You were Steve's prized possession, his little sister, the perfect of the most perfect. His only girl since Nancy and nobody else in Hawkins was claiming him. So if Mike Wheeler looked at you one more time-
Steve sat on the sofa in his house. Well- not his technically but his parents were gone so often he was basically the man of the house. He knew where the spices were kept, which step creaked when walking down, the pool men's contacts and when the pool needed cleaner.
He was- in every way but name on the contract- the house owner. And with the house there was you, his little sister. A diamond in the Harrington family. Good grades, kindness and beauty.
The sort of thing a particular punk enjoyed.
So Steve sat on the sofa, the tv on low and his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for the door to go or for your feet to run down the stairs. Which ever came first. Your music was loud, louder than he'd have liked but it was a reminder you were in the house and not running around Hawkins with Mike Wheeler.
He had nothing against the Wheelers, at least he didn't think. He'd dated Nancy ... before she broke his heart... actually-
Ding!
The bell.
"I'll get it!" your voice yelled but Steve was quicker in jumping over the back of the sofa and rushing to the door.
You hadn't even made it out of your room when he got the door.
Mike stood there, in a jumper and jeans. Geez, was he even trying. "Hey, Steve."
Steve leant on the doorway, folding his arms again. He sniffed. "Wheeler."
"This? Again?" Mike sighed.
Steve shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, though he might have had an idea.
See, Steve liked the kids, he did. Dustin, Lucas, El, Will, Max and Mike. They were good kids and frankly he was just happy you had better friends then he did at your age. Real friends. Friends that had your back.
But just because he liked them didn't mean you had to date one of them.
Mike rolled his eyes.
"So where are you going tonight?"
"The movies."
"Uh-huh, PG?"
"R."
Steve didn't like that but he'd have to accept it. He peered over Mike. "Ah- taking her on your bike?"
"Well, I don't have a car," said Mike.
"Alright-" Steve looked back, making sure you were still busy getting ready before he closed the door over behind him and took a step down to Mike. To his credit, the boy didn't flinch and to Steve's annoyance he kept growing so it wasn't that much more intimidating when Steve stood across from him. "Cut the sass with me, Wheeler. If I had it my way you'd-"
"Never see your sister again? Yeah, I got it the first dozen times you told me and I'm still here," he said with a grin, arms out and gesturing to himself. "You don't scare me, Steve."
"I will Wheeler, I will," he said, dropping his voice low in his best attempt to be intimidating. "I've still got that bat, you know."
The door swung open and you stood in the doorway, frowning.
"No you don't," you said.
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "y/n-"
"Dustin's got it, He was scared you'd chase Mike half way across Hawkins with it."
Mike smiled, the faintest traces of pink on his cheeks as he looked at you. "Hey."
You smiled. "Hey."
Steve looked between the two of you. "Hey. I want you back at ten."
"Steve, It's eight o'clock now-" you argued.
"Ten!" Steve meant it, he didn't care if you were watching a film and you had to leave before the ending. He'd have you home at ten.
You jutted out your bottom lips, eyes going wide. "Ten-thirty?"
Damn it-
"Fine, yes, ten-thirty but not a minute later," he said. He really needed to just start looking away when you puled out those big eyes.
"Thanks Stevie!" You squeezed his arm before slipping past him and joining Mike, who took your hand gladly.
Mike took your hand, pulling you along.
Steve watched you guys walk down to his bike that was left lame lying on the grass. "I mean it!"
"I know you do!" you called back.
Steve watched as Mike put a helmet on your head, fastening it in spite of what he could hear were your arguments. He supposed he was just glad Mike cared about your safety as much as he did. "I'm serious Wheeler. I know where you live!"
He watched as Mike got on- without a helmet Steve might add, he'd have to get a helmet for Mike, mentally adding it to the list of things he already had to get the kids: shin-pads for Max when she skates, magazine for El and a new Walkman for you.
Steve watched as the two of you road off down the street, the sound of your laughter being carried away.
He turned back inside and readied himself to spend a night alone with Baywatch.
Ten-thirty passed and there was no close of the door, no screech of bike tires and no rushed 'sorry's from you'. Then another fifteen minutes passed and there was still no you.
Now, granted, Steve may have fallen asleep on the sofa but woke with a start when he realised he'd drooled in his sleep and that you were not home. And it was going on eleven at night.
Steve didn't hesitate in rushing to the phone and dialling the movie theatre. "Keith, hey!"
'What do you want, Harrington?'
"Is my sister there? With that punk, Wheeler?"
There was a crunch on the other line and Steve could practically smell the cheese puff breath. 'Which one's your sister again?'
"You know the one," said Steve, irritated he had to be making the call in the first place.
As Keith went on playing dumb Steve described you in great length and he described Mike, maybe taking some liberties in adding a wart or two ... and exaggerating that the kid needed a haircut... and adding his terrible fashion sense.
'Oh yeah, screen six, Dance of the Damned-'
Hold on, Dance of the Damned. A sexy vampire film that was a strict fifteen, not R.
Steve ditched Keith on the receiver and jumped in his car. He took the road that you and Mike would have taken down to the cinema, hoping he'd catch you guys on the way back. Some would think this behaviour was 'over-the-top' but there was no such thing to Steve when it came to you.
He parked and rushed into the cinema, searching for screen six at once.
He knew what 'going to the movies' meant at that age. Heck, he remembered it like it was yesterday.
"Excuse me!" the old lady behind the counter called as he walked by. "You need to buy a ticket to go through-"
"I'm just picking up my sister-"
"Well, pick up a ticket on your way!"
Steve groaned but slammed down some notes and took a ticket to whatever movie she gave him. He got it and went, pushing open the doors to screen six. He even knew where to look. Back row, seats furthest from the door.
You and Mike sat, the credits rolling but of course the two of you wouldn't know as Wheeler was too busy eating your face!
Or kissing, as some called it. Your back was toward Steve but it looked as if you were practically in your boyfriends lap as it was, his arm around you and hand rubbing up and down your arm. With his eyes screwed shut, tension between his brows with how much he concentrated into devoting his lips to yours.
Another couple brushed by Steve on their way out.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Lovebirds!"
The two of you broke apart, jumping out your seats, spilling soda down Mike's pants and the others just leaving laughing.
You stood aghast. "Steve! What are you-"
"Ten-thirty!" he reminded you.
"So you just followed us here, creep!"
Steve looked over at those still trying to leave. "I'm not-not a creep, I'm her brother!"
"Geez, Harrington," complained Mike. "The movie was just ending."
"How would you know, you weren't watching it. And by the way, this is a fifteen, not an R!"
Steve watched satisfied as you and Mike shuffled down your row, heads down, abashed. You were even wearing Mike's jumper- which Steve would give him points for.
Mike came out, grumbling about the dampness of his pants.
"That better be soda, Wheeler."
When you turned to leave, Mike threw up his middle finger at Steve. He did it right back, but Steve supposed Mike wasn't too bad. After all, he'd waited till you weren't looking to insult him.
A break from my Steve posts to give some love to Mike, but somehow it all goes back to Steve
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after years of secretly loving mike you finally move on and date someone new, only to discover that mike has a problem with him, and suddenly everything you thought was over isn’t.
IT SHOULD’VE BEEN EASY, YOU THINK SOMETIMES. LOVING HIM.
but it wasn’t. it never has been. because mike wheeler is… dense. painfully, spectacularly, cosmically dense. the kind of boy who could watch you bleed and ask if you tripped. who could stare at you too long, too soft, too much, and then claim he “didn’t notice.” he’s a riddle, and he makes you work for every moment of clarity like it’s something you should feel lucky to receive.
you’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. long before monsters, long before the word “upside down” meant something other than the way he lay on the couch when he was bored. before trauma rearranged both of you into people you barely recognized. back when he was just mike—awkward, loud, too earnest, too stubborn. a boy who talked with his whole body, who defended you with scraped knees and shouted arguments in parking lots, who didn’t know how to say the things he felt so he built entire fortresses out of silence instead.
and god, you tried. you tried to read him the way he reads maps in d&d, looking for patterns, for anything that could mean he cared the way you did. but mike never opens the right doors. or maybe he opens them too late. maybe he doesn’t even realize the doors are there. he’s so used to hiding, to shouldering everything alone, that letting anyone in feels like handing over a weapon.
loving someone like that—someone who keeps himself locked away—it hurts. it hurts because wanting him feels like trying to warm your hands over a fire that won’t stay lit.
you did try to let him go. you swear you did. loving mike wheeler isn’t this soft, fluttery thing people write poems about. its something you have to learn to tuck under your ribs so it doesn’t spill out every time he looks at you with those dark, startled eyes like he wasn’t expecting you to still be there. you learned early that emotions make him skittish. not just yours—everyone’s. if you get too close, too honest, too anything, he recoils. not physically, but in words. sharp ones, sarcastic ones, the kind he regrets immediately but never admits to.
you’ve seen it happen to others, so you never risked it with yourself.
so slowly, you started stepping back. not in some dramatic teenage heartbreak way, but in the soft, invisible ways that actually matter. you sat with different people at lunch, laughing at jokes that weren’t as funny as you pretended. you stopped answering him when he’d radio you. you skipped movie nights twice in a row. you let days pass without seeking him out first.
you told yourself it was self-care, not avoidance. that maybe if you built a life without him woven through every hour of it, the ache would dull. maybe the world would shift its axis just enough that he wouldn’t be the center anymore.
the problem was… hawkins is small. memories are smaller.
how do you let go of someone whose shadow sits in every corner of your childhood? he’s everywhere. in the sunburns from summers at the quarry. in the grass stains on your jeans from bike races he always cheated in. in the smell of wet pavement after storms, because those were the nights he’d sneak out and show up at your window, whispering, “c’mon, you’re not gonna let a little rain stop us.”
he’s in the basement where you learned what loyalty felt like, lights dim, dice clattering, his voice animated and alive in ways you never heard in classrooms or crowded hallways. he’s in the scream you made the first time you saw a demogorgon, and the way his hand grabbed yours so tight it left impressions. he’s in the silence afterward, when none of you slept for days, and he sat on the floor beside your bed, staring at the wall like if he looked away, the world might break again.
mike wheeler has always been a constant. even when he’s cold, even when he’s distant, even when he’s drowning in his own head and dragging everyone with him, you never doubted his heart.
you just doubted that he’d ever let you see all of it.
he has no idea. he has no idea that your voice softens when you say his name. he has no idea that you memorized every version of his smile. he has no idea that half the jokes you make are just attempts to hear him laugh. he has no idea that you still look for him in every crowd, even when you’re trying not to. you’re too scared to hand him the truth. mike doesn’t do confessions. he doesn’t do vulnerable. he doesn’t do cornered, and loving him—wanting him—would corner him more than anything else ever could.
so you learned to swallow the things that mattered. you let him go in all the ways that count.
you didn’t expect it to work.
no one tells you that letting go sometimes means someone else finds the space you cleared. his name’s ryan, one of those effortlessly likeable golden-boy types. varsity soccer, obnoxiously good hair. he laughs easily, listens well, and calls you “dude” when he’s excited. he isn’t complicated. he isn’t haunted. he likes you openly, without fear or hesitation. you liked that. you needed that.
you didn’t expect anything to happen, honestly. but he noticed you. he asked you out. he held your hand in the hallway. he tells you good morning and actually means it. he has no idea that you’ve spent years orbiting someone who never once looked directly at the sun he was pulling toward him. maybe that’s why you said yes. ryan didn’t make your heart ache, he made it rest.
which is how you ended up here, on the old carpet of mike wheeler’s basement, legs crossed, the smell of dust and old soda cans filling the room as you tell the party about your boyfriend. mike sits across from you, half-sunk into the couch, elbows on knees. he hasn’t looked at you since you started talking about him.
dustin’s sitting criss-cross beside you, leaning forward like you’re announcing a secret mission. lucas and max are sharing a beanbag chair. max looks intrigued, lucas looks two seconds from teasing you. “okay,” dustin says. “start over. his name is ryan and… what? he just asked you out? like, randomly? popular ryan?”
you shrug, trying to sound casual. “not randomly. we talked. he’s in my english class. he asked if I wanted to get ice cream after school, and then one date turned into… more dates.”
lucas raises his eyebrows. “popular popular ryan? as in captain-of-the-soccer-team, girls-write-his-name-in-the-bathroom-stall ryan?”
max snorts. “yeah, that one.”
