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[viennacherries]

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[glitteringonion]

i'm really happy for you, i'll let you read idmwys (ijcshey)

soooo it's been a while!! nearly a month!!!

writers block kicked my ass guys sorry </33

now who wants to guess how many fics i've read in a month!!

a good 15, a healthy amount i'd say! i'm still only gonne rec 4 cuz i gotta stock up for next time :p

cursing my name, wishing I stayed (look at how my tears ricochet) by mikeslawyer - yalllll i cried reading this. mwtfdydgate, except angsty and secrets and internalized everything, i loved it. the writing was beautiful guys.

of cloudless climes and starry skies by evehollow - lawless!! - regency era byler!!! this one was also written very well, very descriptive and it really builds the world in your head. the smut is also written very sensually which i always love <3

Stardusted by cooltrick - read this one on a longgg roadtrip, and i LOVED it. byler goes to a ren faire, mike has a gay panic, and it's written so decriptively and the plot and the love and ughhhh go read this yall

rubber band man by viennacherries (or @viennacherries) - byler smau, except it hits you in the gut because it's characterized so well and its not only funny but also its angst and its also so cute!!! also made so well like yes im on twitter now i believe

as always, if u know any of these author's tumblrs, pls tag them!! would love for them to know how good their work is

ok love u guys go read the new letter and until next time :p

[viennacherries]

I have been really loving the mountain is you. it has such a heartbreakingly real portrayal of gender dysphoria that i don’t often get to see in fic, especially for Will. I am so fascinated by your world building here, so i have to ask, is there any background lore you’ve developed that hasn’t made it into the fic? Or any additional thoughts you have on that universe that wouldn’t necessarily fit into the narrative?

SORRY IT TAKES ME SO LONG TO SEE THESE tumblr never gives me notifs anymore it breaks my heart

AAAAA IM SO GLAD U LIKE IT god i have soooo many thoughts that haven't/won't/might not make it in.

- i have a whole Vision in my head around faux-heats. the idea that an trans!omega can experience heat-like symptoms. cramping, their scent sweetening, being hot and flushed, etc. it wont come up in tmiy but im flirting with the idea of a one-shot sequel where will goes into faux-heat and mike goes absolutely feral for him

- i have a whole mental image of what knot binders may look like, cos they obv dont actually exist but in the context of this universe would. wont go into this too much cos it will come up!

- the reverse of 'bitching' but it's 'studding', where an omega transitions to alpha! it basically involves the transitioning omega dominating their partner omega; biting and scenting them and stuff like that. i like the idea that a male omega who transitions could eventually develop a faux-knot — where it doesn't swell fully during sex but they develop a slight bump where a knot would be.

- in terms of this universe, 'bitching' as a concept is quite new. will mentions finding some old texts in the library that elude to it, but as an actual modern concept it's still seen as quite taboo. sort of how trans identities are seen today as being a very 'modern' or 'woke' thing, despite the fact that trans people have always existed and it just wasnt talked about. people have always done it, but people just never talked about it. i think will as a trans!omega would get off quite lightly in terms of transphobia because even though he's an alpha he has very traditionally omega-esque features, but i imagine people who don't "pass" would struggle more.

- i completely envision will starting some sort of support network at nyu. like an lgbt society that's secondary-gender trans-inclusive. maybe a sort of "art support social" where people bring craft projects, and the point of it isnt really that theyre lgbt, it's just that they hang out together in a safe space.

- in universe they don't currently exist, but eventually i think they'd develop hormone treatments to help people transition their secondary-genders. the concept of 'bitching' would probably become a little taboo and lean more into a kink thing at that point than a genuine transition method, and you'd probably have people within the community who claim that the process is derogatory/antiquated/no longer necessary. on the other hand, you'd have others who would prefer the 'natural' method of transition over the 'artificial' method, and you'd have some who don't care/think both can coexist.

ive had lots of other thoughts at various points but these are tbe big ones that come to mind!! thank u sm for loving the story and for being interested in the lore building etc. i always try to put a lot of thought into how the world in my stories looks to help understand how the characters act (my bg3 fic "infernal musings" where i created a whole fake language from scratch comes to mind hahaha), so it always makes me super happy when people show interest in it. theres so much that will never come up in the context of the fic.

lots of love!! <33

[glitteringonion]

day four of @rubyrider6000 byler pride week!! - lawless byler!!

for today i'll be sharing my favorite ever lawless fics that i've read, and some headcannon!!!

1. Every Night I Find You by skolioza - byler has wet dreams w each other, w a lil twist!! i just love it so much like the plot is so interesting, and the way that mike and will interact is just so fun to read!! plus i'm a sucker for will w powers :p

2. Did I ever tell you about the time I went backpacking through Western Europe? by Levi_Fuckerman - mike is basically tortured through this whole fic, and while the plot is really good i honestly felt bad for him LMAO but this fic was phenomenal and written very well, the characterizations were so good too it was just a very yummy fic

3. Ragdoll by viennacherries (or @viennacherries) - i am an omegaverse byler fan. sue me. this was actually the first omegaverse fic i've ever read i think and it was so good that i lowk just kept reading em!!! mike is so mike in this and i literally love this fic like (also currently reading their smau fic rubber band man and hello??? so good???)

4. blood/lust by piecesofsunlight (plus the second fic in the series) - vampire mike, and while it's really not the most lawless thing ever, something about drinking someone elses blood will always be more intimate than anything else to me so!! yesh!!! also the second fic in the series is more character study and lawless but guys pls believe me these fics are top tier

5. when we touch we are caressing stars by id_rather_be_home (or @id-rather-be-home)- this catalogs byler growing through their sexual journey together in such a healthy and beautiful and touching way i genuinely think i can gush over how well written and thought out this fic is. even if it's unfinished it is probably my favorite lawless byler fic ever in the world ever, just because of how sincere and raw and amazing it is. 10/10 no notes.

ok those are my fav lawless byler fics :ppp these are the ones that i think of first when i think about lawless byler fics i really love, (honorable mention for Sweetbunny22... pls don't shoot me)

and now some headcannons, because who doesn't love those!!!

the first time they had sex, mike was super careful about doing anything that will wouldn't like. he asked for permission everytime he touched or did anything, just to make sure that will was always comfortable

it took will some getting used to go down on mike, just because of his experience with having vecna plunge a tentacle down his throat. he had a panic attack once while doing it, and felt really embarresed, but mike reassured him that it wasn't stupid and that it made complete sense, and they never had to do it again if he didn't want to

mike likes to bit will. i think this is common knowledge

hickey's show up VERY easily on mike's pale as sin skin, and will abuses the hell out of that.

will said that they were 'making love' once, and mike made a face with such disgust that will was laughing for a whole 10 minutes

[viennacherries]

I loooove the mountain is you!!!! I screamed at the recent chapter I was so gagged. I can’t wait for the next update :)

OMG HI IM SORRY I JUST SAW THIS thank you soso much!!!!! chapter 7 is in progress hehe im hoping to have it out by monday evening my time :)))

[huffiswriting]

soooo..... i got distracted from rereading hwb from this little :) 8hr side quest :)

hope you like it @thompsborn !!!!

[loserrsquad]

still thinking about this drawing i made before the catastrophe that was volume 2 and 3 💔

unfinished but i can feel the post volume 1 high in my soul bro. suffer brothers when i catch you

[fahrenlegt]

western byler

[mikewheelerisaqueerler]

the difference in reaction to eddie manhandling them will never not be funny

[viennacherries]

RAGDOLL

Will Byers/Mike Wheeler | NSFW | 17,734 words

Read on AO3

'It’s 8.56am, which means Will’s alarm will go off in 4 minutes. He’ll wake up, then text Mike to let him know his pre-heat has started, and Mike will let him know he’s on his way. He knows this, because he has turned looking after Will Byers into an art form - a carefully choreographed dance of adoration and tending. Right on schedule, his screen lights up with a notification. ' ___ Mike might not look like an alpha, but he's doing his best to act like one.

If Mike is completely honest with himself, he knows he doesn't look like an alpha. 

He always was a gangly kid, all limbs and no torso. His mom always said he'd grow into them. Said when he got taller everything would even out, like those puppies with giant ears that don't suit them until they hit 11 months old. Those breeds with the sagging skin, and giant paws, and the sad, haunting eyes that make them look as though they’ve lived a thousand lifetimes and enjoyed none of them.

The point is, he always thought - always hoped - that she was right; that he'd eventually even out a bit. That his shoulders would square off and his features would finally make sense. That he'd start looking like one coherent person, rather than the scattered remains of several people that someone had stitched together haphazardly.

When he first presented as an alpha at 15, a little later than most of his peers, he was ecstatic. Finally, finally, his body would get the memo and stop producing whatever the hormone was that made him look like a giant, pale string bean. He’d bulk out, gain some muscle, maybe get a little taller to compensate. He had visions of being some six-foot-five adonis who had to duck under doorways, and had to fly business class just for the leg room.  

As he stares at himself in the mirror now, age 22 and a bit, the full scale of his delusions hits him.

Objectively, his shoulders did widen, in that way puberty has a habit of doing to people. And he is taller now, somewhere around six-foot-one (but if you hear him telling someone he’s six-two then mind your business). Unfortunately for him, aside from that, not much else has changed. 

He's still got that bean-pole aesthetic going on. His arms still look a little too long for his body, and no matter how much protein powder he chokes down and how many times he drags himself through excruciating gym sessions, his body rejects putting on visible muscle as if it's allergic to the concept. Like as soon as his arms start to even hint at having biceps underneath them, his cells swarm to attack the foreign body. ‘I have protected you, you are safe another day,’ his cells whisper to him. ‘They will find my corpse floating in the river,’ he whispers back. 

His jawline is visible these days, but it's pointy and angular rather than the strong square he'd envisioned. His Adam’s apple is so visible it looks like he's got something stuck in his throat. He looks like someone grabbed the concept of what an alpha should look like and then stretched until they'd created a coat stand. His nose looks better suited for someone to hang their jacket on, anyway. 

For a while, he was still living blissfully in that tweenage delusion. Once he started eating better and working out more, it was so over for everyone. 

Problem is, he's close enough to his 23rd birthday that he can smell it, and he's running out of excuses to tell his reflection as to why he still doesn't look like the big strong leader he always dreamed he would. He can't really keep blaming the fact he’s a late bloomer when he has, for all intents and purposes, finished blooming.

So yeah, if he’s completely honest with himself, Mike Wheeler has never looked like an alpha. And with a sudden startling clarity, he’s realising he never will. 

