Hi Hi Hi!! I'm Ash and Im a girl ummm My blog is mostly one wheat mark and byler but I sometimes post about other things I like or thoughts I have oh also I'm a minor (14) if you care
⋆˙⟡♡₊˚⊹. .⊹˚₊♡⟡˙⋆
No dni I don't care who you are just as long as your not mean or like a horrible person and I very rarely block people and idc if adults interact just don't be too weird to me (u can be a lil weird)
I DONT want to see your penis
I really like one wheat mark I love love love byler and I have a fat crush on finn wolfhard but like who doesn't...
I like haunted mound a lott I know a lot of ppl think their buns but I love dem I don't care ;-;
I'm on like almost every social u can js ask me I'm also really easy to become friends with I promise I'm nice as long as your nice to me
I also like creepypasta, scream movies, ddlc, slenderverse, yandere simulator, IT, adopt me (YES the roblox game), zero day, and pink ofc
"sorry lol was that too creepy?" oh please! you could NEVER be too creepy for me!! I would literally allow you to put cameras in my room and stalk me 24/7!!! :3
summary: Behind the closed doors of the Wheeler basement, he belongs to the girl with the Harrington smile and a penchant for pink. Everyone thinks he’s still the hopeless nerd crushing on the school’s sweetheart, but the truth is tucked away in a hidden bouquet of dried flowers. In a town built on secrets, this is the one that could finally break Steve Harrington—because if the King finds out another Wheeler had stolen the heart of another Harrington, there won't be enough hairspray in Indiana to fix the fallout.
wc: 2,7 k
post contains: fem reader, emo bf x princess-like gf, fluff, established SECRET relationship, down bad mike, mike is a sweetheart, hints of sub mike, no smut, trying on makeup on mike 👅👅
author’s note: im making a series/shots out of this!!! send me ur req to help me write more of emo mike and his princess gf (or other fanfic ideas) ^_^ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
The hallways of Hawkins High in 1986 were a battlefield of hairspray, denim, and social hierarchies that Steve Harrington had spent years building. But as the bell rang for lunch, the undisputed Queen of the corridor wasn’t a cheerleader or a jock—it was Y/N Harrington.
She moved through the crowd like a vision in bubblegum pink, her hair a gravity-defying masterpiece that would have made her brother weep with pride. With a stack of textbooks tucked under one arm and a mischievous glint in her eyes, she was the “It Girl” of the sophomore class. And she knew exactly how to use it.
Across the hall, tucked near the trophy case, the Party was in the middle of a heated debate about Eddie’s next D&D campaign.
“I'm telling you, Dustin, if we don't have a cleric, we’re toast,” Lucas argued, leaning against a locker.
“We have Mike! Mike's the Paladin!” Dustin countered, gesturing wildly.
Mike Wheeler, however, wasn't listening. He was leaning against the wall, dressed in a black oversized sweater and ripped jeans—the quintessential 1986 “emo” look before there was even a word for it. His dark hair was shaggy, casting shadows over his eyes, but those eyes were currently locked on a specific shade of pink moving toward them.
“Oh boy,” Will whispered, noticing Mike’s sudden rigidity. “Here she comes.”
The air in the hallway seemed to shift as Y/N approached the group of nerds. The jocks by the gym doors stopped mid-laugh, expecting her to walk right past the “Freak Circus,” but Y/N had other plans. She slowed her pace as she reached Mike, a slow, cat-like smirk spreading across her face.
“Move it, Wheeler,” she purred, her voice dripping with that signature charisma. She didn't just walk past him; she leaned in, her shoulder brushing his chest, her perfume—something sweet and floral—filling his lungs and making his head spin.
She paused, her hand trailing briefly, almost imperceptibly, against the fabric of his black sweater. “You’re blocking my locker. Again.”
Mike’s face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson in three seconds flat. “I—uh—sorry. Sorry, Y/N.”
She caught his gaze for a fraction of a second—a secret, searing look that said I love it when you stutter—before she winked at a stunned Dustin and sashayed away, the heels of her boots clicking a rhythmic taunt against the linoleum.