“he’s actually really nice,” you say, and it’s true. your voice comes out softer than you expect. “he’s funny. and he’s good at listening. he remembers stuff I say.”
that last part lands weirdly in the room.
dustin beams. “dude, that’s awesome! I mean—wow. you actually have a boyfriend. and he’s, like, normal.”
max kicks dustin’s ankle. “don’t jinx it.”
lucas nudges you with his foot. “so… you like him? like him like him?”
you feel your cheeks heat a little. “yeah. I do. he makes me feel… I don’t know. good.”
you shouldn’t be looking at him, but even after all these years, your eyes always find mikes even when you don’t mean to. dustin, oblivious, keeps going. “so when do we meet him? we have to meet him! we need to make sure he’s not some jerk pretending to be cool.”
“he’s not a jerk,” you say quickly. “he’s… he treats me really well.”
lucas nods approvingly. “good.”
max smirks. “and is he cute?”
you roll your eyes. “max—”
“what?” she laughs. “I don’t date, I just judge.”
they all laugh except mike. classic mike wheeler, feelings like locked doors. his knee bounces once—sharply—then stops, like he remembered someone might notice. he’s holding a pencil, the eraser dented from where he’s been chewing on it without realizing. he looks small, almost.
you’ve known him too long not to notice when he’s shutting down, even if he thinks he’s hiding it well. mike wheeler has never been good at quiet. not real quiet. not the kind born from feeling something he doesn’t want to say. then, finally, after too long, after the others have moved on to teasing each other, he cuts in. “so…” mike clears his throat. “ryan.”
he says the name like it tastes bad.
you blink. “yeah?”
mike doesn’t look up and instead pretends to inspect a fraying edge on the couch cushion. “he’s, what, the… uh… the popular guy, right?”
lucas eyes him. “you know who ryan is, mike.”
“yeah, obviously,” mike snaps back quickly. “i’m just—clarifying.”
max’s eyebrows rise. she knows that tone. you all do. you nod carefully. “he’s on the soccer team. people like him.”
“right.” mike flicks the pencil between his fingers. “of course they do.”
there’s something biting in the way he says it. something sour. it’s weirdly déjà vu, because mike has always been like this. since you were kids. since the fourth grade incident where you told him you had a crush on someone and he spent the rest of recess kicking gravel and making fun of the guy’s haircut.
mike wheeler doesn’t know how to be happy for people. he never has.
you feel it. max feels it. lucas definitely feels it, because he gives mike that slow head-turn that always precedes a verbal slap. dustin stalls mid–orange slice chewing. you swallow. “he’s nice.”
mike snorts under his breath. it’s small, but it’s sharp enough to cut. “yeah. sure. nice.” he taps the pencil against his knee, too fast. “just—kind of weird, though.”
max narrows her eyes. “what is?”
mike shrugs, pretending nonchalance so aggressively it’s almost theatrical. “i mean… someone like him. dating someone like—” he stops, pivots, tries to disguise the slip with a shrug that’s too casual. “whatever. it’s just surprising.”
the room freezes. your stomach drops fast, like missing a step on a staircase. lucas raises his hands. “woah. dude. not cool.”
dustin’s mouth is already open. “yeah, what the hell does that mean?!”
mike’s eyebrows knit instantly, defensively. “what?! i didn’t—I’m not—god, you all jump on everything i say.”
max leans forward. “probably because you say stuff like that.”
mike scowls at the floor like it did something to him. “i just meant—look, ryan’s, you know…” he gestures vaguely, aimlessly, like the air might fill in the blanks for him. “he’s popular. he’s… the type girls are into. it’s just—unexpected. okay?”
your chest tightens, not anger, but that old familiar sting. the one he’s been accidentally carving into you since you were twelve. “unexpected how?”
mike freezes. he wasn’t expecting you to ask. he wasn’t expecting to be held accountable. he shoves his hair back, frustrated. “i don’t know! i’m just saying it’s weird. it’s weird that he—he could date anyone he wants, and he picks—” he cuts himself off again, voice faltering. “—you.”
max mutters under her breath, “jesus christ.”
lucas covers his face with both hands.
dustin gapes. “mike. why would you even say that?”
“i’m not trying to be mean!” he shoots back. “i’m being honest! sorry if honesty is suddenly illegal.”
but it’s the way he won’t look at you that gives him away. he keeps looking anywhere else, the floor, the table, the dice, the wall, because he can’t look at your face and say the things he means. he never has been able to. you breathe in slowly, trying not to let your voice shake. “it kind of sounds like you’re saying i’m not good enough for him.”
mike’s head jerks up like the words hit him physically. “that’s not—no, that’s not what i meant,” he insists, but the defensiveness in his voice makes it hard to believe. “i’m just saying—he’s… you know. he’s that guy. the guy everyone knows. the guy who—who—”
“who what?” max presses.
mike’s jaw flexes. he looks trapped. “who… belongs with someone who fits that world, okay?” he mutters at last. “someone who… matches him.”
mike wheeler doesn’t realize how cruel he sounds when he’s scared. he never has. you feel heat crawl up your neck, because this is him. this is mike. you’ve spent years reading him like an impossible book, flipping through pages where he says one thing but means another, hoping eventually the story will get easier to understand. it never has.
mike crosses his arms now, defensive, closed-off, like he’s physically holding himself together. “i just—” he stops, searching for a tone that won’t betray him. “i mean… it’s cool. it’s fine. you’re dating him. that’s… good.” he says it so unconvincingly it almost hurts to listen to.
mike can’t hide what he feels. not really. his mouth tries, but his body betrays him every time, the tight shoulders, the clipped tone, the way he won’t look at you for more than a half-second. he’s dense. he’s stubborn. he’s impossible. he’s also transparent in the worst ways.
this exact moment is the reminder of why loving him hurt. he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. and if you point it out, he’ll only push harder, like he’s cornered, like feelings are traps that snap shut on him. you exhale slowly. “okay,” you say softly, mostly for yourself. “okay.”
something inside you folds, because this is it. this is who mike wheeler has always been. for the first time, you let yourself actually feel it instead of excusing it. he’s never going to change. not the way you kept hoping he would. not the way little-kid you imagined he might if you just loved him long enough.
mike can be a dick. he always has been. you’ve spent years smoothing it over in your head—no, he didn’t mean it like that, no, he’s just stressed, no, that’s just mike—but god, hearing it now, in this basement, in this moment when you’re trying to share something good? it lands differently.
so you shift, force your shoulders to relax, force your breath to steady. you don’t look at him again. you don’t chase the apology he isn’t going to give. you don’t try to decode the tiny flashes of panic in his voice. you just move on.
max is the first to break the silence. “so,” she says, deliberately bright, “when do we get to meet him?”
dustin jumps in immediately, nodding so hard his curls bounce. “yeah! yeah—i mean, we should obviously vet him.”
lucas elbows him. “not vet. just… meet. like normal human beings.”
“i can ask him,” you say, trying to sound casual. “maybe tomorrow? lunch?”
dustin beams. “yes. perfect. bring him to our table. we’ll be normal.”
max rolls her eyes. “we’ll be as normal as we can be.”
you laugh under your breath because of course. this is why you love them. this is why you stayed. you don’t want to look at him, you really don’t. but your eyes flick over anyway—to check, to gauge, to survive. and he’s staring at you. dead-on. not even pretending to look away this time, like he was waiting for your eyes. like he needed you to look at him.
when you do—just for a second—his whole face shifts. relief, like he’d been holding his breath. you break eye contact instantly, because no. you’re not doing that again. you’re not opening the door he keeps slamming shut in your face. max asks you another question and you turn toward her, answering, letting her voice pull you back into the circle that feels safe.
mike stays quiet, but you can feel it, his stare following you like he’s trying to will you into turning back to him. he’s a dick. and he cares. and those two things have always existed in him side by side, ruining you without him even realizing it.
and you’re done paying the price for it.
the cafeteria hums around you, winter sun spilling in through those tall windows like it’s trying to make the school look less miserable than it is. you spot the table before ryan does, mike hunched over his notebook, tapping a pen in this uneven rhythm that’s basically a heartbeat made of irritation. lucas and dustin are in a quiet but intense argument, max is peeling the label off her drink with the bored precision of someone who’s seen this dynamic a thousand times.
ryan walks beside you with that loose, easy stride he always has, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a little messy from morning practice. he’s warm in this effortless way, people look at him without him ever asking for the attention. he leans toward you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “ready?” he teases, but it’s gentle. he’s actually checking in.
you nod, even though your stomach flips. “yeah. they’re right there.”
“cool. let’s go.”
when you reach the table, lucas notices first, eyebrows shooting up. “oh—hey. ryan, right?”
ryan grins back, easy as breathing. “yeah. hey, man.”
dustin straightens next, suddenly animated. “dude, i’ve seen you play. you’re, like… fast. like actually fast.”
ryan laughs. “that’s the idea. but thanks.”
max’s eyes narrow with interest. “huh. so you’re the boyfriend.”
“guilty.”
everyone starts warming up instantly—of course they are. ryan has that friendly, open posture that makes people feel like they already know him. he drops his backpack, sits beside you like he’s been doing it for months, and immediately vibes with the group. it’s mike who doesn’t move.
he doesn’t look up right away, he just flicks his eyes up for a second, scans ryan’s face, then back down to his notebook. he’s not glaring, but there’s this stillness to him, like every thought he has is being corralled behind his teeth. ryan doesn’t seem fazed. “you’re mike, right? you’re the one who runs their campaigns?”
mike finally speaks, voice flat. “sometimes.”
ryan smiles like he didn’t hear the edge. “i used to play with my cousin. i’m not, like, good-good, but i know the basics.”
dustin lights up again. “wait, seriously? what class?”
“rogue.” ryan says.