He gets annoyed at himself for caring, because he knows it's all just stereotypes anyway. Stupid misogyny, rooted in the fact that people decided that omegas were ‘women’ and alphas were ‘men’ and for that reason they should look that way and act that way. Like just because a guy presented as an omega, he should suddenly become a quiet meek creature who stays at home cooking and pumping out kids. Like anyone deserves to be reduced to nothing more than their primary or secondary gender, as if that's the most important thing about them. It's stupid and offensive and outdated and ridiculous, and obviously Mike doesn't agree with them and he thinks it's silly anyone ever did, but that doesn't mean he's able to switch off the voice in his head that tells him he's never going to measure up. 

It also doesn't help that every single one of his friends has transformed into someone you'd see on the homepage of Calvin Klein. 

Lucas and Max both presented pretty early. Lucas was a stereotypical alpha in every sense of the word - strong and tall, calm and collected, but fiercely protective and loyal to a fault. He'd grown up and grown out. Mike is comfortable enough in his own sexuality to admit that Lucas looks hot, and he's comfortable enough with his own insecurities to admit that he’s incredibly jealous. 

Max’s own alpha presentation had been a surprise to everyone except the party. Girls presenting as alphas isn't exactly rare, but it's uncommon enough - especially in rural Indiana - that it had caused a bit of a stir. To the people who knew her, it made perfect sense. She’s deceptively strong, beautiful in that slightly scary way that female alphas tend to be, and Mike’s never known anyone quicker to anger than her. He’d told her all of this once, thinking he was being nice, and she’d punched him square in the stomach. He avoids attempting to compliment her now. 

Dustin and El, who had presented as betas a little while before his own presentation, wouldn't look out of place on a runway. The pair of them both have a neutral-secondary-gender vibe going on, where depending on the lighting they're in or on their clothes that day, he could believe they were alphas, or betas, or omegas. He’s pretty certain that's not a beta-specific thing, it’s just a them thing. Regardless, the pair of them look stunning now, no matter how they dress. 

And then there's Will.

Will was the last of their group to present, which wasn't exactly surprising. With everything that had happened to him, it was almost inevitable that the stress would affect it. Plus, anecdotally, omegas seem to tend towards later presentation (him and Will had sat researching it one night at a sleepover, when Will lamented that he thought there might be something wrong with him, because Mike absolutely couldn't let that stand).

When he did present, it was a surprise to absolutely no one. Little Will Byers, playground punching bag, with his big doe eyes and tiny stature, had been clocked as a future omega before he could even take off his comically oversized backpack on the first day of kindergarten.

The problem is that Will didn't stay that little doe-eyed kid. For some reason, perhaps because the universe hates Mike Wheeler specifically, Will had gotten buff.

It was genuinely absurd. Will Byers should not be buff. There is no world in which sweet Will, with his artist's hands and his freckled cheeks, should ever have gotten strong. 

Mike spends a lot of time trying to convince himself he isn't jealous, but the truth is that the way Will has matured makes him absolutely green around the gills. He’s still got that soft skin, those big round eyes, that constellation of freckles across his cheeks. But now he’s also got broad shoulders, and thick arms and thighs, and an ass so fucking fat with a p-h-a-t that you could bounce a quarter off of it. He’s still a head shorter than Mike like he always has been, and he's still sickeningly sweet and thoughtful in a way that makes Mike’s stomach churn with a feeling he won't dare name, but he's stoic and strong and handsome in all the ways Mike wishes he was. Mike wonders if maybe his own biceps took one look at Will’s, went ‘nah, why fucking bother’, and just gave up trying. 

It's weird too, because even despite his arms turning into tree trunks and his ass having developed its own gravitational pull, there's still something about Will that screams omega. Mike thinks it's just the way he holds himself, or his aura and chakras, or something like that. Will isn't meek or subservient or whatever the stereotypes say an omega ‘should’ be; in fact he's probably one of the strongest, bravest, most loyal people that Mike has ever met. Maybe it’s because he's gentle and sweet and kind, despite all the reasons the world has given him to be anything but. Maybe it's because he always smells like acrylic paint and charcoal, and his jasmine laundry detergent, and his vanilla shampoo, and his natural scent of light roast coffee and summer rain. Maybe it's just because somewhere deep down, where Mike tries to bury the thought, he wants to believe that he and Will were meant for each other in every possible way. Meant to be friends - best friends - no matter what. Like Mike’s purpose was always to protect Will.

He’s wondered before, in the privacy of his room late at night, if that's why he wishes he looked more like what society says he should. When the world is quiet, and the stars are his only witnesses, he lets himself come to terms with the fact that he wishes he was big and powerful and strong because he wants to keep Will safe - because he wishes he’d been strong enough to keep him safe when he needed it. Wishes he could've been there. Wishes he could've saved him from all of the awful things that happened to him. Then the sun rises in the morning and Mike pretends he never thought it, like he sweat the feeling out through his pores while he slept and the light of day peeking through his blinds is rinsing it off.  

He lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head, willing the thoughts to disperse, forcing his eyes to focus back on his reflection. Yeah, nothing about Mike’s form screams ‘protector’.

Still, he does what he can. Walks halfway across their sprawling college campus from his dorm to Will’s, just to walk back 90% of the way he already came so he can carry Will’s hulking bag of art supplies, instead of them just meeting at the café two blocks from Mike’s own front door. Will picks the movie at every hangout, picks the takeout they order. Mike takes him grocery shopping with him so that he can stock his own fridge with the stuff Will likes, and so he can force Will to buy his own groceries while Mike is with him, so he can carry them for him. 

He does what he can. Does everything he can. 

Today is another one of those days where he’s doing something for Will (as if that isn't what most of his life boils down to), but this is one of the more important things he does for his friend. 

He thinks it started a few cycles after Will’s presentation. They'd been on the couch in Mike’s basement, watching Star Wars for the hundredth-thousandth time as was their sleepover ritual, and suddenly Will was sweating bullets and shivering in his seat. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, in his soft tone, avoiding eye contact in the perfect picture of submission. “I- I think I need to go home.”

“What? Why?” Mike remembers he had sat bolt upright in his chair. Remembers thinking he’d done something wrong, or that Will was mad at him, or something like that.

“I- uh.” Will had stuttered and flushed and fumbled over his words, and just as Mike had opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, he’d smelt it. The acrid smell of hormones which was distinctly Will. Back then, his scent was softer, less mature, but it had suddenly been all around Mike. He felt it in his throat, against his eyeballs, could curl his hands around it in the air and touch it. 

“Oh.” He’d said, dumbly. “Pre-heat?”

Will had flushed even deeper, staring down at his hands, “y-yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Mike had said, because he couldn't fathom it. “It’s fine. Not your fault. Give me two seconds, don't move.”

He'd taken the stairs two at a time, slammed the basement door shut, taken a deep breath of air that didn't smell like Will, and formulated his game plan. 

He’d gone back downstairs prepped and ready for battle. Three bottles of ice cold water straight from the fridge, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel and a hot-water bottle tucked into a t-shirt (because he knew some people preferred heat for their cramps and others preferred cold, because as soon as Will presented he’d made it his mission to be ready just in case), and an armful of soft blankets he’d been keeping under his bed for if this situation ever arose. He had tied his hair out of the way, had rolled up his sleeves, and he had half a roll of toilet tissue stuffed up his nostrils, with one of his mom’s clothespins clamping over them for good measure. 

Will had stared at him, face blank, mouth hung open. 

“I got you some things.” Mike had said, nasally and stilted through his plugged nose, and Will had stared at him a moment longer before bursting into a fit of hysterics.

“You look ridiculous!” He’d all but choked around the words as he gasped for breath, clutching his stomach with the force of his laughter, and Mike had just smiled.

“What? You don’t like it? The girls at school say this look is super in right now.” He’d dropped his bundle of supplies to the floor at his feet and started posing like a vogue model, flexing his non-existent muscles and pouting his lips like a duck, and Will had lit up in another round of bright cackles. 

Once they’d calmed down, he'd spoken seriously to Will. “You can go home, if you want, but I know it's late and you hate calling your mom when she’s already in bed. We’ll set you up down here, make sure you're comfy, and then first thing tomorrow your mom can take you home.”

He remembers clearly that Will’s eyes had shone with unshed tears, full of emotion and thankfulness and awe which made Mike’s young heart clench in a way he didn't understand yet. “Thank you.”

“Don’t need to thank me. You want the hot-water bottle or the ice pack?”

“Uh.” He’d flicked his eyes between both of them, “I don’t know.”

Mike had raised his eyebrows, then chuckled. “Just take both. See which you prefer. I bought them for you anyway.” Will didn't have anything to say to that. Just stared at him some more. Mike remembers he tried not to think about it as he set up the pull-out sofa for Will and built him a nest using a few of the blankets. Then he tucked Will up in it, used the last blanket to swaddle him like an oversized newborn, and took a few steps back to admire his handiwork. 

“Comfy?” He’d asked, and Will had nodded.

“So comfy.” He’d muttered, sinking into the duvets, rubbing his face up against their downy texture. Mike’s heart had done somersaults. 

He had scooted the water bottles as close to Will as he could get them without putting them on the bed, stepped back once more to check everything looked in order, then nodded to himself in satisfaction. 

“Okay, sleep well, alright? I’ll be in my room if you need me, but don’t get up, just use your walkie. I’ve put it on the table for you.” 

He’d turned to leave, made to step towards the door, before he heard a tiny, muffled “wait,” coming from the mountain of blankets. 

He’d turned back, crouched down next to him, peering down to check he was okay, “what’s wrong? I can bring the walkie closer if you want, just in case.”

Will had looked up at him, eyes slightly hazy in the way that pre-heat makes people, and whispered in the sweetest, most heartbreaking voice; “stay?” 

And, really, who in the world could refuse that?

Mike’s mom found them both there the next morning, Will curled up against Mike’s side, Mike drooling heavily as his mouth hung open to breathe, paper and pin still firmly blocking his nose. 

His and Will’s moms hadn't been super happy with them. Said they should've woken someone up so they could take Will home. But they also recognised that Mike had done everything he could to make sure Will was comfortable, and more importantly safe, so they weren’t even really that mad. They were kids, after all. He was just looking after his friend. 

After that, it sort of just became a thing. Joyce would phone over just as Will was entering his pre-heat to let the Wheelers know, and Mike would beg and plead and offer to do everyone’s chores for a week if his mom would let him go to Will’s house. He’d stumble out of Nancy’s car, weighed down by all of his supplies, knocking on the door with his forehead because his hands weren’t free, nose already plugged. Every time, Joyce gave him the talk. Told him if he at any point felt like he was going to do something he shouldn’t, then he needed to come and wake her up, and every time Mike would swear on his life he would and bound up the stairs as quickly as he could. He never stayed for the rest of Will’s heat cycle, just that first day where he was hazy and sad and his stomach was hurting enough to make him feel sick. He’d tuck him up, keep him hydrated, and let him fall asleep on his chest. 

