ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟnot your friend, written by yaskore
18+! smut w a little plot, mean!mikewheeler x f!reader, not really enemies but a strong dislike?, banter, p in v, teasing, 18+ characters
3.9k
You’ve been sitting in Mike’s basement for fifteen minutes after everyone left, staring at the same dent in the wall while your brain scrambles. You just found out your roommate wasn’t even in town tonight to pick you up. Lucas took off with Max, your original ride, and now you’ve got no way home.
“Isn’t Mike your friend?” she’d said over the phone, way too casually. “How long have you known his family? I’m sure they won’t mind if you sleep over for the night.”
Friend. For the love of god.
Mike Wheeler was not your friend. He barely tolerated you on a good day. You existed in his life like a problem no one asked him to solve, one he was forced to deal with because everyone else liked you too much to let him shove you out. You were part of the Party whether he liked it or not. Which, he never struggled to make clear; he really didn’t.
But that was only the tip of the iceberg. From the start, the two of you never stood a chance. You challenged him, talked back, took up space he of course thought belonged to him. He’d tried to push you out early on, but none of it worked. You were too close with everyone else, too stubborn to disappear. So the dynamic shifted.
Now it was just open hostility, verbal jabbing, passive aggressive remarks, pretending the other didn’t exist until it was convenient to tear each other down. It was easier than acknowledging the weird tension that sparked every time you were alone… Easier than questioning why his eyes lingered a second too long after he scowled.
And now, because the universe apparently hated you, you were alone in his basement. Late and trapped. You weren’t even sure he knew you were still here.
The silence starts to crawl under your skin. The basement feels wrong without everyone else…abandoned dice scattered across the table like the old days, empty soda cans tipped over like casualties. Your heart slams in your chest the longer you procrastinate.
Because Mike was going to lose his shit. The thought almost makes walking home sound worth it. Almost. But Hawkins at midnight? After everything? No chance. Your stomach twists as panic creeps in. You take a breath, force yourself up, and grab your jacket and bag.
You’re halfway to the stairs when—
“I’m going!” Mike yells upstairs, his voice sharp as the doorknob rattles. The basement door swings open, and you freeze.
Mike’s halfway down the stairs when he sees you. He stops short, eyes narrowing immediately, like he’s just stepped in something unpleasant. Surprise flickers across his face before it hardens into that familiar irritation, that familiar disgust. But somehow his eyes always spoke something different.
“Are you serious?” his face scrunches up, already becoming dramatic. You take a long blink, tired just from preparing yourself for the whining.
He looks at you like you’re a problem he thought he’d already gotten rid of. His jaw is tight, shoulders are tense, and his eyes are locked on you in a way that feels a little too intense for someone who can’t stand you. But you don’t think about things like that. That would be ridiculous.
“I’m leaving,” you say coolly, adjusting your bag. “Relax.” You start toward the stairs, refusing to look at him. But after he scoffs, you stop, forced to look up at him once again when he doesn’t move out the way.
“Yeah,” Mike says, flat. “I’m trying to figure out why you didn’t think to do that earlier.” That smart ass tone is as apparent as ever, per usual. It makes you clench your jaw. “Well, I am now, so will you move?” Irritation quivers into your tone, and you have to swallow hard the second his eyes meet yours. They narrow, mean and sharp, but feels like something else. Something else you gave up trying to decipher.
“That was a question,” he says strictly, not moving. He’s a step above you, towering in that annoying way, looking down like he’s got the upper hand. But his eyes linger. They flick down— then immediately back up again. If this is how he hates, there has to be something seriously wrong with you for the way it flips your stomach. It makes you hate him even more for it.
“You think I want to still be here?” you snap. “I’m walking home.” You finally shove past him, brushing his shoulder as you head for the door. The basement goes quiet—too quiet—until your hand’s on the knob. For some reason you don’t turn it yet.
“What do you mean you’re walking home?” Mike huffs, like just the idiocy of the idea is an immense aggravation. The silence that follows stretches on forever, and you’re frozen in place for reasons you don’t have words for yet. “It’s nearly midnight,” he adds. “Are you crazy?”
His brows are furrowed heavily, and his lips are in that same snarl he always has when you speak. But it all throws you off. He sounds annoyed, exasperated, like you’re an inconvenience. As always, though, so you don’t get why he won’t just let you go. It’s not like you guys acted this way for fun. He hates you, and you hate him.
Especially the way his stupid eyes look at you. It’s infuriating. The way they never match his expression or his words. The way they stay soft no matter how sharp his tone gets, no matter how hard his face tries to look pissed. It’s a pointless thing to notice. A stupid thing. But it makes your stomach twist anyway.