“Dude,” Dustin breathed, staring after her. “She is terrifying. I think she actually looked at me. Did she look at me Wait, she winked! Oh my gosh-“
“Mike, you okay? You look like you’re having a stroke…” Max eyed her friend’s incredible stiff stance.
Mike swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Underneath the sleeve of his sweater, his wrist still felt the ghost of her touch. “I'm fine,” he croaked, adjusting his backpack. "She’s just... she’s hot… I mean, she’s a lot!”
“She’s a Harrington,” Lucas noted, shaking his head. “Steve with long hair and a skirt. God help us all.”
Little did they know, tucked into the back of Mike’s history notebook was a pressed carnation from their two-year anniversary, and later that night, that same “terrifying” girl would be opening her bedroom window to let him in and spenf the night compare notes on her favorite bands with him.
But for now, Mike had to play the part: the pining nerd and the girl who was out of everyone's league.
At the “freak” table, the Party was huddled over a map of Mirkwood, but Mike’s attention was exactly three tables away.
Y/N was leaning against a laminate tabletop, surrounded by a gaggle of girls in high-waisted denim and neon sweaters. She was the center of the orbit, twirling a strand of that perfect, voluminous hair around a finger polished in a shade called Electric Rose. She laughed at something a cheerleader said—a bright, musical sound that cut right through the cafeteria noise and hit Mike straight in the chest.
Mike didn't realize he’d stopped breathing. He was leaning his chin on his hand, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, his dark, moody aesthetic completely betrayed by the soft, longing gaze he was directing at the girl in pink.
“Earth to Wheeler,” Lucas said, snapping his fingers in front of Mike’s face.
Mike didn't blink.
“He’s gone,” Dustin sighed, poking at his mystery meat. “Total system failure. We’ve lost him to the Harrington Void.”
“It’s actually kind of tragic,” Will added softly, looking at Mike with genuine pity. “He’s liked her since we were twelve. It’s been four years, Mike. At some point, the crush has to reach its expiration date, right?”
“It’s not a crush,” Mike muttered, finally snapping back to reality and dropping his fork with a loud clatter. “And I was just... looking at the clock. Behind her.”
“Right. The clock,” Max snorted, leaning back in her chair and popping a piece of gum. “The clock that happens to have perfectly styled hair and taste in pink. Sure, Wheeler.”
Just then, the “Populars” began to migrate. Y/N started walking toward the exit, flanked by her entourage. As she approached the Party’s table, the boys instinctively stiffened—except for Mike, who tried to look incredibly fascinated by his carton of chocolate milk.
Y/N slowed down. She didn't stop—that would be too obvious—but as she swept past, she leaned down just enough to let her pink silk scarf brush against Mike’s shoulder.
“Nice sweater, Michael,” she said, her voice a low, teasing hum that only their table could hear. “Very... broody.”
She didn't wait for an answer. She just kept walking, throwing a wink over her shoulder that was meant for the room, but her eyes locked onto Mike’s for a fraction of a second, burning with a secret fire that said: I'm wearing the locket you gave me under this sweater.
“See?” Dustin whispered harshly the moment she was out of earshot. “She’s mocking you! 'Very broody'? She’s literally Steve in a skirt, Mike. She’s playing with her prey. You’ve gotta move on before she eats you alive.”
Mike looked down at his milk, a tiny, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that he fought to hide. “Yeah,” he murmured, his heart racing. “Terrifying.”
“If Steve ever caught you looking at her like that,” Lucas added, miming a throat-cutting motion, “he’d bury you under the gym floor. For your own safety, man, stop staring.”
The bell had finally signaled the end of the school day, liberating Mike from the suffocating pressure of his friends' pitying stares and the heavy secret weighing down his backpack. While the rest of the Party pedaled toward the sanctuary of the Wheeler basement, Mike had detoured, weaving his bike through the back alleys of Hawkins until the sun began to dip.