Once they got a bit older, Joyce stopped letting him stay round; she said knew Mike was careful and she trusted him, but hormones were just too unpredictable for it to be safe. That they weren't kids anymore, that they were becoming men. Mike hated it, but he understood. He still always came round, made a nest the best he could with his giant clumsy hands, and tucked Will up into it. 

Now here they are. Both 22, both knee deep in their final exam season, and Mike’s still tending to him like it’s a full time job. Like his role in the cosmos is to come to Will’s beck and call whenever he needs him. Like Will is his. He tries not to think that last bit. He usually fails.

It’s 8.56am, which means Will’s alarm will go off in 4 minutes. He’ll wake up, then text Mike to let him know his pre-heat has started, and Mike will let him know he’s on his way. He knows this, because he has turned looking after Will Byers into an art form - a carefully choreographed dance of adoration and tending. 

He’s already freshly showered to remove as much of his own scent as possible, and he’s blowdried his hair despite the fact he thinks it makes it look frizzy (because one time when they were 17 Will made an off handed comment that it was softer when he did, so he has done ever since). He’s packed his backpack, with a set of spare clothes he keeps in a cupboard away from the rest and washes with a special detergent so that none of the smells aggravate Will’s heightened senses, just in case it's ever particularly bad. He’s got two of those massive hydroflask things full of ice cubes so that the water will stay cold for at least the next 24 hours, a spare blanket in case Will suddenly decides he hates the texture of his own, a tube of lemon flavoured throat sweets, and a pack of those damp towelette wipe things, because that way he can put a wet cloth on Will’s forehead if he starts to burn up without needing to leave the room. He’s ready to go, it's just a case of standing, staring at his own lackluster visage, and waiting for his phone to buzz. 

Right on schedule, his screen lights up with a notification. 

Mike rolls his eyes. For some reason Will always asks, even though Mike’s answer is always the same. 

He smiles down at his screen, because he loves that Will lets him do this for him. He’s sure Will would be completely fine without Mike hovering over him like a worried mother, but he lets him fuss and dote anyway. It makes something in his chest light up with pride, like he’s a good alpha taking care of his mate. 

Not that that's what they are. They're just friends. Best friends. It’s just one of those primal, instinctual alpha feelings that he couldn’t switch off if he tried. And believe him, he’s tried. 

He swings his bag over his shoulder, strides out the door to his apartment and locks it behind him, then sets off. 

~*~

He’s outside Will’s door exactly fifteen minutes later, reaching into his pocket to grab his nose plugs (they mass produce them these days. Mike likes to think he was somewhat of a pioneer). They're these insanely uncomfortable little rubber bullets that he has to shove up each nostril, but they have little breathing holes in them and internal filters, so he doesn't have to breathe through his mouth. It has the added benefit of making him sound less like he’s talking through a tin can. They still do, objectively, make him look a little ridiculous; as if he’s flaring his nostrils constantly.

He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Twists the handle to Will’s apartment and steps inside. 

Will’s sitting on the sofa facing the door, wrapped in one of the fluffy weighted blankets Mike brought him a couple years back, sketchbook on his lap and pencil in hand. The TV is on, some random daytime show droning in the background (because Will hates sitting in silence), and the blue light illuminates him in this halo-esque glow that, for a brief moment, has Mike’s heart working overtime to escape out of his mouth before he swallows it back down. Will looks up as soon as Mike steps through the threshold, and an easy smile finds his face.

“Hey.” He closes his sketchbook gently, “thanks for coming.”

Mike rolls his eyes at that, “how many times are we going to have this conversation?”

Will laughs, “probably for the rest of our lives?”

And, yeah, isn't that a lovely thought? Will, letting Mike look after him forever. Mike, keeping Will safe until they're old and grey and wrinkled. The mental image is so vivid and so sudden that Mike trips over his own feet, just a little.

He just laughs, instead of breaking out into tears like he wants to, “yeah, probably, but still. Stop thanking me.”

He comes to a stop next to the sofa, Will craning his neck to look up at him, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Stop giving me a reason to.”

Mike grins, “never, and fuck you for asking.”

Will chuckles, then makes to stand. “Sit down, I’ll go put the kettle on.”

Mike’s hand is on Will’s shoulder before the sentence is even fully out of his mouth. “Yeah, right, like I don't know where your kettle is. You want lemon and ginger?”

It’s Will’s turn to roll his eyes, but he’s smiling, and he gives up on his attempt at getting up. “Yeah, please. I’m doing alright at the minute, but I give it an hour before my stomach starts trying to escape my body.”

Mike just nods, deposits his backpack on the sofa next to Will in case he wants to root through it, and makes his way into the kitchenette. Fills the kettle, sets it to boil, grabs them both a mug. He puts a lemon and ginger teabag in one and dumps some coffee granules in the other. Will has an extensive collection of different fruity teas, and Mike doesn't hate all of them, but when his nose is plugged up he can't taste anything anyway, so he doesn't like wasting them. Especially because Will gets the kind of enjoyment out of them that most people only find snorting a line of powder off of a seedy club bathroom’s toilet seat. The lemon and ginger is actually his least favourite, but it settles his stomach when the nausea hits. 

He takes both mugs once they’re brewed, setting each down on a coaster on the coffee table. Will has curled himself back up against the arm of the sofa, knees up towards him, sketching again. Mike’s backpack is on the floor now, and the tube of lemon throat sweets is open by Will’s socked feet. Mike smiles to himself as he sits down. 

“What’cha drawing?” 

Will’s eyes flick up briefly to meet Mike’s, then are back on the paper. “Nun.”

Mike scrunches his face up in confusion. “You’re drawing a nun? Is this coursework?”

Will looks back up at him, and then a smirk starts gradually taking over his features. “Nun’ya business.”

Mike groans, throwing his head back over the back of the sofa, and Will bursts out into laughter. “That wasn’t even funny, that was dumb.”

“It was funny!” He can barely get the words out, “you should've seen your face!”

Mike scowls, lifting his head back up to level Will with a glare. “It wasn't this funny!”

Will shrugs, still chuckling. He’s looking back at the paper now, his pencil resuming its movements over the page, “was to me.”

“That's because your sense of humour is broken. You watch too much TikTok.”

He snorts, not bothering to look up. “Don't even, you’re just as bad.”

Mike just tuts in response. “Are you seriously not going to show me what you’re working on?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Mike groans again, then toes off his trainers and puts his feet up on the coffee table. “That sucks. You suck. You’re awful.”

There’s another snort from the other end of the couch, “and you’re a bad liar.”

He doesn't respond, because he’s right. 

They drift into a comfortable silence after that, Will sketching his secret art (Mike’s so over it), Mike staring at the couple on TV arguing over a DNA test. Turns out the baby isn't his, which is a real shocker obviously, because they seemed so happy together. The guy has just screamed and pushed the cameraman when Will starts to fidget.

Mike looks at him from the corner of his eye, and he can see the signs that he’s starting to get uncomfortable. He’s known him long enough that his quiet tells are like blaring claxons. There’s a light flush dusting itself over Will’s cheeks, his hand movements as he draws have started to get a little stilted, and his eyes are just beginning to get that hazy, faraway look.

Mike turns to face him. “Drink your tea.”

He looks up at him, surprise ghosting his features, “why?”

Mike tilts his head down, looking up at Will through his lashes with his eyebrows raised in a face that he hopes says ‘do you really need to ask?’, but when Will still doesn't move he says, “you’ve started getting twitchy, which means your stomach is going to start churning soon, and we both know you'll feel better if you drink it sooner rather than later. You need to coat your stomach.” 

Will’s silent for a second longer, just staring at Mike and not saying anything, so Mike swings his feet off the coffee table and grabs Will’s mug, placing it in his hands. “Drink it, dummy, the drawing can wait.”

Mike leans back in his chair and turns back to the TV again, satisfied, but after a moment realises Will still hasn't moved. He looks back at him, and he’s still staring. 

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“How do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

Will makes an exasperated noise, somewhere between a choke and a laugh, and waves the hand that isn't clutching his mug in Mike’s direction. “That! That thing where you just- you just know! How do you do that?!”

Mike shrugs, because he doesn't have an answer, really. To him, it’s just obvious. “Because I know you.”

Will laughs humorlessly, “I had literally just started feeling ill. Like, literally thirty seconds ago. I was about to ask you to pass it to me.”

“Oh sick, go me.” He’s going to be preening like a peacock for the next week.

“But how?” Will sounds exasperated. “I don’t get it you just- you notice things about me that I don’t even notice.”

Mike shrugs again, even though hearing Will say that gives him butterflies. “I guess-” he cuts himself off, because he can't say what he had been about to. He can’t say ‘I guess I’ve loved you for so long that I’ve made it my whole personality. I guess I need you to be happy and healthy and safe more than I need oxygen. I guess, whatever your soul is made of, mine is made of too.’ 

He clears his throat. “I guess I’m just observant, when it comes to you.”

Will drops his arm back in his lap, and doesn't say anything else, just keeps staring. He keeps staring, and it’s doing something to Mike’s gut that he doesn't think he’ll be able to survive, so he turns back towards the TV.

“Drink your tea, Will. Don’t make me say it again.”

He hears Will’s breathing stutter slightly beside him, and then he hears him sipping on his drink. He feels a small, satisfied smile creep onto his face. They sit like that for a little while, just basking in silence, until eventually Will holds his mug out to him. 

He turns back to look at him and takes it out of his hands. Glances down into the mug to check it’s empty, which it is, and his eyes flick back up to meet Will’s. 

He looks so soft, wrapped up in his blanket. His eyes are wide and expectant, like he’s waiting for Mike to say something, like he’s waiting for Mike’s approval, and the words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Good boy.”

The room freezes. Time stops. Will stares at him, eyes wide, mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’, his cheeks flushing crimson. A pit opens up in the bottom of Mike's stomach. 

“Uh,” how the fuck does he recover from that? “I mean- like- good that you- you know? Good that you drank it. That’s good. It’s good for you. It’ll help.”

Will just nods, dumbstruck. “Yeah.”

Mike nods too. “Yeah.” 

He puts the mug back down on the coaster, leans back in the seat, and stares resolutely at the screen, aware that his own face has gone bright red. 

He clears his throat. “How’s your drawing going?” He needs to talk about something else right this second or he’s going to melt into the ground out of embarrassment.

Will sighs, “I’m still not showing you it.”