“of course.” mike mutters under his breath.
lucas shoots him a look. “dude.”
mike just shrugs, eyes on his notebook again, pretending he didn’t say anything. you feel the air shift, just slightly, but enough. enough to know that mike’s mood isn’t going to magically improve just because ryan is being… well, genuinely nice.
ryan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “i heard you guys are doing some kind of winter campaign? sounds sick.”
dustin nods vigorously. “yeah, we’re—”
mike cuts in. “so. what’s someone like you doing dating them?”
everything freezes for a second. max’s head snaps toward him so fast her ponytail swings. “mike, you can’t just say stuff like that.”
mike holds up his hands a little, like he’s pretending he’s innocent even though his tone drips. “i’m just asking. he’s… you know.” he gestures at ryan. “mr. popular. mr. soccer. mr. everyone-likes-him. just curious.”
ryan’s smile falters, not because he’s offended, but because he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether mike is joking or actually serious. you know mike. you’ve known him your whole life. this is him being serious.
you open your mouth to say something, but ryan speaks first. “i’m dating them because i like them,” he says simply. “is that… weird?”
mike’s eyebrows lift just a fraction, but he doesn’t look up. “no. just surprising.”
lucas groans. “dude.”
mike shrugs again, small, annoyed, defensive. “i’m being honest.”
max kicks him under the table. “be less honest.”
mike clicks his pen, refusing to look anyone in the eye. “whatever. it’s fine.” but it isn’t fine. not with the way his knee is bouncing, or the way he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then snapping his gaze away like it hurts to look. you’ve seen mike jealous of your friends before, but never like this. never with this intensity that feels like it’s scraping at the bottom of something deeper—fear, maybe. or that same old thing he’s never been able to hide: mike hates feeling replaced.
that awful belief that things change too fast, that people slip away without warning, that someone else can just step in and take his place before he even realizes it’s happening. he hates that feeling. he always has. lunch rolls on despite him.
ryan is… honestly perfect in that easy, unforced way that mike has always resented in other people. he answers dustin’s questions without talking down to him, laughs at lucas’s jokes, asks max about her music taste and actually listens. when he admits he skates on weekends, max pretends she isn’t impressed, but you see the tiny spark in her eyes anyway. “you skate?” she asks, leaning forward despite herself.
“yeah!”
“okay, that’s actually kind of cool.”
“only kind of?” ryan laughs.
“don’t push it.” she says, but she’s smiling.
even lucas nods, like, alright. i can see the appeal. dustin’s already halfway sold on adopting him into the friend group. “you could totally play a rogue,” dustin says, excited. “you’d fit right in.”
“i’d be down,” ryan grins. “if you guys want.”
mike’s jaw tightens. he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. he just sits there, staring at his tray, then at ryan, then at you, then back down again, like he can’t decide whether to sulk or explode. the more everyone warms to ryan, the more mike curls inward, like watching someone else be so effortlessly liked is physically painful.
finally, five minutes before the bell, ryan glances at the clock and stands. “i should go,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i told some of the guys i’d meet them before class.” he turns to you, softening. “i’ll see you later?”
you nod, and he gives you this warm smile that makes your chest feel weirdly light. “bye guys!” ryan says, cheerful as always.
“see you!” dustin replies.
“later, man.” lucas waves.
max even gives a nod. “yeah. uh. cool meeting you.”
ryan leaves. the second he’s out of sight, literally the second, mike finally lifts his eyes. they’re tight, sharp, searching for an outlet. “okay,” he says, voice low but pointed. “i don’t like him.”
everyone groans at once. dustin actually drops his fork. “what are you talking about? he’s awesome!”
lucas frowns. “yeah. he was, like… cool. what’s your problem?”
“i’m serious. didn’t anyone else get a weird vibe? like—he’s too nice. too… polished.”
“polished?” lucas repeats. “he said ‘ass’ like three times.”
“yeah!” dustin jumps in. “he’s real! he’s not fake-nice, he’s just… a cool dude! honestly, we should invite him to play with us sometime.”
mike slams his pen down. “okay, can we not act like he’s joining the party? he’s not even—he’s not—no.”
“bro,” dustin says, eyebrows raised, “why does it matter so much?”
mike has no answer. he doesn’t want ryan at the table. he doesn’t want ryan getting closer. he doesn’t want ryan winning everyone over. he doesn’t want ryan replacing him. and he definitely doesn’t want ryan taking your attention like he already has. but mike wheeler would rather bite off his own tongue than admit any of that out loud. so all he does is sit there, arms crossed tight enough to hurt, glaring at the doors ryan walked through like he wants to will him out of existence. “i’m just saying,” he mutters, voice stiff and miserable, “i don’t like him.”
every part of him feels like it’s vibrating with something ugly and hot and directionless. because he doesn’t know why he feels this way, why the sight of you and ryan walking in together made his stomach clench, why ryan’s laugh grated against something raw in him, why every tiny brush of your shoulder against ryan’s made him want to leave the room and break something.
all he knows is that it’s wrong. it feels wrong. you two feel wrong.
why him? what’s so great about him? he’s not even that funny. he’s not even that interesting. he’s just some guy. some stupid guy who smiles too much and skates and knows d&d and is apparently good at everything.
ryan is the kind of boy who wins people without trying. mike has never been that boy. mike has never been anything that easy.
watching you fall into that ease—watching you laugh at ryan’s jokes, watching ryan lean in to whisper something that makes you blush—makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. it makes his hands clench under the table. it makes his throat close. he hates it. he hates him. he hates himself for not understanding why.
what is he even jealous of? you’re his friend. his best friend since forever. that’s it. that’s all. that’s supposed to be all. when you defend ryan—when you say, “mike, come on, i promise he’s actually really nice”—it hits something sharp in him.
he snaps without even meaning to. “yeah, well, nice is easy.”
no one knows what that means. not even him.
time jumps because life doesn’t wait for mike wheeler to figure himself out. weeks pass. then more weeks. you and ryan keep dating. mike does not warm up to him. not even a little. if anything, it gets worse. mike gets snappier. sharper. more impatient. he stops pretending to be polite. he stops pretending he’s “fine.”
when ryan shows up, mike leaves the room. when ryan talks, mike rolls his eyes. when ryan laughs, mike’s fists clench so tight his knuckles go white. he keeps saying things like:
“i’m telling you, he’s weird.”
“i don’t trust him.”
“he’s acting. nobody is that nice.”
“if you guys weren’t blinded by his stupid dimples you’d see it.”
and he has this whole plan in his head, this delusional mike wheeler blueprint where he sits you down, tells you all the reasons ryan is wrong for you, and you listen. you nod. you say, “yeah, you’re right, mike,” and you break up with ryan and everything snaps back to the way it’s supposed to be.
just you and him.
like it always was.
that’s how mike sees it. that’s how it should go.
except it doesn’t.
you stay with ryan. you stay for an entire month, and mike unravels. he gets more irritable by the day. more sarcastic. more blunt. more impossible to be around. he snaps at dustin over nothing, gets into stupid arguments with lucas, ignores max’s jabs and just stews silently instead. his grades slip. he can’t sleep. he spends too long staring at the ceiling, heart racing for reasons he refuses to name.
you barely know ryan. he’s just some guy. he’s just some stupid guy you met a week ago. he’s not even part of your real world, not the world you built with him. in mike’s head, one month is nothing compared to the years he’s had with you. the sleepovers, the walkie-talkies, the bike rides, the monster-hunting, the stupid inside jokes he still remembers. the versions of you he’s seen that ryan never will.
and he cannot wrap his brain around the fact that things didn’t snap back. that he didn’t get you back. ryan is .. popular. he has friends everywhere. he can sit at any table in the cafeteria and someone will shout his name.
mike doesn’t have that. he has you. he had you.
so the fact that ryan—this boy who already has everything—gets you too? it makes something poisonous coil tight inside him.
you and mike barely hang out anymore, not really. not alone. not the way you used to. not the way where you sprawled across the floor of his basement with snacks and bad movies and mike made sarcastic comments at everything because he knew they made you laugh. now mike barely looks at you unless it’s to glare across ryan’s shoulder.
he blames it on you. he blames it on the fact that you started dating ryan—as if that alone ruined everything. as if he hasn’t been the one acting like a storm cloud stuck in human form for weeks.
but that’s the thing about mike wheeler: when something hurts, he refuses to look at the wound. he refuses to admit it’s bleeding. he’ll blame the weapon, the room, the weather—anything but the feeling.
so when he asks you to come over, just you, you think about it for a long while. because it’s been a while. too long. avoiding mike forever isn’t an option. he’s your friend. your history. your whole adolescence wrapped in one stubborn, impossible, exhausting person.
so you agree. you go.
now it’s the two of you in his basement. he doesn’t look at you right away. it’s awkward. he never used to be awkward with you.
mike sits on the far end of the couch like you’re radioactive, close enough to pretend this is normal. he twists the cord of the basement lamp around his fingers, untwists it, twists it again. he used to sprawl everywhere, limbs everywhere, taking up space because he knew you’d fill the rest. now he sits like he’s trying not to touch his own shadow. you drop onto the other cushion. “so,” you say, because someone has to. “how’s… life?”
“oh, you know,” he mutters. “same old.”
you raise a brow. “that sounds fake.”
he huffs, barely a laugh but close enough that the tension flickers. “yeah, well. i’m trying.”
“trying what?”
“to be normal,” he says, shrugging too hard. “it’s exhausting.”
you snort, and for a second it feels like the two of you used to, easy, familiar, teasing. you toss a pillow at him. he dodges, barely, and it hits the d&d shelf with a dull thump. “you still can’t catch.” you say.
“i didn’t want to catch it.”
“sure you didn’t.”
he slants you a look that’s almost a smile. “you’re annoying.”
“you missed me.” you counter without thinking.
“whatever.”
for a second it’s fine—awkward but fine. you talk about school, about how dustin accidentally set off the fire alarm in chem, about how lucas is pretending he doesn’t care basketball tryouts are getting closer. mike’s shoulders loosen; he actually laughs, runs a hand through his hair the way he does when he finally stops overthinking. you think, stupidly, maybe this can work. maybe you can fix this.
then he does what mike always does. he pushes. he leans back, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to read every expression. “so,” he says, casual in that way he only is when he’s about to be mean. “how’s… everything? you know. with you.”
“with me?” you echo. “i mean, fine. i guess.”
“yeah?” he says lightly. “i wouldn’t know.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
mike shrugs, picking at the peeling sticker on the coffee table. “just that i wouldn’t know. probably because you’ve been too busy hanging out with your new—” he makes a little face, like the word tastes foul— “boyfriend.”
the way he says it. petty. like he’s daring you to deny it. you swallow. “okay. you know what? i’m not doing this with you.”
“doing what?”
“this,” you say, standing so fast the couch groans. “the passive-aggressive comments. the attitude. the—whatever this is.” you gesture vaguely at him, at the tension, at the room that feels suddenly too small. “i came here to hang out with you, mike. not to get judged.”