By the time he reached the familiar, manicured lawn of the Harrington estate, the neighborhood was settling into a deceptive suburban quiet. He waited in the shadows of the tree line, watching Steve’s BMW roar out of the driveway—likely headed to the Family Video to “mentor” Robin or hunt for a date—before he finally made his move toward the side of the house.
The Harrington household was uncharacteristically quiet, the kind of silence that only happened when Steve was out playing “Babysitter Prime” or chasing some lead with Robin. The BMW wasn't in the driveway, and the porch light was dimmed—the universal signal for the coast is clear.
Mike Wheeler didn't use the front door. He wasn't that suicidal.
Instead, he was currently scaling the trellis on the side of the house, his black combat boots slipping slightly against the wood. He hauled himself up to the second-story ledge, his oversized sweater snagging on a rogue rosebush. With a practiced hand, he tapped a rhythmic code against the glass of the window adorned with lace curtains.
The latch clicked. The window slid up with a smooth, silent groan, and a wave of floral perfume and hairspray hit Mike square in the face.
“You’re late, Wheeler,” a voice purred from the shadows.
Mike tumbled inside, landing in a heap on the plush, cream-colored carpet. He looked up to see Y/N leaning against her vanity, bathed in the soft, rosy glow of a neon heart sign on her wall. She had discarded her school clothes for a silk pink robe, her hair brushed out into soft, voluminous waves that caught the light.
“The Party wouldn't stop talking about the campaign,” Mike breathed, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he stood up. “Dustin thinks you’re ‘predatory.’ He spent twenty minutes warning me to stay away from the ‘Harrington Trap.’”
Y/N laughed, a low, melodic sound as she crossed the room. She reached out, her manicured fingers catching the collar of his black sweater and pulling him close. “The Harrington Trap, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“It’s working,” Mike murmured, his “broody” persona melting the second her hands touched him. “I’m officially caught.”
She tilted her head, her eyes scanning his face with that flirtatious intensity that usually made the jocks at school stumble over their own feet. But with Mike, it was different. There was a softness there, a genuine heat that she saved only for the boy who had given her a bouquet of supermarket flowers three years ago.
“Steve almost stayed in tonight,” she whispered, her nose brushing against his. “He wanted to ‘bond.’ He actually suggested we watch Top Gun and talk about our feelings. I had to pretend I had a massive headache just to get him out of the house.”
Mike winced, a flash of guilt crossing his face. “He’s going to kill me one day, Y/N. You know that, right?”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn't find out,” she said, her voice dropping to a teasing hum. She reached up, trailing a thumb over his lower lip, enjoying the way his breath hitched. “Besides, you like the danger, don't you, Michael? The big, scary popular girl and her secret nerd?”
Mike wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The contrast was ridiculous—his dark, moody aesthetic against her bright, feminine elegance—but as he leaned down to finally kiss her, it felt like the only thing in Hawkins that actually made sense.
“I like the girl,” he corrected softly. “The rest is just... logistics.”
The moment their lips met, the high-stakes tension of the school day vanished. There were no “King Steves,” no “Freaks,” and no social hierarchies—just the quiet hum of 1986 and the secret they were determined to keep.
The kiss was everything the school day wasn’t—private, warm, and real. Mike’s hands, usually restless and fidgety when he was around the Party, found their place perfectly at the small of her back. He could feel the silk of her robe under his palms, a texture so different from his own rough, oversized thrift-store find.
Y/N pulled back just an inch, her eyes sparkling with that mischief that usually intimidated every guy in the gym. But here, in the rosy glow of her room, it just felt like home.
“You're shaking,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cup his face, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “Is the big, bad ‘broody’ Mike Wheeler actually nervous?”
“You know you're the only one who can do that to me,” Mike admitted, his voice a low rasp. “At school, I have to act like I'm barely holding it together because you're ‘terrifying.’ Here? I’m just... yours.”
She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “I like that. But I also like the way your face turns that specific shade of red when I wink at you in the cafeteria. It’s a very good look for you, Michael.”