Mike groans dramatically, some of the tension easing away already. “I know. I’m just asking how it’s coming along. Not everything I do has an ulterior motive.” He makes the mistake of looking over at him then, because for some reason he has magnets in his eyes that are scientifically drawn to Will, and he’s smirking at him.

“Not everything? So some things do?”

“What?! No! That's not what I meant and you know it.”

Will’s laughing, “hmm, do I? It definitely sounded like that was what you meant.”

Mike groans, closing his eyes and letting his head fall backwards. “I give up. Don’t tell me about your hobby. Sit and do it in silence while I pretend you don't exist.”

That makes Will crack up again, and he comes scooting along the sofa to slot into Mike’s side. He rests his head on Mike's shoulder, “you couldn't ignore me, you’d feel too bad.”

Mike feels his own heart rate ratchet up, just a tad. Him and Will have always been kind of touchy, which Lucas and Max especially have always loved to point out (‘hey Mike, why is Will the only one that gets to lay on your lap while we watch movies?’ Lucas had said once. ‘Don’t be jealous. Wheeler’s more bone than anything else, Will’s got the worst pillow in the room.’ Max had bit back). Still, there's something about the feeling of Will clinging to him that makes him feel like his body is about to start vibrating. Like you could hook him up to the electrical grid and he'd power the city for a week.

“Not true,” he somehow manages to spit out. He feels like someone's got a gun to his head.

“Completely true,” Will laughs as he says it, and Mike needs someone to pull the fucking trigger. “You’re clingy as shit, you’d make it five minutes before you were begging for my forgiveness.”

Will doesn't know just how ready Mike would be to beg him for anything, so instead of trying to argue he just scoffs. “Whatever, shut up and do your drawing.”

“Can’t.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Will lets out a sigh, as if he's suffering immensely, “I’m comfy here, and I know you’ll look over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. If I want to draw in private I need at least a foot between us.”

Mike’s almost hurt. “You don’t want me to see it that bad?”

Will goes quiet for a second, and Mike imagines that he’s probably chewing his lip. He does that a lot when he thinks. “It’s just a personal project. I’m not ready for anyone to see it yet. It's not like I don’t trust you, or anything like that.”

That makes Mike feel better, although now he feels guilty too, because Will sounds upset. “Sorry, I wasn't trying to make you feel like you had to show me. It’s your art and it’s your choice. I just like looking.”

Will nods, and his hair brushes against Mike’s neck. The flush floods back to his cheeks in full force. “I know. I just wanted you to make sure you knew that.”

Sweet, kind, thoughtful William Byers. Mike’s so in love with him he thinks he might split apart at the seams. 

“You want another cup of tea?”

Will shakes his head no. 

“You sure?”

He nods. “Don’t move. Comfy.”

That's the next sign that Will’s pre-heat is starting to progress. He gets clingy and cuddly, and a tiny bit bratty. Mike kind of loves it. He smiles at the screen, like it's a private secret between him and the dysfunctional couple there who are still arguing about the parentage of their kid. “If you’re sure. Just let me know if you change your mind, you know I’m happy to get you one.”

“I know.” He’s speaking quietly now, soft and sleepy, “I know you are. You’re so good to me.”

Mike’s eyes bulge out of his head, he feels the color drain from his face as all of the blood rushes down south. “I- You know. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is.” Will whispers again, and he’s tilting his head now to try and look up at Mike, so his breath brushes against his throat when he speaks. “It is a big deal. You always take care of me. I’m lucky to have you.”

Mike thinks he might be having a cardiac event. Will’s gentle, quiet praise is like a drug, rushing through his veins and making his brain feel sluggish and weak. He has no idea just how badly Mike needs to hear him say that he’s useful. Has no idea what the concept of Will feeling lucky to have him does to him. He might have an aneurism right now on his couch. 

“By the way,” Will says, and Mike is thankful for the topic change, because his heart can't take much more of this. “How are you always so quick?”

“Huh?”

“When I message, to ask you to come round. It’s like you already know. How do you do that?”

Actually, scratch that. Pause, freeze frame, rewind, because Mike’s changed his mind, he is not thankful for the topic change. Because there isn’t a world in which he can sit and lie to Will Byers, especially when he’s using his shoulder as a cushion, but the truth is a little bit mortifying. He sort of hoped that Will would just never notice. 

He sits quietly for a second, trying to work out how to say it, before eventually just sighing and rooting around in his jean pocket for his phone. Unlocks it, swipes to the third page on his home screen, presses the app icon, and passes Will his phone. 

Will sits up, and Mike mourns the loss of contact. He stares down at the screen. Looks up at Mike. Looks back down again. Repeats. Finally stops and just stares at the side of Mike’s face, because Mike is resolutely not looking at him right now. 

“What is this?”

“What does it look like it is?”

Will scoffs, “it looks like you have an app on your phone that you use to track my heat cycles.”

Mike shrugs.

Will’s quiet, and Mike is weak, so he turns to look at him. 

Will’s staring at him incredulously. “You have an app on your phone that you use to track my heat cycles?”

Mike shrugs again. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Mike furrows his brows, “so that I know when your heat is?”

“You know what I mean, idiot.”

Mike sighs and turns back to the TV. The woman is crying now, the man stood up in front of her, screaming, with a finger pointed at her chest. The show host has a kind of constipated look on their face. “So I can make sure I’m ready. I’m usually halfway out the door before you’ve even texted me, if I’m being completely honest with you.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mike, I don’t even track my heat cycle.”

“You should, it’s pretty useful. The apps these days are quite good, they've gotten pretty accurate.”

“Clearly!” Mike looks back, because Will sounds upset, but he doesn't actually look upset, so now Mike is kind of confused.

“Sorry if it’s weird. I can delete it,” he goes to take his phone back, but Will pulls it away from him and out of reach. He’s still staring. 

“How long have you been doing this?”

Mike winces, “do I have to answer that?”

Will narrows his eyes at him, “yes, Michael, you do. How long?”

He would've told him anyway, but Will saying his full name is a dirty trick in an attempt to get him to confess, and he knows it. The worst part is that it works every single time. 

“About 4 years. Give or take.”

Will’s jaw drops. He blinks twice. “You're lying.”

“I’m not. Check the tracking history if you want. Though it might not have all of it on there, now that I think about it. I switched apps at some point.”

Will just stares. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike is feeling incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden, and he looks down at his hands in his lap, “I realise that's probably a huge invasion of your privacy and you’re probably pissed at me. I just wanted to make sure I always had everything ready to go. Didn’t like the idea of you sitting waiting for me if you wanted me there with you.”

“I’m not pissed.” 

He looks back up. “You’re not?”

Will laughs, “you’re joking, right? How could I be pissed? That’s so-” he stops, floundering for the word, “it’s sweet Mike. It’s really sweet, and incredibly thoughtful.”

Mike’s cheeks are bright red again and he knows it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is!” And now Will kind of does sound annoyed, which is weird, because he just said he wasn't. Mike’s not really keeping up with what’s happening. “It is a big deal! No one does that, Mike. Literally nobody.”

Mike just shrugs. “I do.”

Will’s eyes soften. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. You do.”

He holds Mike’s phone back out towards him. Mike takes it. Tucks it back into his pocket. 

“How are you feeling?”

Will takes a deep breath. “Pretty shitty, actually. Whatever my stomach is doing right now, I’m pretty sure it should be classed as a hate crime.”

Mike barks out a laugh at that, then stands. “Well you’re not using me as a headrest anymore, so I’ll grab you another cup of tea, and then we can go lay down?”

Will nods, looking up at Mike. He’s glancing up through his lashes, eyes big and round and brown, and Mike has the overwhelming urge to sweep him into his arms and squeeze him until his ribs crack. Mike grabs the mug off the table and walks to the kitchen before he does something stupid like kiss him.

He spends longer than technically necessary making Will’s drink, just for the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and stare out of the window above the sink, like he's a wife who’s waiting for her husband to return from war. Except in this situation his husband is his blood cells and the war is somewhere below his belt. He’s pretty sure he’s about to become a widow. 

When he steps back into the living room, Will looks noticeably worse. He’s a little paler now, except for the flush on his cheeks, and there’s a few beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. Mike’s husband/blood makes a sudden and urgent return trip to the homeland of his brain.

“Hey, you feeling okay?” Mike puts the back of his free hand against Will’s forehead. His temperature has started to pick up, which is pretty normal for him, but it always makes Mike nervous regardless. Will’s lack of words, just a small shake ‘no’ of his head, doesn't help either. Mike nods resolutely, “okay, vertical time is over. You’ve used your vertical quota up for the day. We're going' horizontal. It’s all the rage, I’ve heard.” 

Will lets out a small, shaky laugh. “You’re dumb.”

“And you're going to puke if we don't go lay down, so let's get moving shall we?” Will makes another noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and slowly lifts himself up. He goes to start collecting his things, and obviously Mike won't be having that, so he grabs his wrist. Will twists to look back at him so fast Mike has half a mind to check him for a strain injury. “What are you doing? Go lay down, I’ll bring it all through.”

Will glares at him, “I’m not an invalid, Mike.”

Mike just hums, “whatever you say, grandpa. Go lay down before I throw you.”

Will just rolls his eyes and gives up the fight, making his way to his room. Mike throws his backpack over his shoulder, folds the blanket, and stacks Will’s sketchbook and pencil - plus the tube of sweets - on top of it. He picks everything up, using his hip to support it all so he can hold the mug in his other hand, then follows Will through to his room.

He’s already laid down, flat on his back and taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He cracks one eye open when Mike walks in. “I genuinely think omega biology is a cruel prank the universe is playing on me. How is this useful?”

Mike laughs, depositing Will’s belongings at the foot of the bed, and walks to the bedside table to place his mug down. “I can answer that if you really want me to, but I’m not certain you do.” He lets his backpack fall off his shoulder down his arm, then places it on the floor. 

Will’s eyes are wide open now, and he props himself up on one elbow, “you mean there’s an actual reason that my body tries to eat itself alive before it tries to make me breed through any means necessary?”

And, okay, Mike needs to never hear Will say the word ‘breed’ ever again. Or maybe he needs to hear it every day for the rest of his life. Jury’s still out, all he knows is he has to think about the wrinkliest of his professors and pray to any God that’s listening. 

“Yes, Will, there’s a reason. It’s not just a cruel and unusual punishment for your sins.”

“Feels like it,” Will mutters. “What's the reason then, Oh Wise One?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “The generally accepted theory is that your hormones are trying to raise your core body temperature, among other things.” He grabs Will’s sketchbook and pencil from the pile and deposits them on the table next to the mug, in case Will decides he wants to keep drawing. “The stomach pains and cramps are because your body is stimulating the muscles around your uterus, to make implantation of an embryo more likely.” 