You swallow, forcing yourself back into your body. “You heard me, Mike.” You say it like it’s final, like it doesn’t cost you anything, and then you make yourself walk. Every step feels slower than it should, heavy and uncertain, but you ignore it and push through the door anyway.
The air outside hits you all at once. You stop at the edge of his driveway, staring down the street you’re supposed to take, and that’s when the anxiety finally catches up. Fuck it looks horrifying, and past memories flood your mind like stinging, annoying wasps. You’re standing there in the middle of his driveway with nowhere to go but forward.
So that’s what you do. Or at least, that’s what you plan to do, until you take one step forward and Mike’s voice cuts in behind you, sharp enough to make you flinch. “You’re not serious.”
You swallow, half turning your head. Your mind scrambles, coming up empty for once. No comeback, no bite. Just the sound of your own heart, too loud, and the thought of the long, dark walk home you’re trying to brace yourself for.
“My mom would be livid if she knew I let you walk home alone this late,” he says. Then, like it annoys him to even admit it, “Or—at all.” His tone is rougher than usual, almost forced sounding. There’s something under it, though. Something tight. You’re too cold, too on edge, to figure out what it is. Standing out here, alone in the dark, Hawkins feels bigger and emptier, and your anxiety only gets worse the longer you hesitate.
So you don’t fight it, things feel desperate enough already. Despite how weird it is knowing you’re about to sleep in his house, knowing his mom would probably insist on feeding you breakfast, knowing Holly would be thrilled to see you in the morning. The thought almost makes you laugh. Almost. You can already imagine how much Mike would hate that.
You ignore your thoughts and clench your jaw, turning fully to face him, arms crossing over your chest. He’s standing a few steps away, but the cold has already turned his nose red. His eyes look glossy under the moons light, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. You watch his throat move as he swallows, like he hadn’t meant to look at you that long.
You swallow back, forcing yourself to look away. You lift your chin and turn back toward the house. Without looking at him as you pass, the breeze carries his scent anyway. It’s faintly familiar, stronger than anyone else’s in the party, something you’ve always noticed and no one else. You shudder as you exhale, hearing him mutter something under his breath as you head straight for the basement, not checking if he’s behind you.
You drop your jacket and bag beside the couch but don’t sit. Instead, you stand there, take a slow breath, and stare at the basement door. You swallow, barely letting yourself question why you care so much about whether he comes down or not—barely letting yourself register the thought at all.
The doorknob turns. Mike steps inside, stops when he sees you standing there, and his face shutters instantly—cold, flat, unreadable. He shuts the door and walks down the stairs. “I’m only down here to say you need to be gone before you get invited to breakfast.” He stops at the bottom step.
You knit your brows and shake your head, looking away. “Okay,” you say, voice sharp. “Did you really have to come all the way down here just to say that?” The attitude slips out easily, even with the relief settling in your chest. You hate that it’s either this or walking home alone. You hate that this is the safer option.
He scoffs. “I’m not yelling from upstairs and waking someone up, dipshit.” You roll your eyes, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is down here. Just the two of you. Nothing to hide behind. There’s a pause before you notice the blanket behind him and move toward it. As you pass him, he speaks again.
“I don’t need any of the others knowing about this.” He speaks with a disgust dropping from his tongue. It’s blunt... It’s harsh. And it snaps something in you.
You spin around, dropping the blanket at your feet. “What the hell is your problem with me?” Your shoulders slightly raise, unable to ignore his attitude any longer.
The anger comes out, and it isn’t loud. It’s sudden and sharp, but something feels off with it. The fury burns in your chest, on your face, in your voice. And he falters. Just for a second. His brows lift, surprise breaking through before he scrambles to recover, stammering.
“I don’t know how the others don’t have one with you!” he snaps, the words coming out jagged and loud.
Your face twists, scrunching toward his absurdity. You swallow. “I would rather get fucking mauled out there than sit here and listen to your bullshit.” You turn, ready to storm off. Planning to go anywhere, anywhere but here, but before you can even take a full step—
“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you’re acting like a—“ he scrambles as his irritation falls through, but trails off and pierces his lips together before he says something vile, something he doesn’t really mean. Even he knows not to cross that line, no matter how hard he tries to believe it himself. Your eyebrows raise, and your lips part. You can only muster out a scoff, a humorless laugh falling out as you turn to face him. “Like a what?” You ask, daring him to finish that.
He’s quick to stammer again, but he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t even begin to look apologetic. His words just stumble out until he says something like “well, you—!” Getting ready to name all the reasons he hates you.
But before he can finish, or really even begin, you snap back and shove his shoulder. “Do you ever stop whining?!” you practically yell in his face, exasperated with his attitude. But he’s quick to get defensive at your touch.
“Don’t put your fucking hands on me,” he spits out, way too fast to be angry, his voice sharp and disgusted. He’s more appalled by your touch than pissed about the shove itself.