“i wasn’t judging—”
“yeah, you were. and i’m not dealing with it today.”
you’re already halfway to the basement stairs. mike just stares, stunned, mouth parted like you slapped him. you don’t give him time to catch up. you climb the stairs two at a time and push open the door. karen wheeler is at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes. she looks up with that bright mom-smile, ready to say hi—until she sees your face. the smile crumples instantly. “sweetheart? everything okay?”
you force a tight smile. “yeah, mrs. wheeler. just heading out.”
you slip past her before she can ask anything else, shoes thudding lightly across the kitchen tile. ted doesn’t even look up when you pass, just turns a page of his newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a tranquilized sloth. the air outside is cold in a way that wakes every nerve. you breathe it in. you need that. clarity. space. anything that isn’t mike wheeler and his catastrophic ability to ruin the simplest moment.
why does he have to be like this?
you walk across the lawn, hands stuffed into your pockets, heart drumming a tired, frustrated rhythm. mike is maddening. painfully, historically maddening. he can’t go five minutes without pushing a button—your button—like he’s testing the limits of how much you’ll take. he does it every time. he always has. and the worst part? half the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
you know him. you’ve always known him, and that makes it so much worse, because every time he acts like this, like he’s trying to drive you away, some part of you aches like you’re losing something you never figured out how to keep. why couldn’t he just be normal today? why couldn’t he just let it be the way it used to? why does he have to spit fire the second he feels even a millimeter out of place?
you reach your bike and grip the handlebars, knuckles whitening. if you leave now, maybe you’ll cool off. maybe tomorrow will be less impossible. maybe—
the door slams behind you. the sound slices clean through your thoughts. “hold on!”
you turn, startled, breath caught in your throat. mike is barreling out of the house like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. he stumbles down the porch steps, nearly tripping over his own shoelace, hair wild, chest heaving like he sprinted a mile. his face—god, you’ve never seen him look like that. frantic. unguarded. almost scared. “don’t go yet.” he says. “just—can you… just wait a second?”
you don’t answer. you’re too stunned by him. by the way he looks at you like everything inside him is spiraling.
he swallows hard. “why do you like him so much?”
the words fall out of him, unfiltered, fast, messy, the way mike gets when something breaks inside him. “i mean—he’s just—he’s just some guy,” mike continues, throwing his hands up. “he’s not even in the party. he doesn’t even know you. like, actually know you.”
you stare at him, stunned into silence, but mike keeps going, pacing one quick desperate line in the driveway. “he bought you the wrong soda at lunch,” mike says, pointing sharply like it’s definitive evidence in a murder case. “he brought grape. grape. who the hell likes grape?”
“mike—”
“and he doesn’t know your jokes,” mike says louder. “he laughs at the wrong ones. and he thinks you like those stupid pop quizzes in english—what?! nobody likes those! you get stressed over those! i know you do! you’ve only known him, like—a month. a month. and suddenly you’re always with him and he’s at your locker and he’s at your table and he’s—” mike gestures helplessly, like the word everywhere is too big for his mouth. “and i don’t get it. i don’t understand why things can’t just—go back to how they were. with us.”
you open your mouth before you can even think. “we aren’t even—” you start, but the sentence chokes on your tongue. you stop. hard. mike’s eyes flick up, confused. you shake your head, breath slicing out. “forget it.”
but the heat is already rising in your chest, curling under your ribs. all month you’ve been swallowing it down, smoothing it out, pretending it didn’t burn. and now it just—erupts. “what has been up with you?” you snap, louder than you mean to. “seriously, mike, you’ve been such a—such a dick lately. like, constantly. do you even hear yourself?”
his eyes widen, hurt flashing fast before he smothers it under anger. “i’ve been a dick?” mike shoots back, voice sharp enough to cut. “i’ve been a dick? seriously? you disappear for a month with your—your boyfriend—” he spits the word like it tastes sour, “—and i’m the problem?”
“you are the problem!” you fire back, stepping closer because you can’t help it. “you’re rude every time he’s around! you glare, you sulk, you make everyone uncomfortable! i can’t even eat lunch without you acting like someone stole your bike!”
“maybe because they did!” mike snaps, flinging his hands out. “he’s trying to take you away from—”
“he’s not taking me!” you yell, fully incredulous. “i’m a person, mike, not a chess piece you get to guard!”
“oh my god, that’s not what i meant—”
“no? because it sure sounds like it!”
“he sucks, okay?! he just—he sucks! he acts like he knows you and he doesn’t and he—”
“he doesn’t what?” you snap. “he doesn’t treat me like I’m doing something wrong every time I breathe?” you push on, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “have you ever thought—just once—about how you’ve been acting? you keep blaming ryan for everything, but have you ever considered that maybe the reason i haven’t been around is because of you?”
his mouth opens, then closes. he looks like he’s been slapped. “because of me?” mike repeats. “that’s what you think?”
“you make it impossible to be around you. you’re angry all the time. irritated, mean, snapping at everyone. every time i try to talk to you, you push me away or pick a fight or—” you throw your hands up. “god, mike, how am i supposed to want to hang out with you when you’re like this?”
“i’m like this because he—”
“it’s not about ryan!” you cut in, louder than you intended. “it’s about you. it’s always been about you!”
“he is the problem,” mike insists. “he’s—he’s wrong for you, okay? he’s—he’s trying to take you from the party, from me—”
“he’s not!” you shout back. “why do you care so much?!”
he freezes in the middle of the driveway, breath snagging, eyes wide and almost… terrified, like he knows exactly why. like he’s known for a long time. you can see it hit him: the realization he’s been dodging, the answer he’s been choking on for weeks, the thing he’s terrified to say and even more terrified you’ll somehow already know. he forces himself to move anyway, forces himself to swallow whatever cracked open in him. he shakes his head fast, stubborn, angry in the way only someone who’s scared can be. “it is his fault,” mike snaps, stepping forward again, the space between you shrinking to nothing. “i’m not wrong about this. i’m not. you shouldn’t trust him. he—he doesn’t even notice the right things about you, he—he just—”
“mike—”
“he’s the worst,” he barrels over you, desperate, relentless. “he’s the worst, he’s—he’s not good enough for you.”
“mike—”
“i’m trying to help you,” he insists, voice cracking with how hard he’s pushing it. “i’m trying to make you see he’s bad for you, okay? he’s wrong.”
“mike.”
he shuts up instantly. the two of you are close enough now that you can feel the heat of his breath, the tremble in his shoulders, the panic trembling behind every inch of him. he looks furious and terrified and breakable all at once. you take a breath. a real one. “it doesn’t even matter,” you say. “we’re not together anymore.”
the world drops out of his face. “…what?”
“we broke up,” you repeat, more tired than angry now. “a few days ago.”
he stands there, absolutely still, like you’ve short-circuited him. like his brain is trying to reboot and failing. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “you’re not—?”
“no, mike,” you say, exasperated. “we’re not.”
something bright flickers in his eyes, it almost looks like joy. the second he realizes he’s showing it, he slams it down, forcing his expression back into something flat and neutral that fools absolutely no one. “oh,” he manages. “well. uh. good. i mean—not good. not good-good. i just—i didn’t—”
“yeah,” you cut in, arms folding. “you didn’t know.”
“of course i didn’t know,” he snaps weakly. “you didn’t tell me—”
“you didn’t notice,” you shoot back. “if you’d paid attention to anyone besides yourself, you would’ve realized he hasn’t even been around the last couple of days. i wasn’t with him. i haven’t been with him. you didn’t notice, because you never do, mike. you only see what you want to see. you only hear what you want to hear. if it’s not about you—if it’s not something that affects you—you don’t pay attention.”
you’re too wound up to stop. “i don’t even know why you care so much,” you say, breath uneven. “why does it even matter to you who i date or don’t date? why do you get to be mad about this? why do you get to act like i’ve—”
“because i like you!”
the words explode out of him, like they’ve been pressing against his teeth for days, weeks, maybe years. you stop breathing. mike’s chest rises and falls like he just sprinted across the neighborhood. his eyes are huge, terrified, already regretting everything and unable to shove any of it back inside. “i—” he hesitates. “god, i didn’t—i didn’t mean to say it like that, I just— I don’t know, okay? i don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, i don’t know why i’m acting like this, i just—” he swallows hard. “i thought i hated him. like, really, really hated him. but then you said you weren’t with him anymore and it felt like—” he grimaces, shoulders curling inward. “like something in me just let go, i guess. i don’t know.” he shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to knock the words loose. “i didn’t get it at first,” he rushes out. “i didn’t know why seeing you with him made me feel so—angry. or sick. or… whatever. i thought maybe it was just because he was popular or because he didn’t fit with us or because he kept taking you away but then—” he stops himself, hands flexing uselessly. “but then i realized it wasn’t him. it was you. it was me. it was— i don’t know.”
you’re staring at him. you can’t not stare.
“i think—” he tries again. “i think i like you. or maybe i’ve liked you for a while, and now everything’s a mess because i screwed everything up and i can’t stop screwing things up and i—” he trails off, hopeless.
your heartbeat is in your throat. you’ve loved mike wheeler for as long as you can remember—through childhood, through monsters, through eleven different kinds of heartbreak he never even knew he gave you. now, the moment you finally tried to move on—finally tried to build something that wasn’t just you waiting for mike to look at you the way you looked at him—now he says it.
“i don’t know what i’m doing, but i don’t want you with him. i don’t want things to go back to how they were either because—because that wasn’t enough anymore. for me.” he forces himself to meet your eyes. “i really think i like you,” he says again, smaller. “a lot.”
your ribs are too small for everything suddenly pressing against them. “how do you even know that? you can’t just—say things like that. you can’t drop that on me. don’t—don’t mess with me.”
his face twists. “i’m not,” he shoots back, too fast, too earnest. “i’m not messing with you, i don’t know what else you want me to say. i’m just—i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to be honest.”
“honest?” you repeat, disbelieving. “since when?”
he swallows, like that one stung. “since max yelled at me.”
“what?”
“she’s the one who helped me figure it out. told me i was acting weird. told me i got… annoying whenever you were with him.“
your stomach twists, hope and fear tangling so violently it almost hurts. because you’ve dreamed of this. of him standing here, admitting something real. yet loving mike wheeler has always been a gamble with terrible odds, and you just crawled out of something that left you bruised and confused and tired. you don’t know if you can afford to trust him with something this big. not when you’ve lost him before without ever having had him. “i don’t believe you,” you say, because it’s safer than the truth: i want to believe you so bad that it terrifies me.
“i can prove it.”
you laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “yeah? how, mike? how are you going to prove it? because words aren’t—”
you don’t even finish. he moves before you can think, before you can breathe, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll shove him away but he still steps into your space, close enough for his breath to tremble against your cheek. and then he kisses you.
it’s not smooth or practiced or anything he had time to think through. it’s desperate, uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for years and this is the first inhale that doesn’t burn. his mouth meets yours with this startled, aching hunger, but it softens almost instantly, like he realizes mid-kiss that you’re real, that this is real, that he’s actually doing this.
your brain doesn’t catch up. it’s white noise—shock slamming through you so hard you forget every reason you had to stay angry. his lips are warm, and he’s making these tiny, barely-there sounds like he’s afraid to push, afraid to lose you, but too pulled in to stop.
your hands stay frozen at your sides for a full second—two—while your heart stutters violently in your chest. then the instinct you’ve spent years burying finally claws its way out. you kiss him back.
it’s small at first, cautious, but the second you respond he shudders, like your mouth on his is something he didn’t let himself hope for. his fingers finally touch you, sliding to the sides of your face, gentle in that frantic, unsteady way of someone who’s been imagining this and still can’t believe you’re not pushing him away. it’s overwhelming, dizzying, this thing you’ve dreamt of since you were a kid but never thought you’d have.
you pull back first, lips tingling, everything inside you way too loud. “you’re such an asshole.” you whisper, because it’s the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.