He leans down and starts rooting through his backpack. “By raising your core temperature, it increases the likelihood of successful fertilisation of an egg. Basically, everything is chemically designed to make pregnancy as easy as possible.” 

He pulls out the towelettes, because Will’s forehead was a little warm for his liking, and one of the hydro flasks, because so far he’s only seen Will drink one single cup of tea, and that's not nearly enough to keep him hydrated. “Plus, supposedly, if you have sex during your heat cycle, you get some relief from the symptoms for a little while. That’s to encourage you to breed as many times as possible, apparently. But I don’t know, I’m not a scientist, just a guy with a wireless internet connection and too much free time.”

He stands up straight, flask in one hand and wipes in the other, and looks at Will. He’s staring at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, cheeks a vibrant scarlet.

Mike looks down at himself. Looks back up at Will. “... What?”

Will, if possible, flushes darker. He closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it again. “... Why do you know that?”

Mike shrugs. “‘Cos you’re an omega, duh. It’s already kind of unfair that this happens to you once a month while I get to rock around fine, the least I can do is understand it. Right?"

Will seems to chew that over. “... Right.”

Mike steps closer and hands him the bottle, “drink something, yeah? The muscle stimulation is dehydrating.”

Will’s eyes bug out of his head as he takes it from Mike, and he stares at the flask for a moment before looking back at Mike. “That’s why you’re always forcing me to drink so much?”

Mike nods, “yeah, obviously.” Now he’s got another free hand, he rips open the packet of wipes, removes one, then dumps the pack onto the table. He folds it into a rectangle, then smushes it against Will’s forehead to make it stick. He pulls away, and Will is still just staring at him, but he’s got a huge bottle of water and something cold and damp on his forehead, so Mike nods to himself, satisfied, and turns to grab the blanket. 

Will makes a noise behind him, like he’s in pain, and Mike whips back around. Crouches down next to the bed so they’re eye level.

“What's wrong? Are you alright? What hurts?” He scans his eyes frantically over Will, like if he thinks about it hard enough he can xray him and pinpoint the problem. 

Will groans, and throws himself backwards into the pillows, laying an arm over his forehead. “Nothing, Mike. I’m fine.”

Mike narrows his eyes. “Are you lying?”

He sputters, “no- no! I’m fine! I feel good!”

“You promise?”

“Oh for fuck-” Will stops, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I promise I am not in pain, Michael.”

He opens his eyes and looks over at Mike, and the sight of Will, sprawled out on his back making direct eye contact, makes his stomach lurch. 

“Okay. Just tell me if you’re not, right?”

He rolls his eyes, “I always do.”

Mike’s chest aches. 

“You want the blanket still? Or are you too hot?”

Will gives him a withering look, “obviously I want the blanket, what kind of question is that?”

Mike chuckles, “you’re right, my bad.” He stands up, “where’s your laptop? You want me to put something on Netflix?”

Will nods, “sure, I think it’s on my desk. What was that show we were watching the other day? That really awful ‘Traitors’ rip-off?”

“Uhhh… ‘The Mole’? I think?”

“That one!” Will laughs, “God, that show fucking sucks. Put that on.”

Mike laughs, “gotcha.” He retrieves Will’s laptop, grabs the blanket, and climbs onto the bed next to him. He throws the blanket out so that it covers them both, then lays back with his head on the pillows and the laptop on his thighs. Will immediately capitalises on this and turns onto his side, and Mike automatically lifts his arm so that he can lay his head on his chest. 

This is part of their routine. They’ll curl up together while Will naps away the worst of the cramps and the sweats. Mike will wake him up periodically to make him drink some water, and then once it gets dark Mike will leave and let Will ride out the rest of his cycle… however it is that he does that. Mike has a very strict rule of not thinking about what happens after he leaves. 

Will starts snoring before Mike even has a chance to turn the show on, but he sticks with Will’s choice anyway, just in case he wakes up and decides he wants to watch it. Neither of them care about what’s actually happening or who the ‘Mole’ is, anyway. They just watch it to laugh at all of the arguments.

Mike makes it a solid ten minutes before he falls asleep.

~*~

When he wakes up, Will is sitting up against the headboard, sketchbook in his lap, midway through a sip from the hydroflask. The cold compress from before has disappeared from his forehead. He places the bottle back on the table, unwraps a lemon sweet and pops it in his mouth, then continues sketching. 

Mike lets himself just watch him for a minute. 

The look of concentration he always has when he draws, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he looks in the room’s low light. Wide arms and strong jaw. He lets himself bask in just how handsome Will really is. Eventually though, he has to come back to reality. 

“Hey,” he chokes it out through a mouthful of sleep, and Will turns to look at him, a smile lighting up his features. Mike’s heart performs a gymnastics routine in his chest. 

“Hey,” He says it with a smile, all teeth and blinding light. “How'd you sleep?”

“Good, yeah.” Understatement of the century. “How long have you been awake?”

Will peeks at the laptop, then turns back to him, “an hour or so, ish.”

That has Mike sitting up, rubbing his eyes, trying to bring himself back to the land of the living, “why didn't you wake me up?” 

When he pulls his hands away from his eyes, Will has a small, bashful smile on his face. He shrugs, unapologetic, “you looked peaceful. And it was kind of nice to feel like I was doing something for you for a change.”

Mike’s tired, and Will looks adorable, so he doesn't think before he reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind Will’s ear. Will’s smile drops, surprise coloring his features. “You do plenty for me, Will. More than you know.” Because how can Mike tell him that the fact Will lets him look after him makes him feel like what he imagines heroin would? How can he put into words how much it means to him that Will trusts him like this? 

Will doesn't say anything, just stares at him, and he realises his hand is still cradling his face, so he drops his hand. Clears his throat. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

Will nods, turning back to his paper. He angles it away from Mike, which definitely doesn't hurt his feelings. “Alright for now. The nap helped.” His cheeks tinge with pink, “it usually does.”

“What time is it? Have you eaten?”

Will laughs, “relax, Mike. You literally just woke up. I’m not going to starve in the next five minutes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says it around a chuckle, “it’s 3pm.”

Mike scowls as he does the math in his head. “Okay, so you’re lying to me?”

Will snaps his head up at that, “what do you mean?”

Mike just levels his gaze at him. Raises his eyebrows. Will raises his own back, and Mike sighs. “It’s been five hours since your symptoms started kicking in. Which means you probably started feeling sick again, like, thirty minutes ago.”

Will’s eyes widen. Mike keeps staring, and eventually Will looks back down at his paper and huffs. 

“Seriously, why do you know that? Do I need a restraining order?”

“I told you,” he shrugs again, “I pay attention to you.”

Will doesn't look back up, just keeps staring at his page.

“So are you hungry? I could order chinese?”

That makes him look up, eyes wide and gleaming, “really?”

Mike rolls his eyes at him, “yeah, obviously. As if I’d joke about that, I know how you get about your fried rice.” Will laughs, eyes shining, and for a second Mike feels breathless, “the usual?”

“Yeah. Please.”

~*~

By the time their food arrives, they’ve eaten, and Mike has washed and dried the dishes, it’s just shy of 6pm. Mike’s leaning against the door frame of the bedroom, and he looks at Will, where he’s sat back against the headboard again.

“I’m going to make a move in a few, are you going to be okay?”

It’s a silly question, really. Will’s at that point where his pre-heat is tilting towards full, actual heat, and it shows. He’s sweating, shifting constantly in his seat, and despite his dedication to his art, he’s barely even drawing anymore. He looks up when Mike speaks, and his eyes have that glazed look that tells him he’s going to be out of his marbles in the next couple of hours. 

Will looks up and stares at him for a long moment, as if debating something with himself. Closes his sketchbook.

“No.”

“... No?”

“No,” He says again, resolute. “I’m not going to be okay.”

Fuck, Mike hates hearing him say that. Hates the idea of Will suffering in any way, shape, or form. He stands up straighter. “What can I do?”

Will’s eyes flick between both of Mike’s. Like he’s looking for something. Whatever it is he finds, he makes a decision.

“You could stay.”

Mike’s brain stutters, “... what?”

Will turns his body to face him fully. “You could stay here. With me. Like we used to.”

Mike sighs, “Will, we haven’t-”

“Since we were kids.” Will cuts him off. “I know. But I’m asking you to. I’m asking you to stay.”

Saying no to him makes something twist in his gut, because he wants that more than anything. Wants to stay, wants to take care of him. He wants. “Will… I can't.”

His face hardens, a scowl across his face, “why?”

Mike raises a brow, incredulous, “why can’t I stay with you, while you go into heat? Is that really what you’re asking me right now?”

“Yeah, Mike. It is.” Something like hurt laces his words. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Will throws the blanket off himself, rises and crosses half of the room. Stands a few feet away from Mike and crosses his arms over his chest. “I am. I’m completely serious.”

Mike rubs a hand across his mouth and the lower half of his face, but Will is still staring at him, expecting an answer. He sighs. 

“You know why, Will. You might want me here now, but you’ll wish I wasn't later when-” he cuts himself off, because he’s dangerously close to breaking his rule about not thinking about it, “you’ll just wish I wasn't.”

Will tilts his head to the side. Runs his gaze across Mike’s face. “What if you’re wrong?”

Mike rolls his eyes, “I’m not wrong, Will, I-”.

Will takes several steps closer, until there’s less than a foot of space between them. “What if,” he interrupts, “you are? What if I will want you here? What if-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath, closing his eyes. Stands up straighter, then opens his eyes and stares right into Mike’s. “What if I always wish you were here?”

The question hangs in the air, and Mike feels frozen. The idea of Will, knee deep in the throes of his heat, wishing Mike was with him, is the most sensual thing Mike has ever heard. Suddenly, the dam breaks, and his self imposed rule of not thinking about it isn’t much use. He’s flooded with the mental image of Will, heat slick and needy, writhing around in the blanket Mike brought him, moaning Mike’s name, wishing Mike was there with him.

He swallows heavily. “You don't mean that.”

Will laughs, but it’s flat and lacking any real mirth, “oh, you’ve decided that, have you?”

Mike feels like he’s going to die. “You don’t mean it, Will, because you’re a sneeze away from going into heat. You’d ask any alpha who walked in here right now to stay with you.”

Will scoffs, and the look in his eyes is pure rage. He’s nearly shouting now, “oh! Oh! I would, would I?! Because I’m a helpless little omega, right? Who can’t make his own decisions?!” 