And then a beat passes. Two. You don’t even say anything back, you’re both just catching your breath, giving up. Mike’s jaw clenches, tight enough you can see it working, looking at you like he’s losing a war with himself. It feels like it stays this way forever. It feels like you’re losing one too.
Then his hands are on you.
After saying it, after warning you. After every ounce of hatred you thought he had, you thought you had, he’s pulling you into him. You groan into it immediately, a low, betrayed "ngh" that vibrates between you, hands flying up not to push him away but to grip, to pull. The same boiling hatred is now spilling from your lips, out of your throat, into your touch.
Fuck, you didn’t know he had it in him. He’s devouring your mouth like he’s been starving for it, like every mean comment, every snarl was just restraint from having you exactly how he wanted. Your feet dance around eachother as you move, never stopping, keeping your hands on eachother, bumping into the wall until he spins you and you feel yourself back into the table where the game pieces scatter.
You fail to hold back a whimper, tugging at Mikes collar and pulling him into you, opening your mouth to allow him entrance. He takes the bait immediately. His tongue found its way around yours, dancing like velvet waves, tasting way too sweet for the nasty words that would spill off of it. You back up onto the table, feeling the cool wood press against your thighs, and sit down, legs brushing the fallen dice, ignoring them completely as your focus is solely feeling him. You pull him closer, rougher than before even, like that hatred hasn’t gone away, only got fiercer.
He presses into you harder, hand sliding down your spine to grip your lower back, pulling you flush against him, pressing, demanding, nudging your knee aside as he steps further into you. “Fuck—Say it,” he murmurs, low and husky between kisses, “tell me to stop.” The heat of him pressed against you, the unrelenting pressure, makes the words impossible. You don’t tell him to stop. Instead, you wrap your legs around his torso, pulling him closer, bucking your hips, grinding, needing. He lets out a defeated “shit” before melting into your lips, fingertips roaming your back, brushing against skin that sparks like static.
Every move he makes has you kissing him harder, filthier, teeth nipping, tongue tangling messy and wet, another soft moan spilling out of you, "mmph, fuck." God, he tastes like sin, feels like it… all the sharp edges you’d been holding melt into something stupid and hungry between your thighs.
You hear your name fall from his lips in the sexiest, most annoying way—a low growl that makes your chest skip. Breath ragged, eyes locked, he starts, voice low and rough, “You better stop before I fuck you right h—” Just hearing it ignites something in you. All restraint evaporates. You cut him off by pulling him closer, grinding against him. The friction sparks something wild and unbearable.
Your hands move with a mind of their own, fumbling his belt, unbuckling, tossing it aside. You find the button, and work down the zipper. Your fingers linger over the waistband of his boxers, teasing, brushing, testing him. He bucks slightly, growling in frustration. The way his body reacts drives something primal in you… fuck, you wanted to ruin him. But he wanted to ruin you just as badly.
He buckles under your teasing, growling into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, tongue tracing your lips before shoving back in. He’s faster with your pants than you ever were with his—and now you’re in just your underwear and socks, shirt clinging stubbornly to your chest as if daring him. There’s a moment of vulnerability, a flash of shyness at being exposed like this, despite the fact you feel like an eager wolf foaming at the mouth to pounce on him right now.
You swallow, chest heaving, feeling the desperate softness in his gaze press into you. He looks… different. Pathetic almost, undone in a way that makes you thrum and ache. His sharp brows softened, a faint shadow of anger lingering, but a raw truth underneath, making you tremble.
Your brows curve the same way his do, and when your eyes finally meet, the two of you crash into each other’s lips again, this time pathetically desperate. You finish pulling his pants down, and he kicks them off. Dice clatter across the floor, barely noticed over ragged breathing and quiet moans.
Once both shirts are off and you’re in just underwear, he presses into the fabric covering you, and you gasp, hips jerking at the pressure. Your clit pulses against him, slick and throbbing, desperate for more.
You start rocking your hips immediately, rubbing yourself along his length, feeling him pulse and twitch behind the fabric of your underwear. He groans, low and broken, desperate and messy… it makes you clench tighter. You move in just the right way to force a real, unhidden moan out of him, and it sends shivers through you. He lifts your leg, propping your foot on the table, and the grip on your hips is so hard you can already feel the potential bruises forming, a sweet reminder for later. He thrusts harder, like he can’t wait. Even with panties on, it’s almost too much.
“I can fucking feel how wet you are through your—ffuck—” he breathes out, thrusting. You throw your head back, thighs clenching as you let out a moan. “Take it off,” you breathe, desperate, and with a nod, he pulls his boxers down, letting them pool at his feet. The slight bounce of him freeing himself has you staring, mouth gaping, struck by how hard, throbbing, and needy his dick is.