“i know.”
you shake your head, overwhelmed, but his hands are still hovering near your face like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you again. then his expression breaks, soft, pleading, all the bravado gone. “come back inside.” he steps closer again, just searching your face with that startled honesty he only ever shows when he’s seconds from falling apart. “we don’t have to talk about anything. we can just—hang out. or sit. or… i don’t know.”
you’re caught between everything you’ve ever known and everything that’s happening right now. mike’s eyes are earnest, completely unguarded for the first time in what feels like forever. he looks like the whole world has narrowed to him, to the way his hands hover near your face, hesitant, like he’s daring himself to let go of his own fear long enough to just… be real.
you don’t move. you can’t, really. your stomach twists and uncoils in a way that’s half panic, half relief, half something you can’t name. he’s finally said it. he’s finally admitted it, and you want to believe him but you don’t quite know how. your heart stutters in your chest with hope, fear, longing, because that’s what mike does. he’s always been like this: impossible to pin down, impossible to read, impossible not to feel.
“unless,” he says suddenly, “you’d rather be with ryan.” the name slips out before he can stop it, and the way he says it makes it obvious. jealousy. pure, stupid, human jealousy, and somehow it makes something flutter in your chest in a way that isn’t irritation or anger—it’s… kind of cute.
mike, dense, stubborn, impossible mike wheeler, is jealous of someone he doesn’t even like but can’t stop himself from obsessing over. instead of being annoyed—like you probably should be—it strikes you as painfully human. it’s a side of him he can’t hide, a glimpse behind the walls he builds so meticulously around himself.
you try to find words, but the sentence won’t form. there’s too much, all at once. you think of every moment you’ve loved him, all the moments you’ve fantasized about him finally saying something real, and here it is, tumbling out in the middle of a driveway. he swallows, jittery and exposed, watching you like he’s afraid your reaction will break him. you can see the restraint in him, the way he’s holding back, trying to appear calm and collected, and failing. you think about how much you’ve wanted this since you were kids, how much you’ve longed for him to feel something you’ve always felt, and it hits you in a tidal wave that maybe, just maybe, this is real.
you take a shaky breath, realizing that you has always wanted this—always wanted him like this. the flutter in your chest spreads, a dangerous, thrilling kind of hope that makes you want to both laugh and cry at once. “okay,” you say softly, letting your voice carry more calm than you feel. “okay. we’ll figure this out. we’ll… start somewhere. just… don’t mess with me, mike.”
he blinks, the faintest relief flickering across his face before he tries to mask it with a shrug. “i won’t. promise.” he says, though the words are almost too small to carry the weight of everything. he steps back just enough to give you space, but not enough to break the tension, not enough to let go.
you nod, a smile threatening at the corners of your lips despite the lump in your throat, the whirl of emotions. “okay,” you whisper, because you’re tired of avoiding him, tired of holding back, tired of the endless guessing game. “okay.”
you almost laugh, a tiny, strangled sound, because it’s mike. mike wheeler. always stubborn, always dense, always impossible, and yet somehow, here he is, looking like a boy who’s realizing his own heart too late but still willing to risk it. you shake your head, grinning despite yourself, and think, god, he really is the world’s biggest asshole. but the kind of asshole you’ve loved for forever.
he clears his throat, a little embarrassed, hands shoved into his pockets, and mutters, “so… uh, you gonna… come back inside or just stare at the street all night?”
“fine, i’ll go inside. but you owe me popcorn.”
“deal.” he says, finally cracking a grin that’s just a little too victorious, like he’s survived something fierce and now gets to savor the small victory. as you walk back toward the house, the sky deepening to twilight above you, you feel light, dizzy, and like maybe, just maybe, the hardest part is over.
a/n: genuinely not happy with how this one turned out but that’s okay 🥳 been on my stranger things shit .
Mike Wheeler x bimbo!Henderson!reader
Warnings : MDNI ! 18+ , p in v, unprotected sex, crampie, mild degradation (use of terms like "stupid girl" and "bimbo"), semi-public risk
The digital clock on your bedside table read 11:47pm. The red numbers glowed ominously in the otherwise pitch-black room, taunting you. He was late.
You sighed, loudly, dramatically, throwing your head back against a mountain of pastel-colored pillows. The movement caused a cascade of meticulously teased, crimped blonde hair to fan out around you like a halo. You blew a stray strand out of your face, the scent of strawberry chewing gum and excessive amounts of Aqua Net hairspray filling your nose.
Your room was a sanctuary dedicated to the cult of late-80s teenage girlhood. It was an explosion of pink, lace, and tiger-beat magazine cutouts taped to every available surface. It smelled like Debbie Gibson’s ‘Electric Youth’ perfume and contraband clove cigarettes you sometimes stole from Steve Harrington’s car.
It was, unapologetically, the room of a "bimbo."
That’s what people called you, anyway. You knew they did. You heard the whispers in the halls of Hawkins High. They saw the frosted pink lipstick, the acid-washed mini-skirts, the way you twirled your hair when you didn't want to answer a hard question in Mr. Clarke’s class. They saw you as the polar opposite of your twin brother, Dustin.
Dustin, with his nerdy t-shirts, his obsession with D&D, and his teeth that were still figuring themselves out. You loved him, he was literally the other half of your DNA, but God, you two couldn't be more different. He was brains and dorky charm while you were aesthetics and vibes.
And nobody, absolutely nobody, could ever know that the Queen of the Airheads was secretly hooking up with the Dungeon Master himself, Mike Wheeler.
The thought made you giggle. It was absurd. It was a scandal waiting to happen. If Dustin found out, his head would literally explode. Like, Scanners style.
You shifted on the bed, smoothing down the silk robe you’d stolen from your mother’s closet. You’d spent the last hour preparing. Shaving your legs until they were dolphin-smooth, applying a fresh coat of ‘Bubblegum Pop’ nail polish, and meticulously arranging your lingerie under the robe so it looked effortlessly sexy when he arrived.
You checked the window again. You’d unlatched it an hour ago, sliding it up just an inch so he could get his fingers under it.
Suddenly, there was a thud against the siding of the house.
You sat bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs. A scrabbling sound followed, like a raccoon trying to climb a drainpipe. Then, fingers appeared under the sash, pushing the window up with a groan of protest from the old wood.
A gangly leg clad in dark denim swung over the sill, followed by the rest of Mike Wheeler, who tumbled onto your plush cream carpet with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
He landed in a heap, knocking over a stack of fashion magazines.
"Shhh!" you hissed, leaping off the bed. You slammed the window shut and locked it, then whirled on him, hands on your hips. "Mike! You’re going to wake up the whole house. Do you want Dustin to come in here with a baseball bat?"
Mike scrambled to his feet, dusting off his knees. He looked flustered, his dark hair a messy mop from the wind outside, his cheeks flushed pink. He was wearing that same old beige jacket and a striped polo, looking utterly out of place surrounded by your stuffed animals and lace curtains.
"Sorry," he whispered intensely, his eyes wide. "The trellis is slippery."
He looked around the room nervously, as if expecting Dustin to pop out of your closet shouting ‘Aha!’
"Relax," you murmured, stepping into his space. The anger melted away instantly. He was here. He made it. "Dustin’s snoring like a chainsaw. I checked."
Mike’s eyes finally landed on you, and his nervous energy seemed to hit a brick wall. His gaze raked over you, taking in the silk robe, the perfectly styled hair, the glossy lips. He swallowed hard.
You saw that look in his eyes, that mixture of confusion, awe, and absolute desperation that you lived for. It was the look that said, I don't understand your world at all, but I want to drown in it.
"Hi," he breathed out, his voice cracking slightly.
"Hi yourself, loser," you teased, reaching out and hooking a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him forward.
He stumbled into you, his hands automatically going to your waist. He smelled like the outdoors, cheap deodorant, and that underlying scent of anxiety that seemed to follow him everywhere these days. It was intoxicating.
"God, you smell like a strawberry patch," he mumbled, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "It’s ridiculous."
"It’s expensive," you corrected, tilting your head back to give him better access. "And you love it."
"Yeah," he admitted against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point. "Yeah, I really do."
He pulled back just enough to look at your face. He always looked so intense, like everything was life or death. You supposed, for him, a lot of things were. But that’s why you worked. You were his break from reality. You were soft places and mindless pop music and things that didn’t involve alternate dimensions.
"You’re late," you pouted, sticking out your bottom lip. The lip gloss glistened in the moonlight.
Mike's eyes zeroed in on your mouth. "I had to wait for Nancy to get off the phone. Then my mom was prowling around the kitchen..."
"Excuses, excuses, Mikey." You tapped a manicured nail against his chest. "You're lucky I waited up. I was about to get my beauty sleep."
"You don't need it," he said quickly, earnestly. It was adorable how bad he was at flirting, how totally sincere his compliments were.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," you smirked.
You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his.
Kissing Mike was always an event. He kissed like he was afraid you were going to disappear if he stopped. It was hungry and a little clumsy, his teeth sometimes clicking against yours, but the sheer enthusiasm made up for the lack of finesse.
He groaned low in his throat, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you until there was zero space left between you. You could feel the hard line of his hip bones, the rapid thud of his heart against your chest.
You threaded your fingers through the thick hair at the nape of his neck, messing up his attempt at styling it. He tasted like mint toothpaste and soda.
"Come on," you whispered against his lips, pulling away reluctantly. "Not here. The floor is uncomfortable."
You led him by the hand toward your bed. It was a massive, fluffy confection covered in at least ten decorative pillows that you had to shove onto the floor to make room.
Mike sat on the edge of the mattress, looking strangely small surrounded by so much pink. He kicked off his sneakers, his eyes never leaving you as you stood between his knees.
You loved the power dynamic shift that happened in this room. Outside, Mike was the leader, the strategist, the one calling the shots. In here, he was just a boy obsessed with a girl way out of his league, totally at your mercy.
Your hands went to the sash of your silk robe. Mike’s breath hitched.
You untied it slowly, maintaining eye contact, letting the silk pool at your feet.
You’d chosen a matching baby-blue lace bra and panty set that you’d shoplifted from the mall three towns over so nobody would recognize you. It pushed your boobs up perfectly and made your waist look tiny.
Mike’s mouth actually fell open slightly. His eyes grew impossibly wide, darting over your body like he was trying to memorize a complex map.
"Holy shit, Y/N," he whispered, almost reverently.
You did a little spin, posing with your hands behind your head, fluffing your hair. "Like what you see, Mikey?"
"You have no idea," he choked out. His hands reached out, gripping your hips, pulling you forward until your thighs were pressed against the denim of his jeans. "You’re... God, you’re just so much."