“I’m not-” Mike groans, “That’s not what I’m saying, Will-”

“Then what are you saying, Mike? Because that's how it sounds to me.”

The air feels hot. Will is staring at Mike like he hates him, and like he wants him, and Mike can’t handle that. 

“I’m saying-” he takes a deep breath, “I’m just saying you don’t want me. Not really.”

The room goes silent, and Mike looks down at the floor. He can’t bear to look at Will, because that was dangerously close to a confession, and he can’t bear to see his face when he realises that, too.

The silence drags, and then Will’s shadow moves across the floor. He puts a finger under Mike’s chin and lifts. Their eyes meet, and they’re so close now Mike can feel his breath across his face, because Will is craning his neck up to look at him, and Mike is looking down. 

Will’s quiet when he speaks. “Is that what you think?”

Mike just gulps. Nods. 

Will’s eyes are darting between his again, like he’s desperately looking for the answer to a question he hasn't said out loud yet. “You think I don’t want you?”

Mike doesn't recognise his own voice, when he finally finds it. It’s soft. Broken, almost. “I know you don’t.”

Will’s eyes soften. He doesn't look mad anymore. His hand drops and he takes a step back, and Mike feels his heart shatter as the rejection registers. 

But then Will turns, strides towards his bed, grabs something and comes right back. There’s no space between them, Will’s hands pressed against Mike’s chest as he pushes something into him. 

“Take it.”

Mike glances down, his hair brushing against Will’s. Lifts his hands from where they've been frozen at his side. His hands graze Will’s as he takes the offering. 

His sketchbook. 

Will takes a single, small step back. 

Mike looks at the leather bound book in his hands. Looks back up at Will, who nods at him encouragingly. “Open it.”

“Any page?”

Will snickers, as if Mike’s question is funny, “yeah, Mike. Any page.”

Mike looks back down at the book in his hands. Traces the spine gently with one finger. Thinking about it, he doesn’t think Will’s ever shown him anything he’s drawn in this one. He finds the ribbon marking Will’s page, and uses it to flick the book open to the latest drawing. 

He stares at it. He looks up at Will. Looks back down at the page. Then all of the air leaves his lungs, because the ‘personal project’ Will has been working on all day is a drawing of him.

It’s a side profile, with Mike’s head tilted up to the sky, his eyes raised higher still. He’s composed of soft, arching lines of charcoal, and Will has captured every feature of Mike’s that he himself hates. His angular jaw, his prominent Adam’s apple, his huge nose. But, the way Will draws him, it’s like his features all suddenly make sense. For once, he doesn’t look like a hastily designed ragdoll, thrown together with spare parts. He looks like something someone made on purpose, something carved out of marble and designed to remain. Something cherished, and revered. Something loved. There’s a soft smile on his face, and a light in his eyes, and his dark black curls fall around his face in a way that looks pretty. It looks intentional. Will’s made him look like he’s meant to look like that. Like he was crafted and designed that way, rather than stretched and twisted into shape as an afterthought, like he always imagines himself being. 

He flips to the previous page. It’s him again. This time, he’s leant back on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. You can tell it’s Will’s living room, but the background is drawn in a way where that’s not the focus, Mike is. He’s looking ahead, in the direction the light is coming from, and it casts shadows behind his jaw and under his nose. He’s laughing at something, obviously, because he has a huge toothy smile on his face, and once again Mike is struck with the realisation that, like this, he looks right. His arms don’t seem too long, where they’re tucked up in his lap, and his hair doesn't look frizzy, and his nose kind of suits his face. 

He flicks backwards again, and again, and again, and every single page is a sketch of him, laughing or smiling or with an eyebrow raised in judgement. Sat on Will’s bed, or stood in Mike’s kitchen cooking, or sipping a coffee at the café by Mike’s flat. In every single picture, Will has captured him as though he’s a model, like the art is Mike, rather than the drawing Will has done of him. He looks strong. He looks handsome.

When he looks up again, Will hasn’t moved. Is still staring. Waiting for him to say something, maybe.

He swallows. “... You draw me?”

It makes Will burst out laughing, and he buries his face in his hands, snorting into them. “Yeah, Mike,” he speaks into his palms, then lifts his head back up. He’s bright crimson. “Only every day since we were, like, eight years old.”

Mike feels like he’s having an out of body experience. “... Why?”

Will’s eyes soften. He steps closer again. Looks up at him in a way that has Mike’s chest thundering. There’s barely an inch between them.

“Because you’re my best friend. Because you’ve always looked after me, and kept me safe. Because no one knows me the way you do. Because you-” He laughs, and it’s slightly wet sounding, his eyes glistening, “because you track my cycle and know more about what my body is doing than I do.” He smiles, soft and private, just for the two of them. “Because I love you, you idiot.”

He takes a second to let that sink in. To let himself enjoy a moment in this new world, where Will loves him, and wants him. Where he makes Will feel so safe, has done so for so long, that he fills up pages with his image. Then, once that sinks in, and his brain catches up, and his body remembers that it’s attached to his brain, he leans in and kisses him.

Whatever Mike had imagined their first kiss might be like, on the rare occasions when he let himself, nothing can compare to the real feeling of Will’s lips against his. They’re soft, and pliant, and even with his nose blocked he can taste a hint of the lemon sweets Will’s been eating all day, and the vague undertone of that natural coffee and rain flavour that’s so distinctly him. Kissing him feels like he’s finally breathing, after holding his breath for the past six or so years. 

He pulls away, and they stare at each other for a moment, before suddenly they’re both laughing. 

Mike speaks, his voice slightly hoarse, “I’ve loved you for so long. Before I even knew what it meant, I think.” 

The laugh Will lets out is slightly giddy, tinted with disbelief, and he drops his forehead down onto Mike’s chest as it wracks his body. Mike tucks his chin onto the top of his head. They stand like that for a while, Will’s hands on Mike’s chest, Mike still clutching his sketchbook. 

When Will pulls away, he doesn't go far. Creates just enough distance to make eye contact. “So you’ll stay, then?”

Mike’s reminded of a time, back in his basement, eerily similar. The same boy, wide eyed and scared, begging him in the same tone of voice, asking the same question. He makes the same choice he made back then. How could he not? 

“Of course. Whatever you need. Anything.”

Will quirks an eyebrow at him, smirk finding its way onto his face, “anything?”

Mike groans and rolls his eyes, but his stomach jumps at the implication. “You’re not even in heat yet, Byers, take a deep breath and count to ten.”

Will giggles, an honest to God giggle, and Mike’s so completely enamoured with him that he has to lean down to kiss him again. It’s still just a simple press of their lips, but his heart rate picks up like he’s on a rollercoaster. When they pull apart, Will’s face is flushed, and his eyes are hazy, and Mike is suddenly and violently reminded of his actual purpose in being here - looking after Will.

“Come on, you need to lay down.”

Will rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile firmly planted on his face, “trying to get me into bed? Now who needs to take a deep breath, huh?”

“You’re literally insufferable.”

“You kinda like it, though.”

Mike smirks, breaking away from him to put the sketchbook back on the table next to the bed, “only kinda. I’m serious, though, let's lay down.”

Will hasn't moved still when Mike turns back around to face him, so he raises an eyebrow. Will smirks. 

“Make me.”

And, oh, his heat must be starting to hit, because he’s being brattier than usual, and it’s really doing something to Mike. His cock twitches in interest.

“Make you?”

Will nods.

Mike has a theory, though, and he’s drunk enough on the taste of Will’s lips that he feels bold. He takes a step towards Will, just close enough that he’s forcing him to look up at him, “I don’t think I need to make you, Will.” He lets his eyes flick down to Will’s lips, then lets them linger there. Will sucks in a breath, and Mike looks back up so that their eyes meet again. “I think you want to do as you’re told, right? You wanna be good for me so I can look after you, don’t you?”

Will actually groans at that, a soft stuttered noise that he tries and fails to keep in, and his tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his lips. He nods. 

“Good,” Mike feels high off of it, Will’s attention and attraction and the dazed look in his eyes. “Let's lay down then, yeah?”

Will nods again, and Mike can’t help but grin. Hypothesis tested, theory proven. He’s a genius, and he’s also rock hard beneath his jeans. 

Just as he starts celebrating his victory, about to claim the title belt, Will throws a last minute haymaker; he starts unbuttoning his pants. 

It’s basically the definition of malicious compliance. He’s getting ready for bed, just like Mike wanted, but suddenly Mike’s wishing he’d kept his damn mouth shut, because now his jeans are peeling away to reveal long, tanned lengths of skin, and Mike feels like one of those tudor men who got excited if a woman flashed her ankle. Will’s standing there, his t-shirt just barely covering his boxers, and then he strikes his final blow.

“Can I have your shirt?”

Mike chokes on his own spit, “w-what?”

“Your shirt.” He deadpans, like it’s obvious. “I want it.”

Mike doesn't even have the upper brain function to question him, just grabs the neckline of his shirt and tugs it off, then balls it up and throws it to Will. He catches it with one hand, which is for some reason stupidly attractive, and presses it up to his nose and inhales. Mike’s brain stalls, and before he has a chance to process what’s happening, Will’s yanking off his own shirt and tugging Mike’s over his head. It’s long on him, falling to his mid thigh, and Mike is immediately and violently overwhelmed with the instinctual urge to keep, and claim, and fuck. His eyes can’t settle in one place, flicking from where the shirt hem brushes his legs, to his newly exposed collarbones, and Will suddenly has the nerve to look sheepish. 

“Your scent helps.” He shrugs, as if it's no big deal, and Mike feels his soul leave his body and start ascending. Before he can stop it, he lets out a loud, pitiful groan. Will’s eyes bulge, and his face flushes. 

“Will,” Mike is starting to have a very difficult time focusing on the task at hand, “you’re killing me, here.”

He thinks it’s ironic Will looks embarrassed now, considering he’s spent the last 10 minutes trying to ruin Mike’s life, but he finally crosses the room and climbs into bed. He stares expectantly. 

Mike climbs in after him, throwing the duvet over them both, then places a soft kiss onto his forehead. “Thank you.”

Will shivers, and Mike wraps his arms around his shoulders, manhandling into position so that he’s sprawled across his chest. “How are you feeling?”

He shivers again, “hot.”

“I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Mike buries his face into Will’s hair and whispers comforting words and noises into it, until they both drift off to sleep.

~*~

This time, waking up in Will’s bed for the second time today, the situation is wildly different.  

It’s dark now, for one. The only light is the soft white glow of the fairy lights Will has hung on the far wall. It suspends the room in a slightly ethereal atmosphere.