"So pretty…" you mutter, rubbing yourself along him slowly. His hands anchor on your hips, fingers digging in like a promise he won’t last long. You bite your bottom lip, teasing. Your fingers pull your panties aside slowly, drawing out the tension. He whimpers, curses, dick twitching as he looks at you. His eyes are wide and glossy, but not ruined—yet.
He bites his bottom lip, unable to take his eyes off you as fingers slide down, teasing between your lips. The sensation, already overwhelming, makes you clench, struggling to stay still. It’s not even for your pleasure but his own—just to feel you, to feel his fingertips get coated from you. He breathes out a shaky moan, stepping a little closer, his tip grazing your folds.
Your panties shift slightly after he dropped them, and that’s all it takes. He tears them off, tossing them across the room. Hands settle on your hips, teasing with the head of him, every movement deliberate and torturously slow. “Ssshitt—” he moans, saliva catching, eyebrows curved in frustration and need.
You rock your hips to match, every nerve screaming for more. “Mike…” you breathe, a low, needy plea. He twitches, puppy dog eyes desperate, faltering, barely holding back. “I need you…” you whisper, almost a whimper, but refusing to break eye contact. You notice him inhale and gulp, forcing a blink. “Yeah?" he breathes out, but it's shaky and uncontrolled. His cool front is instantly diminished. Because your words were all it took.
You grin toward his faltering demeanor, but he lets out an unsteady curse and pushes himself into you, wiping that grin off your face and forcing you to gasp. He groans, your walls clamping down around him almost instantly, moaning back. It’s messy at first, uncoordinated, every thrust uneven. But he finds a rhythm fast—his movements perfect for you. He gives neck kisses, lips back to yours, tongue teasing. Your body feels electric. Finally his fingers are on your clit, but he circles delicately, slow enough to make you whimper and curse, which has him groaning.
“Fucking harder, Mike—god!—” you curse, bucking, swallowing him deeper. You fuck back against his teasing. He falters instantly, shaky whimpers melting into your movements, gripping tighter, moans and curses spilling.
And just when he starts thrusting back into you, you stop, refusing to let him continue. The sudden halt sends him over the edge, and watching him get frustrated makes something coil tight in your stomach, your body on fire. “Fuck you,” he growls shakily, gripping you tighter. And now, in return he drills into you. Your moans are messier and louder, and you know you should be worrying about how thin these walls could be, but you can’t think of anything other than the stars Mike is fucking into your vision right now. His fingers aren’t teasing this time either. They’re hard, fast, merciless on your clit, and it’s nothing like you’ve ever felt. Even as he pounds into you, his face is ruined, desperate, pathetic, like he might break under the weight of his own need, and the sounds he’s making push your body further over the edge. His body takes control while his face looks like he’s losing it. Fuck yes.
You’re quick to start shaking under him, gripping his shoulders so hard you’re probably leaving marks, arching into him, trying to muffle your guttural moans into his neck as you finish. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, forcing him as far into you as he can go, and that makes him hit his own release, trembling against you. He nearly collapses on top of you, breaths loud and ragged, both of you trying to catch yourselves.
He pulls his head back slightly, still buried in your gaze, mouth open, breath heavy, taking in the wreck he’s made of you. He looks so fucking ruined, so fucking beautiful, and you hate it. His hair is tousled, eyebrows arched, eyes glossy, lips red and wet. Utterly pathetic, utterly him. You hate it. He hates it. And still, you crash into each other’s lips again, desperate, hungry, before he finally slides out.
After you’ve cleaned up, you sit on the couch, your bed for the night, while Mike stands a few feet away. He’s paying you no mind, grabbing something from the basement to bring upstairs—just some random object you barely notice. His movements are stiff, controlled.
“Goodnight,” he says, low and clipped, that old edge of coldness trying to creep back in. Trying to. You watch him with that frosty, deadpan face like you always did, but something playful skips in your chest. And you swear it does for him too. The way his chest heavily rises and falls might admit it for you. The faint scent of his hair, the way his fresh shirt clings onto him—it all presses in, and your stomach flutters painfully.
But then there’s a pause. He doesn’t walk, or, look away. He doesn’t even blink. You sit there, caught in the look that lasts a heartbeat too long, and you know... he’s not done. He swallows before moving toward you, too quickly to process exactly when he broke. It doesn’t matter; your mind goes blank the second his lips crash into yours again, melting you into him. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him the same way he’s needing you.
You curl together on the couch, grinding into each other despite being fully clothed. His warmth is seeping through, grounding you. This time, the way his hands brush your skin, the way he holds you so softly, the warmth and delicacy in his kisses… it makes you wonder. What came first? The hatred or the longing? Whatever it was, you knew.
Mike Wheeler was not your friend.