"Is that a complaint?" you teased, running your hands down his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart through his thin polo shirt.
"Never," he swore. His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs tracing the bottom edge of your lace bra. His touch was shaky, hesitant, as if he was afraid he might break you. "You’re perfect. You look like one of those models in Nancy’s magazines, but... better. Real."
He buried his face in your stomach, his hot breath ghosting over your skin through the lace. "I hate that I can’t tell anyone," he muffled against you. "I want to show you off. It sucks."
Your heart softened. You knew the secrecy ate at him. Mike Wheeler wore his heart on his sleeve, and having to hide the biggest thing in his life was torture.
"I know, baby," you soothed, threading your fingers through his dark hair. "But think about Dustin’s face. He’d have a literal aneurysm."
Mike let out a short, sharp laugh against your skin. "He'd kill me. Literally. He'd find a way using science."
"Exactly. So this..." You tilted his chin up so he had to look at you. "This is just for us. Our little secret world."
The intensity returned to his gaze, burning hotter than before. "Our world," he repeated.
He stood up suddenly, towering over you. The hesitation was gone, replaced by that frantic need that always seemed to simmer just beneath his surface.
He grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the pile of pillows on the floor. He was skinny, all ribs and sharp angles, but there was a wiry strength to him that you loved.
He pushed you gently backward onto the bed. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out around you. Mike crawled over you, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, caging you in.
He stared down at you, his expression deadly serious. "Tell me I'm your favorite," he demanded, his voice low and rough.
It was his thing. He needed reassurance. He needed to know he was winning against the imaginary competition he’d convinced himself you had.
You smiled up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with a perfectly manicured finger. "You’re my absolute favorite nerd, Mike."
"Not good enough," he growled, leaning down to nip at your jawline.
"You're my favorite," you whispered, turning your head to give him better access to your neck. "My only one."
He sucked a mark right over your pulse point, hard enough that you knew it would bruise. You’d have to cover it with heavy concealer tomorrow and wear your hair down, but you didn't care. It was a brand.
His hands moved down to the clasp of your bra, fumbling with it impatiently.
"Ugh, these things are impossibly stupid," he muttered, frustrated.
You giggled. "Here, let the expert handle it." You reached behind your back and unhooked it in one smooth motion.
Mike peeled the lace away, tossing it aside. He stared at your bare chest for a long moment, his breathing heavy, before lowering his head to worship you.
He wasn't smooth. He wasn't experienced. But the sheer amount of devotion he put into every touch, every kiss, made up for everything. He treated your body like a shrine he was terrified of defiling but desperate to pray at.
He kissed his way down your ribs, his tongue tracing the indent of your waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your legs.
When he finally settled between your thighs, still fully clothed in his jeans, the friction was electric.
"Mike," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Your jeans. Off. Now."
He scrambled back, practically falling off the bed in his haste to toe off his sneakers and shove his jeans down. He kicked them away, leaving him in just his boxers, breathing hard.
He crawled back up the bed, positioning himself between your legs again. The heat coming off him was immense.
He braced himself above you, his eyes searching yours. There was a vulnerability there, a silent question he always asked before the final step.
"Please, Y/N," he whispered, his voice raw. "I need you."
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him through his boxers. He hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily against your hand.
"You have me, Mike," you assured him. "Take me."
He pulled his boxers down and guided himself to your entrance. He paused at the threshold, the tip pushing against your slick heat.
"Look at me," he said, his voice strained.
You opened your eyes, locking your gaze with his.
He pushed inside slowly, inch by agonizing inch. You let out a shaky exhale, your head falling back into the pillows as the feeling of being filled stretched you. He was bigger than people would guess looking at his lanky frame, and it always took a moment to adjust.
Mike groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he buried himself completely to the hilt. He held still for a moment, just breathing, letting the sensation wash over him.
"You feel incredible," he ground out, his jaw clenched tight. "So tight. So unbelievably hot."
He began to move. At first, it was slow, deep strokes that made your toes curl. He was careful, always careful, making sure you were okay.
But the care quickly gave way to that familiar desperation. The pace quickened. His thrusts became harder, snapping his hips against yours with a bruising rhythm. The bedsprings squeaked rhythmically, a dangerous soundtrack to your secret.
"Mike—wait, shhh," you gasped, trying to quiet your own moans as the pleasure started to coil tight in your belly. "Dustin..."
"Forget Dustin," Mike panted, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the mattress above your head, taking control. "Think about me. Only me."
He drove into you harder, hitting that spot deep inside that made your vision spotty. You couldn't help the high, breathy keens that escaped your throat.
Mike leaned down, swallowing your sounds with a searing kiss. His tongue warred with yours, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his hips below. It was messy and hot and overwhelming.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more friction. Your nails dug into his back, leaving little crescent moon marks on his skin.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, between frantic kisses. "You’re so beautiful it hurts my head. My beautiful, stupid girl."
He didn't mean it as an insult. You knew that. It was his way of grappling with how much he loved the parts of you that made no logical sense to him, the makeup, the hair, the vapid magazines. He loved it because it was yours.
The tension in your body wound tighter and tighter. The friction, the heat of his body, the scent of his sweat and your perfume mixing together, it was too much.
"Mike, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," he urged, letting go of your wrists to slide his hand down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and grinding against it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, Y/N."
That was it. The added stimulation sent you over the edge. You cried out, your back arching off the bed as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding. Your inner muscles clamped down around him violently.
The sensation was too much for Mike. With a guttural groan that he barely managed to muffle against your neck, he slammed into you one, two, three more times, his body going rigid as he spilled himself inside you.
He collapsed on top of you, dead weight, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breathing was harsh and ragged, hot against your damp skin.
You lay there for a long time, just breathing together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room the whirring of your bedside fan and the distant chirp of crickets outside.
Your perfect hair was a disaster, glued to your forehead with sweat. Your lip gloss was definitely smeared all over Mike's face. The room smelled like sex and strawberries.
Slowly, Mike lifted his head. He looked utterly wrecked, sleepy and satisfied, with lipstick smeared across his cheek. It was your favorite look on him.
He smiled, a lazy, genuinely happy smile that rarely made an appearance outside of this room.
"Hi," he whispered again, echoing his earlier greeting.
You giggled weakly, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink off his chin. "Hi, yourself. You made a mess of me, Wheeler."
He looked down at your body, taking in the dishevelled state of your perfection. A look of intense possessiveness crossed his face.
"Good," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Mine."
He rolled off you reluctantly, flopping onto his back beside you and immediately pulling you into his side. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm.
"What time is it?" he asked drowsily into your hair.
You craned your neck to look at the evil red numbers. "1:15 AM."
He groaned. "I have to go in like an hour. If my mom wakes up for water and checks my room, I'm dead."
"Stay a little longer," you pleaded, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone with your fingertip.
His arm tightened around you. "Yeah. Okay. A little longer."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your ridiculously expensive hairspray.
"You know," he mumbled sleepily. "Dustin says you spend three hours in the bathroom every morning just staring at yourself in the mirror."
You pinched his side sharply. "He's a liar. It's only two hours."
Mike chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "He has no idea, does he? That you're... smart. And funny. And the best thing in this entire garbage town."
Your heart gave a little squeeze. It was moments like this, when the post-coital haze stripped away his usual awkwardness, that you remembered why you risked Dustin’s wrath for him.
"Don't tell anyone I'm smart, Wheeler," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. "It’ll ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me," he promised, tilting your chin up for one last, lingering kiss before the reality of the morning forced him back out into the cold night air. "Queen of the bimbos."
"King of the nerds," you whispered back against his lips.
It was the weirdest, riskiest, most confusing relationship in Hawkins. And you wouldn't trade it for all the pink lip gloss in the world.
asked by : @babyspiceeeeeeee
taglist : @kodzuvk @kravitzwhore
need 2 hear mike say "eyes on me" during sex🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣
warnings ; smut, sort of dumification, soft!dom mike X fem!reader (reader is one of the boys sisters but doesn’t state which)
“does your brother know you’re here?” mike wheeler asks bluntly as he spots you getting a drink poured in the kitchen. you roll your eyes watching him approach you, acting like he has any authority over you just because he’s your brothers friend.
“talk nicely to me mikey” you smirk up at, glossed lips shining under the harsh lights of the party’s kitchen. he scoffs, grabbing the cup from the jock about to hand it to you.
“what’s your problem?” he asks the pale boy who makes a face in response to the letterman jacket.
“what’s yours?” he asks back and you internally cringe.
“thank you.” you smile up at the blonde disinterested before taking the cup from mikes hand and then drag him out of the kitchen. “leave me alone, and stop getting mouthy to boys bigger than you.”
“bigger than me?” he asks, leaning back against the wall with a cocky smile and you roll your eyes again.
“go find someone else to annoy mikey.” you walk away and he shakes his head before following you. he felt like a cartoon character following the smell of pie as your perfume lingered behind in the trail he chased after you.
“don’t drink.” he tells you, rushing in front of you to block your path as you attempt to enter the back yard where your friends wait for you.
you look up at him annoyed now. “why? you gonna tell on me?”
“no.” he takes the cup from your hand and gives it a sniff before scrunching up his face. “i wanna take you home and i can’t if you’re wasted.”
that almost knocked the wind out of you. “oh.” he looks down at you and licks his lips.
“oh?” he’s almost laughing as he questions your shy response.
you and mike had hooked up on and off for a few months, since just after your 18th birthday. he’d never really thought of you anyway other than his friends little sister until you had been at another party thrown by one of the rich kids and you ran to him scared and helpless after a dude had made some advances at you. your brother was wasted already and mike was there in shiny armour. taking you home and fucking you in the room next to his best friend’s.
“my moms hosting book club tonight, i don’t think you’d be able to come in.” you tell him , quieter now and he shrugs.
“i’ve climbed in your window countless times.” he says like it’s the most normal thing ever and you shrug.
“what about my brother?” you ask, looking over mikes shoulder and seeing him standing with the other boys in their group.
“what about him?” he asks and you roll your eyes.
“what would you tell him?” you ask and he shrugs.
“i didn’t know i had to report to him? you know one second i just gotta go let him know my cocks aching staring at his sister’s tits in that dres-“ your hand flies over his mouth, closing the space between the two of you and he almost wants to sigh at the feel of you against him.
“mikey!” you exclaim. there’s a giggle against your lips and he smiles on your hand before you pull it back but he catches your wrist in his hand.
he presses a kiss to your palm and pulls you closer against him. “does he know you’re here?”
“no he hasn’t spotted me yet.” you explain and he nods.
“good.”
-
“shh!” you whisper as you watch mike fall back against your dressing table as he scrambles through your open bedroom window before steadying himself.
“what did my brother say?” you ask coming over to him and he shrugs.
“nothing much, just said i had to head home.” his hands drag up your sides, taking your nightgown with them as his lips press into your own, finally. the cold air sends shivers up your spine as more and more of your body is exposed to the late nights air until your nipples are revealed, quickly peaking and hardening under the breeze.