The other difference is more stark. Soft huffs and moans against his ear. Rhythmic pulses of a firm pressure against the outside of his thigh. Fingers curled into the hair at his neck, tugging gently. Mike tightens his grip on Will with the arm he has curled around him, fingers gripping Will’s waist, and he’s rewarded with a high pitched whine into the sensitive skin of his neck.

“What’s wrong, baby?” The pet name slips unintentionally, and Mike’s voice is an octave lower than usual, rough with sleep, but the other boy doesn't seem to mind, because he lets out another breathless noise and presses his hips in harder. “What do you need?”

“Anything,” Will pants, “you.” Mike’s rock hard immediately, stifles his own moan, but Will isn't finished. “Need you to help, Mike, please.”

He can’t stop the noise that tears its way out of his throat this time, and he buries his nose in Will’s hair. He takes a deep breath, trying to smell his scent purely on instinct, only to realise he’s still got those fucking nose plugs in. 

“Give me two seconds, love, can you do that for me? Just two seconds, then I’ll take care of you.”

Will’s breath stutters, his hips stalling. “... you promise?”

Mike’s cock twitches, “I promise, baby. Going to make you feel so good, okay? I’ll make it better.”

Will whines again, then nods into his neck and pulls back. In the dim light of the room, Mike can see his pupils are blown huge - so wide his eyes are almost swallowed by them. Mike’s consumed by the sudden urge to eat him whole. 

He turns around to face the small bedside table, because truthfully there’s no attractive way to root nose plugs out of your nostrils. He’s pretty sure Will’s too far gone on heat to care, but it’s the principal of it more than anything. 

The thing is, since that very first time all those years ago in the basement, he hasn't smelt Will while he’s been on his cycle. He knows, in theory, that an omega's hormones make their scent more potent during heat, but it’s another thing entirely to be suddenly and violently confronted with that fact. As soon as he takes a breath of air that isn’t being filtered, it slams into him like a brick wall. It smells like pure arousal and need, and something in the back of his brain suddenly sits bolt upright in attention. Will’s scent is so much different to how it normally is - full-bodied and musky, dark espresso and petrichor, and Mike’s not sure how but he can smell how horny he is. Can taste Will’s desire in the back of his throat. 

He groans and turns back to Will, drawing him up into his arms, and buries his nose into his throat. Will’s breathing stutters. “Fuck, Will, you smell fucking incredible.” He runs his mouth across Will’s scent gland, against the pulse point in his throat, and he feels the moment Will’s heart rate picks up against his lips. “Tell me what you need, baby, tell me how to look after you.”

“Fuck,” the word comes out broken and pitchy, and Will presses his hips back in hard, “just want to cum, please- please.”

“Can I take your boxers off?”

He nods aggressively, small tears springing to the corners of his eyes, “please.” 

Mike wants to savour this moment - strip him slowly and spend all night worshipping his body - but he knows that’s not what he needs right now. He decides he’ll have plenty of time during the rest of their lives to take Will apart piece by piece with his mouth and hands. He’ll bring him to the edge again, and again, and again, keep him on that precipice until he’s sobbing and begging for release, but it has to wait for now, because he made Will a promise. He’s got a pretty good track record, when it comes to looking after Will, and he doesn't intend for that to change tonight.

He yanks Will’s boxers off without ceremony, and his cock slaps against his stomach with the movement. Mike thinks Will would be embarrassed if his head was a little clearer, but as it stands it just forces a gasp out of his mouth, and the air blooms with the heavy scent of arousal and slick. The head of his cock is red and aching, so Mike licks a strip up his own palm and wraps it around him. 

Will lets out a shattered, broken noise, somewhere from deep in his chest, and his back arches off of the mattress before he curls his body into Mike, pressing his nose to Mike’s scent glad and taking deep, gasping lungfulls, and wrapping his legs around Mike’s thigh. Mike jerks Will fast, because all he knows is that Will needs him - that he begged him - and he’s going to provide. His hands, big and clumsy as he normally thinks of them, are the perfect size to wrap around the whole of Will’s cock with one solid grip, and for the millionth time in his life, he feels like he was made for this. For taking care of him, and loving him. He was made for this boy wrapped around him, moaning and hissing and sobbing into his throat, choking back gasps and whimpers. 

And, fuck, he can smell when Will starts to get close. It's nearly impossible to describe the way his scent seems to sweeten. With Will’s fragrance all around him, curling into his lungs every time he breathes, infecting his brain, he feels it instinctually somewhere deep in his chest when Will starts to approach his climax. 

“That’s it, baby, let go for me.” His voice is soft, and soothing, but it’s still an instruction. “Cum for me, Will, that's a good boy.”

Will howls as his body rushes to obey, and his whole form tenses as his release rips through him. Mike feels cum spill over his hand, feels it shoot up towards their stomachs, feels a wet rush of Will’s slick cover his thigh where he’s wrapped around it. He grits his teeth and works him through the shuddering aftershocks, meanwhile his own cock is twitching and weeping in his boxers and his brain is screaming at him to sink his teeth into Will’s neck. He pushes the feeling down, because the only thing that matters to him right now is Will, gasping and keening as his body twitches, while Mike eases him through the final stretch of his orgasm. The room around them could burst into flames, and Mike would use his own body to shield Will’s so that he wouldn’t have to stop touching him.

Eventually, Will’s hips still, and Mike gets the memo. His grip loosens, and as he draws his hand away Will whines. His breath is still coming in these fast, shallow pants, and Mike has the sudden fear that he’s done something wrong - hurt him or broke him - before Will starts kissing and sucking Mike’s throat, and the realisation hits that Will is still hard. That coupled with the feeling of Will grazing his teeth along Mike’s scent gland has him throwing his head back with a groan. 

“Jesus, Will, you’re gonna kill me.”

He hums against his skin. 

“Are you feeling okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

He mumbles a “no” into his throat, and Mike nods… Then frowns. 

“... No I didn't hurt you, or no you aren't feeling okay?”

Will lets out one laugh, and draws his head back to look at Mike. The sight bowls him over; Will’s lashes wet and face flushed, hair messy where he was writhing against the pillow. He levels Mike with the deadest, flattest stare he can muster. 

“You definitely didn't hurt me.”

The atmosphere shifts, and the pair of them burst into laughter. Mike leans in and presses their foreheads together, and in his whole world narrows down to Will. Will’s laugh, Will’s smile, Will’s skin against his. He wants to tell him he loves him, and he realises with a start that he can, because Will loves him, too.

“I love you so much it’s fucking absurd,” he says, and it sets Will off again in another bout of hysterics.

“I-” he can barely get the words out, “I’m covered in jizz and sweat!”

Mike knows he must look ridiculous, what with the huge grin on his face, but he doesn't care. “And you’re still beautiful. And I’m still in love with you.”

“God, you’re such a sap. Who are you and what have you done with Mike Wheeler?”

He snorts, “you did this to yourself. I’m going to say all of the cringey simpy shit I think in my head out loud now.”

Will’s eyes gleam with mirth, “you mean you weren’t doing that already?”

“Nuh uh,” God, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face if he tried, “if you thought I was bad before, you’ve seen absolutely nothing. I’m going to be so fucking insufferable.”

They're wrapped up together in this cloud of love and hormones and post-nut bliss, and for a second Mike forgets that Will’s body is currently on a mission to turn itself inside out, until all of a sudden a shiver wracks his body and Mike smells a fresh wave of slick spreading across his thighs. 

He groans and clenches his eyes shut. His voice drops an octave on its own accord, probably some hormonal thing he hasn't researched enough about to understand. “Feeling you get wet for me is so hot, Will, fuck.” 

Will pulls away to look at him, eyes dancing across his face. 

“I always think about you, you know.” He’s quiet, but there’s a challenge there in his tone. It sends a bolt of lightning down Mike’s spine. “When I’m in heat.”

Mike shivers. Swallows. “... Yeah?”

Will nods. “Every time.”

“What do you think about?” Mike presses his thigh up between Will’s legs, and Will makes a soft noise. 

“T-think about your hands.”

“My hands?”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “Think about how they’d feel on my body.”

Mike rolls them so that Will’s back is flat against the mattress, and Will gasps. Both of them have a thigh between the other’s legs, and Mike uses the new leverage he’s given himself to rock downwards. Will’s breath staccatos and his own hips come up to meet him, rubbing his cock into Mike’s thigh. One of Mike’s hands is braced on the pillow next to Will’s head, but he places his other hand on Will’s thigh; slides it upwards slowly, slowly, slowly, until it dances under the hem of Will’s - Mike’s - t-shirt. He drags his hand featherlight until it’s over Will’s ribs. Will draws in a shaky breath.

“What else do you think about, Will?”

He chews on his lip, almost as if he’s nervous to speak, but Mike applies some more pressure with his thigh, and with a gasp the words come tumbling out.

“I- I think about you kissing me.”

It sounds so innocent, in reality, but something about that makes it that much more sexual, and Mike’s own breathing is starting to pick up now. “Kissing you where?”

Will’s eyes fall shut, “anywhere.”

Mike tuts, leans down until their lips are almost touching. “Not good enough, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He groans beneath him, “please kiss me, Mike.”

Mike’s pretty sure he’d do anything Will asked him, especially if he asked in that breathy tone of voice, and especially if he said ‘please’, so he doesn't bother resisting anymore. Just leans down and lets their lips meet in an open mouthed kiss.

Will tastes exactly like he smells; rich and decedent, sweet and savoury, and Mike groans into it as their tongues meet. The air is thick now with the smell of Will and his arousal and Mike feels high on it. When he pulls away, Will chases his lips needlily, a small noise squeezing out of his throat. 

“Where else do I kiss you?”

Will’s eyes are wide and seeking, darting around Mike’s face, but he doesn't say anything, so Mike tries again. Presses his thigh down like before to make Will keen. “Come on, Will. Tell me.”

He gasps, “m-my neck.”

Mike places a kiss on his lips, then his jaw. Will tilts his head up and back and it’s so blatantly submissive that Mike rocks his own cock down into Will’s thigh as he mouths at pulse point. Will gasps, arching into it. 

Mike speaks into his skin, “where else?”

“Fuck, Mike,” The words are airy and quiet, “my chest.”

He trails his mouth downwards, pulling the neck of the t-shirt down, tonguing and nipping as he travels down Will’s collarbone. He stops on his way to suck a dark mark just below his clavicle, and he feels Will’s cock pulse against his leg. He draws Will’s t-shirt up to his chin and keeps going, then takes his nipple in his mouth, licking and sucking and kissing until Will is a breathless mess beneath him. 

