he says anything. he’ll come back, sit down in front of you, and admit it. although it’s hard for him to apologize.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he’s affectionate in ways that feel grounding. hand at your waist in crowded rooms. thumb brushing your knuckles absentmindedly. pulling you into his chest at night like it’s instinct. he’s very clingy and won’t be shy to admit it.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he gets insecure sometimes. especially when he thinks you deserve something ‘easier’ to deal with than him. when that slips out, it’s loud and vulnerable. and when you choose him anyway, you can see the relief in his eyes.
ㅤ⋆.˚ loving him means understanding that some days he’s quieter. when he’s overwhelmed, he just wants space. not proximity.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he writes you a song. you find out because he’s on his bed with a guitar, pretending he’s just messing around. but the lyrics are way too obvious. a line about someone who doesn’t walk away when he gets difficult. a line about being seen without having to shout. he refuses to confirm it’s about you. he also never plays it when you’re not in the room.
spicy✶⋆.˚
ㅤ⋆.˚ he likes control, but not in a careless way. hands firm on your hips, guiding you exactly where he wants you. if he pins your wrists, it’s slow enough for you to pull away if you wanted. yet you never do.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he’s big on eye contact. he wants to see your reaction when he’s eating you out. wants to hear the shift in your breathing when his thumb strokes your puffy clit. if you try to hide your face, he tilts your chin back up. “don’t.”
ㅤ⋆.˚ he’s not rushed. he takes his sweet time undressing you, piece by piece, like he’s earned it. fingertips tracing skin before anything more. he likes when you get impatient and tug him closer, makes him feel wanted, but it also makes him lose composure for a second.
ㅤ⋆.˚ with ziggy, sex isn’t soft background noise. it’s intentional. the kind where he looks at you first, and really looks, before he even touches you. it’s an act of love, not an act of lust.
ㅤ⋆.˚ his favorite position is you on your back with your legs around his waist, your hands in his hair, because it lets him stay close. chest to chest. eye contact constant. he likes the control of setting the pace, but he also likes that you can pull him deeper with your legs whenever you want.
ㅤ⋆.˚ a close second is you straddling him. especially when he’s sitting back against the headboard or on a chair. he’ll rest his hands on your hips and let you move first, watching your tits bounce with that focused, half-lidded stare. he pretends he’s calm about it.
ㅤ⋆.˚ he’ll switch positions if he wants a better view. if something about your expression changes, he notices. adjusts. tilts your hips. moves you where he wants you so he can see exactly what he’s doing to you.
ㅤ⋆.˚ when he’s guiding your hips or holding your wrists above your head, he leans in close: “tell me if it’s too much.” he wants you present, there with him. not overwhelmed.
ㅤ⋆.˚ afterward, he doesn’t roll away. you’re half on top of him, his hand low on your back, thumb tracing slow lines while his breathing evens out. he presses a kiss to your shoulder and stays there.