“you didn’t close the window!” you whisper to mike and he looks up at you with a smirk.
he drops to his knees, hands holding up your night dress.“sorry angel.” his mouth makes quick work of dragging itself over your ribcage, leaving open mouthed wet kisses in its trail. you’re doing so well keeping your composure until his hands lift up to pinch your nipples and a shocked moan is pulled from you. “you feel good baby?”
you’re nodding as you sigh against his touch. “missed you mikey..need more.” your hands reach down to pull him on top of you back against your bed. and he smirks down at you. your arms wrap around his neck to pull him down to kiss you again, his hips grinding down against your own and he swears he can feel the wet spot on your panties through his jeans.
“yeah? missed you too princess.. been a whole week without my favourite girl.” your cheeks heat at his words and he notices as he watches you. he pulls back, hands roaming over your body covered by the lacy pink night dress. “so fucking cute. get it off.”
you raise your arms above your head and let him pull it off you and his hands are quick to make their way to the matching painties. he pulls them down your legs, a sticky trail following them.
“fucking hell princess.” he admires the mess between your legs like it was the mona lisa. “how long have you been like this?” he asks and you shrug.
“since you got mouthy to chris for giving me a drink at the party.” you admit without even thinking and he wants to berate you for it but as he stares at your needy cunt he can’t imagine doing anything but fucking it.
his lips press against your wet heat and you draw in a tight breath at the sensation. his tongue licks a stripe and then he leans back on his heels and looks back up at you.
“so good mikey.” you look at him, your watery eyes boring into his own like he was the best thing you’d ever seen. “just want you please.” he’d not even said anything and you were practically begging for him.
“such a doting girl ready to take everything i give to you.” he presses a kiss to your lips before standing back and taking off his shirt as you unbuckle his belt and struggle to get his jeans down.
they stop at his thighs and you decide that’s far enough before your lips wrap around the red tip of his cock. “fuhhck.” his head bobs back showing off his adam’s apple as his fingers tangle into your hair. he pushes you down as far as you can manage before you splutter around him and he lets you off.
“gotta fuck you angel.” he pushes you back against the plush pink cover and lifts your legs up on to his shoulders. he positions his long cock at your entrance and you’re circling yourself needily against the tip.
“what’re you teasing yourself for dummy?” he asks you his hand stroking against your cheek as he lets his weight rest on the back of your legs and it definitely should’ve come across mockingly but it felt strangely like he was telling you he loved you.
but before he could dwell on that too much he put a hand over your bladder area and pushed himself into you slowly. you squirmed against the stretch and he cooed into your neck, calming you down. “shh shh be good for me, yeah?”
“it’s so good mikey! hurts so bad.” there are tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as he pulls back and begins to move in and out of you slowly. your fingers are gripping into his arms and he feels you tighten around him.
“bun?” he asks and you can barely open your eyes to look up at him. “hey hey eyes on me.” his fingers find their way to your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
“so good mikey.”
“you gonna cum already baby?” he asks and you’re nodding, eyes boring into his own and he almost laughs despite the swelling in his chest at the sight of you. “just got in you princess.”
“making me feel so good mikey. you fit in so perfect.” your words are mumbled moans as you preen into him, his arms caging you against the pink sheets of your bed.
“come on then princess. show me how good i am.” his smirk as he watches your hips grind up against him is so cocky and he knows if you weren’t so needy you’d be pissed to see him like this.
his hands roam around your body before settling on your tits. he grabs them and pushes them together, letting his face rub between them. the sensation of him everywhere was so overwhelming for you. his pubes tickle against your clit as his lips kiss and suck your tits and before you know it you’re cumming around him.
your body spasms against him and he speeds up, fucking you through it. “that’s it princess, take what you need from me.”
“can’t-no more.” you’re scratching up his back at the overwhelming feeling of him continuing to fuck you but it doesn’t put him off at all. in fact it just makes him even harder inside of you.
“you got another one in you for me? hm? gonna makes me super proud angel?” the way his eyes looked down at you you know there was no way you could say no and before you knew it he was flipping you over.
you were seated on top of him, his cock stuffed even deeper now as you rocked back and forth. but he shook his head, tutting at you before slapping a hand against your ass. “uh uh, all the way to the top-like i told you baby.” you dragged yourself up his long cock and dropped back down on it.
the way your tits bounced everytime you sunk down on him had him twitching inside of you. he grabbed your wrists, pinning them behind your back and using them to pull you on and off of his cock.
“oh my god mikey, gonna cum again!” you were crying now, your eyes rolled into the back of your head.
“look at me, eyes on me princess. wanna see you when you cum for me.” his words had you grounding yourself, your hands gripping his own behind your back as you stared into his eyes.
he kept fucking you, up and down on his length over and over again until you felt him still pulling you down against him as he came and you followed suit quickly. he jerked against you, rocking you around as he came so hard he almost stars.
—
okay i hope this was good i haven’t written since whenever the last thing posted on this blog was 🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣
for more of the stuff i’ve written for mike click into one of the #mike x reader tags below ..k bye
will you write about mike distracting the reader from her homework bc he wants to kiss her 🥺
Kiss Me | mike wheeler
summary: 610. mike keeps distracting you from your homework because he can’t stop thinking about kissing you—and he definitely succeeds.
cw: mike wheeler blurb, teenage love, soft romance, very fluffy, english is not my first language xx.
currently playing: kiss me
Mike isn’t even pretending to help anymore.
At first, he did try. He sat beside you on the floor of his basement, legs crossed, textbook open, nodding seriously while you explained something about history dates he definitely wasn’t listening to. He even held your notebook for a solid three minutes.
Then his attention drifted.
Now he’s lying on his stomach, chin propped on his hands, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room—which, according to him, you are.
You’re mid-sentence, reading quietly to yourself, when you feel it.
Staring.
You glance sideways. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” he asks, too fast.
“Like you’re about to do something illegal.”
He grins. “Wow. That hurts.”
You roll your eyes and go back to your homework, pencil scratching against the paper. Mike lasts approximately ten more seconds before scooting closer, his shoulder pressing against yours.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“What.”
He taps the edge of your notebook. “You’ve been on the same question for a while.”
“That’s because someone keeps talking.”
“I’m helping,” he argues. “Emotional support.”
You snort. “By invading my personal space?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “Exactly.”
He leans in, close enough that his hair brushes your cheek. You shift away just a little, but he follows, clearly committed to being a menace.
“You smell nice,” he murmurs.
“Mike.”
“What? I’m observant.”
You sigh, trying very hard to focus. “If I don’t finish this, I’m going to fail.”
“Dramatic.”
“You literally cried over a B-minus once.”
“That was different,” he says defensively. “My mom framed my report card.”
He reaches out and gently twirls a loose strand of your hair around his finger, absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Your pencil pauses.
“Mike,” you warn again, but your voice is quieter now.
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I’m trying to work.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re doing great.”
Then, after a beat: “But also… I really want to kiss you.”
You look at him. “That’s not a valid excuse.”
“It is to me.”
Before you can react, he steals your pencil again and sets it on the table behind him, completely out of reach. You gasp.
“Hey!”
He laughs, scooting closer so your knees bump. “Relax. I’ll give it back.”
“When?”
“After.”
“After what?”
He tilts his head, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. “You know.”
You should say no. You should absolutely say no.
Instead, you say, “You’re so annoying.”
His smile softens. “You like it.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s gentle at first, like he’s checking in, like he wants to make sure you’re okay with it. His hand cups your cheek, thumb warm against your skin, and you melt a little despite yourself. The world narrows down to the basement lights, the quiet hum of the house, and Mike—always Mike.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Two minutes,” he whispers again.
You laugh quietly, breathless. “You said that before.”
“I know,” he admits. “But I missed you.”
“You saw me this morning.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, and you completely forget what assignment you were even working on.
Eventually, you pull back, shaking your head. “This is sabotage.”
He smiles, entirely unashamed. “Worth it.”
He finally hands your pencil back, but instead of moving away, he stays close, arm slung loosely around your shoulders.
“I’ll be good now,” he promises.
You raise an eyebrow. “You?”
“…I’ll try.”
Five seconds later, he presses another quick kiss to your temple.
summary: an interview at a red carpet puts Finn on the spotlight regarding his favorite actress.
n/a: FIRST FIC ABOUT FINN CUS I’M OBSESSED??? also send recommendations I think I have already read every single fic out there
Hundreds of flashes blinded everyone’s eyes, the constants smile! and turn around! created this messy yet euphoric feeling around the entire event.
Finn positioned himself at the middle of the red carpet, fitted suit and sunglasses on. The paparazzi went crazy trying to get the best picture, and the reporters fought for who gets the first interview with the man who brings one of the most loved Stranger Things character to life.
Finn walked through the carpet, greeting the assistants and walking over to the corner of the venue where they interviewed people.
“Hello Finn, how are you tonight? mind if we ask some questions for Variety?” the young man talk, positioning himself in front of the talk actor.
“Sure, no problem” Finn arranged his blazer, looking at the reporter.
“Here we are with the man of the moment, Finn Wolfhard, everybody! Great outfit, by the way, very on theme with this last season of Stranger Things” the microphone move to point a soft smiling Finn.
“Thank you, thank you, yeah, the color scheme and everything” he responded casually.
“Yeah man, congrats on the end of the show, we’re really excited to see what the ending is going to be” Finn’s eyebrows went upwards, pulling an almost mocking face expression.
“Oh, you’ll be surprised” a short laugh left his lips.
“That’s what we wanted to hear!” the reporter taps Finn’s shoulder, making the interview more casual. “There’s a lot of people here, the Duffers went wild with the invitations”
“You tell me, man, I was on queue for 10 minutes for the carpet”
“Have you got the chance to say hi to everyone? We noticed that one lady you mentioned as your favorite actress was around” a cheeky smile adorned the man’s face.
Of course they were going to bring you up, and of course the Duffers were going to invite you to the premiere.
Long story short, while doing press for the show, Finn spilled the fact that he has been binge watching your movies for the past 4 years, and that you are his favorite horror movie actress, which resulted in fans going crazy with edits on TikTok and creating crazy theories about the two of you, and with a reason, because Finn could not hide the excitement when talking about you, or the way his puppy eyes basically sparked when the boys teased him with videos of you taking about how much you like Stranger Things and how Mike Wheeler has been your favorite character, besides Dustin, since the first season.
“Really? I didn’t know, man, that’s great” Finn said with an almost convincing confidence. “I guess I’ll say hi if I see her” or hide behind Caleb.
“I think the fans will appreciate it! Thank you, Finn, we hope you have a wonderful night and congratulations again”
And just as Finn prepared for another interview, the screaming from fans erupted.
The first thing he notice was the amount of flashes, making it almost impossible for him to really look who it was. But he knew, of course he knew.
You were standing in the middle of the red carpet, black dress and long gloves adorned your arms, high heels and bold makeup on your face along with a lovely smile forming on your dark red lips.
Finn stood there, looking at how you move around so naturally, practically dancing in front of the paparazzis, hypnotizing everyone around you.
And clearly hypnotizing him, cause’ Finn did not notice how you move closer to him.