“It’s humiliating,” he groaned, though he was smiling. “Dustin spent ten minutes telling me I have 'Harrington Syndrome.' He thinks I’m a lost cause.”
“Well,” she said, spinning him around and pushing him gently toward her bed, “Dustin isn't wrong. You are a lost cause. But only for me.”
She hopped up onto the edge of the mattress, patting the spot next to her. The room was filled with the sounds of 1986—the distant hum of a neighbor's lawnmower and a soft cassette tape playing The Cure in the background. It was the “happy version” of Hawkins they had fought so hard for, and sitting here like this, it felt like they’d actually won.
“So,” Y/N said, her eyes softening as she looked at him. “What did you bring me? I know you didn't just climb a trellis for the cardio.”
Mike reached into the pocket of his dark sweater and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled paper bag. Inside was a single, perfect pink carnation—a silent tradition they’d kept since that first confession years ago.
“I had to hide it under my physics homework,” Mike said, handing it to her. “If Steve saw me carrying this, he would have started an interrogation.”
Y/N took the flower, her expression shifting from flirtatious to genuinely touched. She tucked it into a vase on her nightstand that was already filled with dried petals from their previous secret nights.
“One of these days,” she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder, “we won't have to hide the flowers, Mike.”
“I know,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. “But until then, I’m okay with being your favorite secret.”
The room smelled of hairspray and expensive vanilla, a stark contrast to the damp basement air Mike usually breathed. He was laid back against Y/N’s silk pillows, his dark, “emo” aesthetic looking completely out of place against her floral duvet.
Y/N was straddling his lap, her knees tucked into his sides, leaning in with a focus that could rival a surgeon's. In her hand, she held a shimmering palette of pinks and purples, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she worked a brush over his eyelid. Mike’s hands are resting on each side of her thighs, his thumb brushing against her skin every once in a while.
“Hold still, Michael,” she murmured, her free hand gently cupping his jaw to keep him in place. “If I poke you in the eye, Steve’s going to ask why you’re crying at school tomorrow, and I won't be there to save you.”
“I’m trying,” Mike croaked, his heart doing that familiar stutter. It was hard to stay still when she was this close, the soft glow of her neon heart sign reflecting in her eyes. “But I think the ‘broody’ look is officially compromised if I walk out of here with glitter on my face.”
“Consider it an upgrade,” she teased, swiping a dusty rose shadow across his lid. “Besides, you’re my best muse. The jocks have too much brow bone, and Dustin would never stop talking long enough for me to blend. I have to make sure I have the perfect muse to try these out.”
She started into a story about Stacey from the cheer team—apparently, Stacey had tried to perm her own hair and it ended up looking like a “fried poodle”—and Mike just listened. He didn't care about Stacey, or the drama in the girl's locker room, or who was dating who in the senior class.
He just liked the sound of Y/N's voice. He liked the way she got animated when she gossiped, her hands waving around until she remembered she was holding a makeup brush and had to settle back down to finish his “look.”
“And then,” she continued, leaning in even closer to apply a tiny bit of shimmer to the inner corner of his eye, “she had the audacity to ask me if Steve was single. Like, gross? He’s my brother, and also, he’s currently obsessed with that new hair cream he found at the mall. He doesn't have time for a girlfriend.”
Mike chuckled, the vibration rumbling in his chest. “Steve’s love affair with his own hair is the greatest romance in Hawkins. It’s a tragedy, really.”
Y/N laughed, a bright, genuine sound that wasn't for the popular crowd—it was just for him. She pulled back to admire her handiwork, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
“There,” she whispered, looking at him with a gaze that was far softer than any ‘flirtatious’ look she gave the nerds at school. “The prettiest emo in Indiana.”
Mike reached up, his fingers tangling in the silk of her robe as he pulled her down toward him. “You’re a brat, you know that?”
She leaned down, her lips hovering just an inch from his. “Yeah, but I’m your brat. And you love it.”