“Hello Finn! Is very nice to finally meet you, thank you for inviting me by the way, the Duffers said it was your idea to bring me here” you said, thrilled with the idea of Finn thinking of you.
those motherfuckers was the first thing to cross his mind, followed by how can he look cool in front of you.
“Oh yeah, I mean I heard you liked the show, so here we are” his hand run through his hair for the fourth time in one minute, making you grin at how nervous he was.
“I mean, more than the show I like watching you on the show” you took a step closer, trying to make him ever more flustered.
“me?” Finn pointed at himself. “I mean, yeah, great, that’s awesome, uhm.” great start, genius. “I really like you to! Like an actress, uhm, I really like your work as an actress!” He looked impossibly awkward and oh man, you were enjoying it.
The true being that you have seen the TikTok’s, and the interviews, and the fan theories, and you absolutely loved it. Finn has been your celebrity crush since the first episode of Stranger Things, and when you finally landed a roll in an important movie, the first thing that came to mind was that you were a step closer to meeting him. Weird? yes, but that was almost 10 years ago, you were a child that had a crush on another child. And, god, with the years passing, Finn got even more pretty, that type of beauty that makes you stare, and you were definitely staring at him at that moment.
“Thank you, Finn, you look so pretty today” Your hand went over the red pattern of his brazer, which was starting to match the color of his face.
Were you flirting with him? Finn was usually a semi confident person, he knew how to act when someone complement him, is part of the job. But apparently that little confidence disappeared the moment you said hello, and even more when you called him pretty, you didn’t say that he looked good, or that you liked the outfit.
You called him pretty, making Finn’s brain go in short-circuit.
“Oh, pretty? I think you look pretty, and so beautiful, the dress is really, uhm, elegant? it fits you really nicely, yeah.” Finn looked you up and down, moving his hands comically in the air. “your makeup too! I like the l, liner was it? and the lips! your lips are very nice in that color, and in any other color!” a laugh emerged from you, causing even more flashes towards the two of you.
“You’re so adorable, Finn, thanks for all the compliments”
He saw it in slow motion, how you came closer and closer to his face, you stood on you tippy toes to reach his carved cheek, stumbling a little due to his impossible tall figure, and Finn, like the gentleman he was, grabbed you by the waist to prevent you falling, causing a shiver in both of you. The kiss lingered a little more than necessary, your sweet smell almost making him dizzy, he closed his eyes for a second just to enjoy the feeling of your lips and how close you were.
“god, you are so tall!” your hands on his shoulder and his hand still on your waist. “I’ll have to wear heels when we kissed”
Did he hear that correctly? you, the prettiest woman he has ever seen, just implied that you were going to kiss at some time in the future?
“I-I can always kneel” you raised one eyebrow, making Finn’s mouth open and close, looking for the right words. “No like, actually kneel, I meant like bend over, yeah.”
“I’d like to see you kneel one day, actually” the everlasting smile never left your lips, enjoying every second of having a flustered Finn in your arms.
“If you want we can do that! Whatever you like!” oh he was down, and it was your first time even meeting, he was already wrapped around your finger.
“I don’t have my phone with me right now, but can you give your number later” you tilted your head, looking adorable in Finn’s eyes.
“Of course! I’ll looked for you inside” He nodded repeatedly, his puppy eyes eager to see you later, and every day if possible.
“Okey, handsome, I have to go now. We’ll talk later, okey?” a quick peck on his other cheek made him definitely dizzy this time, feeling how you got away of his grip on your waist almost made him cry, yearning to feel you presence close again.
He saw you walk away between the mass of people, waving his hand at you like a sad kid, a sigh left his mouth, processing the entire interaction while walking to his friends and cast mates, who where waiting for the start of the premiere of the first episode.
Caleb look at Finn’s face, the soft blush still adorning his cheeks, and one lipstick stain in each cheek.
“No way! You met her?” Caleb knew you were coming, the Duffers made sure that everyone but Finn knew that you were invited. “Looks like it went well, good job, man” his hand smacked Finn’s shoulders, making him slime widely and nod his head.
“She asked for my number and said we were going to kiss” Finn perked up, showing how excited he was to talk about it, but Caleb face went serious. “What?”
“Man, you are such a pussy, that’s your job” his hand went up and down the air, a sigh of disappointment left his lips.
“I got nervous okey! I told her that I like her and everything!” his voice went softer with the last sentence. “ I don’t really know how to act around someone I find attractive, man”
“Okey, you need to stop being pathetic and man up, we need to ask Gaten for advice for your date.”
“Yeah, a good thing is that I didn’t curse in front of her!” Finn clapped his hand, looking proud.
“That’s awesome, man, try to keep it until the fifth date”
彡SUMMARY ; you decide to stop saying certain words to mike, hoping he will notice, but when he finally does, his reaction is nothing like what you expected.
彡WORDS ; 1,300
彡DISCLAIMER ; everything written here is FICTITIOUS.
彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; I'm quickly writing this before volume two come out, at 2.am for me.... ah and merry christmas~!
Mike notices the change before you ever confront him.
He’d sensed it days ago, subtle at first, almost easy to dismiss. At first, he told himself he was imagining it; you still texted him “good morning.” You still sat next to him during class, your shoulder brushing his like it always did. You still kissed him goodbye at the end of the day.
But the words… the words had stopped.
“I love you.”
Nothing alarming in itself. On the surface, things seemed fine. But for Mike, it was enough to set off a quiet panic in his chest. He tried to push it aside at first, convincing himself it was nothing. But when the worry wouldn’t leave him, he ended up talking to Dustin and Lucas.
“They’re just your imagination,” Dustin said, casually shrugging.
“Yes, no need to worry.,” Lucas added.
Mike didn’t want to believe them, but the doubt lingered. And still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.
Now, standing at your bedroom door, he hesitated. He knocked as usual.
“Come in,” your voice said softly.
Mike’s hand lingered on the doorknob a second longer, silently hoping he was imagining it. Maybe this time, you’d greet him as usual, warm and familiar. Maybe it was all in his head.
The door opened.
“Hi, Mike,” you said, sitting at your desk with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Only one corner of your mouth lifted, the gesture small and uneven.
Hi, Mike? That was it? No nickname, no warmth. Just a greeting that sounded… distant.
Mike froze. His stomach twisted. His mind immediately told him he hadn’t imagined it. There was a subtle coldness now, just beneath your usual calm.
He cleared his throat, unsure where to start. He usually knew what to say; how to tease you, make you laugh, start the day but now, nothing came.
“Hey… uh… everything okay?” His voice came out softer than he intended, careful, but even through the words, a tremor of unease slipped through.
He stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him.
You didn’t look up immediately. Fingers tapping on the desk, eyes fixed on the papers in front of you.
“Yeah… I’m fine,” you said too quickly. Too clipped. Too rehearsed.
Mike’s chest tightened. That tone it was the one he knew all too well. Something was wrong.
He sat on your bed. The mattress creaked beneath him, echoing his tension. “Did something happen at school?” he asked, searching for an explanation that didn’t involve him. “Is it Troy again? I—”
“No,” you interrupted, finally looking at him. “It’s not about Troy. Or school, Mike.”
He waved a hand, frustrated and confused. “Then what is it? You’re acting weird.”
“If you paid more attention,” you said flatly, voice low and sharp, “you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Mike wrinkled his nose. “I—what’s your problem? You’re being… kinda weird…”
You turned your chair fully to face him, arms crossed, jaw set. “My problem? I don’t have one, Mike. I’m clearly fine.”
His frustration etched deep into his face. “Of course you do! You’re acting weird with me. Something’s wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “It’s me, isn’t it? Did I do something?”
You let out a bitter, short laugh. “Finally.”
“What did I do?”
“That’s the problem,” you said, your voice tight. “You didn’t do anything. You never say anything.”
“Say what—?”
You looked down at your hands for a long moment before meeting his eyes again. “Mike… you never say you love me. It’s just… three words.”
Mike swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I thought you knew. I show it, don’t I?”
You shook your head slowly, a tear threatening to escape. “Showing isn’t enough. I needed to hear it. I needed to know. I’ve been waiting, hoping… and I got tired of being the only one saying it.”
His voice cracked, panic breaking through. “I already told you!”
“Oh yeah?” you snapped. “When, Mike? When did you tell me?”
He froze, the silence stretching, the weight of it settling in. He couldn’t answer.
“You never did,” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Not when we kissed for the first time. Not at prom!”
"You never even wrote it!" You opened your desk drawer and pulled out the letters. Without hesitation, you threw them at him, one falling to his feet. His eyes followed it, lingering on the simple signature at the bottom.
From Mike.
“I don’t get it,” he said, panic rising. “The necklace, the teddy bear…” He gestured toward the stuffed animal carefully placed on your bed. “The letters. I did all that for you.”
“I know,” you whispered. “I loved them. But objects… objects can’t say ‘I love you’ for you.”
“They mean something,” he insisted, stepping closer, voice desperate. “I wouldn’t do any of that if I didn’t—”
“If you didn’t what?” you cut in sharply. “That really reassures me,” you added bitterly.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, maybe I’m not perfect. Maybe I don’t always know the right thing to say… but you can’t doubt my feelings for you.”
You met his gaze, unwavering now. “Then be honest. Answer me. Do you love me, Mike?”
He hesitated.
Not long. Not intentionally.
But long enough.
Your chest ached. Your heart fractured into a thousand tiny pieces.
You let out a hollow laugh, blinking back tears. “See? That pause… that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I do,” he said, voice breaking under the weight of panic. “I swear I do. I just—I don’t know how to say it the way you want me to. I didn’t want it to sound fake.”
You bit your lip, the ache in your chest growing unbearable. “If I have to force you to say it every single time… is it really sincere?”
Silence fell heavy between you.
Mike’s eyes widened with panic. He hadn’t realized he was hurting you. He’d thought the relationship was fine at least on his side.
“I’m alone in this relationship,” you whispered.
“Don’t say that,” he pleaded. “I can fix it. I’ll learn. I’ll—”
You shook your head, tears now freely threatening. “I don’t want you to learn how to love me after I’ve almost begged you.”
The words hit him harder than any scream ever could.
“So… what are you saying?” he whispered, voice breaking.
You stare the boy you loved. The one you’d give everything for without hesitation.
“I’m tired, Mike,” you said softly, your voice cracking now. “I don’t want to beg anymore.”
You walked to the door and opened it, stepping aside, inviting him out without saying a word.
He froze, panic written across his face. “You can’t just say that and hope I leave,” he said, voice trembling. “You can’t do this.”
You didn’t raise your voice. The calm in your tone hurt more than anything he could have imagined.
“Don’t complicate things, Mike,” you whispered.
He stood, taller than you now, searching your face as if your answer could somehow change. “So… you want to break up with me?”
“Take it as you want,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to hold back the tears.
He took that as his cue to leave.
And once again, he couldn’t say it.
He lingered, words trapped somewhere in his throat. Not now. Not after everything.
Even now, after all this, he still couldn’t say I love you.
The door closed quietly behind him.
Mike always runs when things get too real when feelings demand more than silence. And once again, he proves he’s not capable of giving you what you need.
Leaving you alone in your room, heart heavy
And a crack forming in this relationship.
彡TAGLIST ; open 💌
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