“My stomach,” Will pants, and Mike smirks into his skin, because he’s finally picked up on how the game works. He rewards him by adjusting his position so that he’s knelt between Will’s legs, and then continues his journey south, placing barely-there kisses across his skin until he’s level with Will’s navel, both hands clutching his waist. He looks up at him from his spot below, and Will’s already staring down at him; eyes hooded, propped on his elbows, mouth dropped open as he pants desperately.

Mike pulls away, just enough that Will can see his mouth when he speaks, “where do you want my mouth, Will?”

Will clenches his eyes shut and groans, then wrenches them open again. “Please, Mike.”

It’s not really within the rules of the game, if Mike is being honest, but the truth is he’s so desperate to get his mouth around Will’s cock that he decides it’s close enough. He slides one hand down from Will’s waist to his groin, wraps his grip around his cock, and then covers the tip with his mouth. 

Will’s whole body jolts and a loud moan rips through his throat, his head falling back in a picture of bliss. Down here, so close to the source of his arousal, Will’s scent is all encompassing. Mike absorbs it into his pores, lets himself drown in it, sucks Will further down his throat until his nose is pressed against the hair at the base and sucks, and Will is writhing and keening and puffing out short breaths on each noise he makes. Mike decides he could do this forever, could live between Will’s thighs for the rest of his life if it meant keeping him in this perpetual state of pleasure. 

Will reaches one hand down to lace into Mike’s hair, and when Mike traces his tongue along the slit of his cock Will tightens his grip and tugs. A moan forces out of Mike’s throat, vibrating around Will’s cock, and he grinds his own length down hard and needy against the mattress below him.

“Shit, Mike that feels- fuck- that feels so fucking good.” And that simple praise has every neuron in Mike’s brain firing at once, has him redoubling his efforts and thrusting down on the fabric below him with his own broken moan, because the sound of Will breathlessly telling Mike how good he’s doing rewires something in his brain. “Fuck- stop, stop, stop.”

Mike yanks backwards with a start, his blood running cold. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Will laughs, “no, no I just- I’m really close.”

Oh. “Oh. That was… sort of the idea.”

“Well yeah, but-” Will pauses, face flushing, averting his gaze, “I kind of thought- I mean I hoped-” He sighs. Looks back into Mike’s eyes. “Please don’t make me say it.”

Oh. Mike grins, “say what?”

Will groans, dropping flat onto his back, “I hate you.”

Mike climbs up his body, caging either side of Will’s face with his arms, and presses their foreheads together. “No you don’t.”

“Ugh.” But Will smiles despite himself.

Mike leans down, glances his mouth along the shell of Will’s ear, “tell me what you want and it’s yours, baby.”

Will shudders, “you’re such a fucking asshole.” Mike just snickers and takes his earlobe between his teeth, and Will keens. “Please fuck me, Mike.”

Mike’s arms quiver. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

“Fuck,” he sounds breathless, “please, Mike.”

He’s not going to torture himself or Will any longer. He sits up, sheds his own jeans and boxers, and lines himself back up between Will’s thighs, which fall open for him so easily that Mike nearly crumbles then and there. The view of Will, sprawled out open below him, Mike’s t-shirt tucked up under his armpits, cock hard and weeping against his stomach, genuinely takes his breath away for a moment. He spends a second just staring at him, taking in how beautiful he looks, hair haloed across the pillows, but then Will thrusts his hips forward and grinds against Mike’s cock, covering him in slick. Mike’s breath hitches. 

“Please,” his eyes are wide, clouded with lust, eager and begging and desperate, and Mike lets out a deep, guttural groan before notching the head of his cock into Will’s slit and sliding forward. 

He's expecting to have to take his time, expects to have to work Will open slowly with his cock, but he’s so wet for him that he slides in easily, and all of a sudden he’s buried to the hilt in Will’s cunt. 

Will throws his head back with a cry, “fuck!”

Mike can't even say anything, because his brain has turned to soup in his skull. Will is tight and warm, and his skin is smooth and tanned save for the dark hickey on his chest that Mike put there, and his neck is bared, and all Mike can think is that he’s so, so, so in love with him. Nothing else matters but Will, his best friend, who he’s grown up with and loved and cherished since before he understood what the feeling was, split open below him, and it’s overwhelming in the most incredible way. 

“God, Will, you-” his voice is gravel, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die, “you feel so good around me. You look so fucking beautiful like this.”

He grabs Will’s hip with one hand, puts his other over his navel, then gives one shallow thrust, and Will screws his eyes shut. His jaw drops open in a silent cry, and he lifts one leg to wrap it around Mike’s side.

“Can you tell me what feels good?” Because he needs to make him feel good like he needs air.

Will takes a deep breath, “you feel good, Mike. Please just fuck me. Waited so long for this.”

Mike groans, drags his cock out slowly, then thrusts back in hard, and Will cries out. “Yeah? Been waiting for me to fuck you?”

Will doesn’t say anything, mouth still hung open. He just nods aggressively, and Mike rewards him with another deep press of his length. The noise Will makes in response is garbled and wet. 

“You look so fucking pretty like this, Will.” Apparently now he’s started talking, he can’t stop. He starts to build a rhythm; slow, deep thrusts from root to tip, and every time Will bears down around him, “so pretty, and strong, and perfect. So fucking perfect for me. My perfect boy.”

Tears flood over Will’s lashes, “yours!”

Mike’s cock pulses and he lets out a guttural noise of his own, leaning down with his elbows either side of Will’s head and pressing their cheeks together as he thrusts. “Yeah, baby? You’re mine?”

Will keens, “yes!”

“Say it, Will,” his voice is unrecognisable even to his own ears, rough and low and full of longing. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The noise that rips out of Will’s throat barely sounds human, “I’m yours! I’m yours, Mike, I- fuck,” he stutters as Mike grinds his hips in a circle, pressing deeper, “always been yours, always, always-”

The words pool like lava in his gut, “yeah?”. 

“Yes!” Will crying now, actual tears rolling down his cheeks, because Mike can feel them against his own. “You always- God- you always look after me so well. So good to me. So gentle with me- ah! Always been yours, Mike.”

Mike buries his face in Will’s neck, mouths at his scent gland, barely restraining the urge to bite him there. To make good on Will’s words and claim him properly, so everyone else knows that Will is his, too. He reaches down to grab the back of Will’s knees, pushes them up towards his chest, and on his next thrust his fucks so deep into Will that he nearly sees stars. Will thrashes below him, letting loose a frantic string of desperate noises and gibberish pleas. 

“I’m-” Mike can barely catch his breath, “I’m not going to last much longer, Will, I need to pull out.”

He moves to, but Will wriggles his legs free from Mike’s grasp and wraps them tight around his waist, digging the heels of his feet into his lower back, and when he speaks he hisses out through his teeth: “don’t you dare stop.”

It sends a pulse right through his core and he groans, “Will, I need-”

“I fucking mean it, I don't care, Mike, I don't care- You can go to the pharmacy- get me a pill, I don't care. But if you don’t- fuck- if you don't cum in me I’m going to kill you.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Point made, and who’s Mike to argue with that? He told him he’d give him what he wanted, so he just grabs hold of Will’s legs again, folds him in half like a sheet of cardstock, and creates a brutal, frantic rhythm as he chases both of their releases. 

“I think you're lying.” He growls it out through his teeth, because Will’s begging and crying has flipped a switch in his brain and he feels like a primal fucking creature. Words start flowing out of him before he has a chance for his brain to vet them first. “I think you want me to put a baby in you, don’t you? I think me talking about how your beautiful body works got you all riled up, and now you want me to fuck you pregnant. Hm? Am I right?”

He’d might have been embarrassed if Will didn’t clench down on him like a vice at his words, breathing picking up and moans skewing to a higher pitch, breathy and needy. “Mike.”

“You close, baby?”

He nods wildly, and Mike drives in harder, gritting his teeth at the feeling of his knot starting to swell. “Touch yourself, Will, want you to cum on my cock. Need to feel it, baby, please.”

Will shakes his head, “bite me.”

Mike’s gone. He has no upper brain function left, just growls into Will’s throat and then bites, sinking his teeth into the soft, thin skin. The taste of copper fills his mouth, tangy but with a hint of something that belongs distinctly to Will, and Mike’s knot swells almost painfully, catching on the rim of Will’s entrance. Will reaches a shaky hand down to his own length, gives one, two, three brisk strokes, and then his mouth opens in a silent scream as his release rips through his body, his whole form pulled taunt and tensed, ropes of cum hitting his chest and covering his stomach.

Mike manages three more pounding thrusts into his cunt before his knot is pushing into his entrance, and he cries out around his mouthful of Will’s skin as his own release shatters through him, painting Will’s insides. All Mike can think is that he’s claiming Will in every way possible, biting his throat and merging their scents and filling him up, and his cock gives one final valiant twitch and one final pulse of spend before he collapses in a heap. 

The whole room stills in the aftermath, a comfortable quiet broken only by the sound of both of their heaving breaths. Mike releases his grip on Will’s throat, feels Will wince below him as his teeth withdraw, and he laps at the wound apologetically. He slowly lowers Will’s legs, laying them flat on the bed and rubbing soothingly over the muscles in his thighs. 

Will shivers. Mike tastes salt and realises that Will is crying, the tears rolling down his throat to where Mike is kissing his mating bite. 

He draws back, and Will looks wrecked. His hair is fluffed and knotted, his eyes red and face wet with tears, bloody bite on his throat and a dark bruise on his chest. He’s shaking. 

“Are you okay?”

Will nods, letting out another wet sob.

“Are you sure? Because you’re kind of giving me mixed signals here.”

Will laughs, and it’s soggy and sounds slightly like he’s drowning, but he’s got a bright radiant smile on his face through the tears, and Mike is entranced. “God, Mike,” he sniffs, “I’m just- I’m so fucking happy.”

Now Mike’s laughing too, and the pair of them are laying there in hysterics, still locked together thanks to Mike’s knot, with Will looking like he fought a particularly violent possum and lost, and all Mike can think is that he’s the luckiest person in the whole world. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“A little,” Will says, candid as always, “but I liked it. Didn’t expect it to feel like that when you bit me.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, curious, “what did it feel like?”

Will opens his eyes, and Mike realises how much he missed them. “It really hurt at first, like, a lot, but then it was like- I don’t even know how to explain it- euphoric, maybe? It was crazy.”

“Does it hurt now?”

He shrugs, “a little. Kinda sore.”

Mike nods. Stares at Will. Makes a decision.

“Bite me, too.”

It’s like someone’s poured cold water over him. He stares at Mike, eyes wide. “What?”

“Bite me, Will.”

He laughs, “it doesn't work like that, Mike-”

“It does, actually,” because Mike has researched it. Has thought about it. “Male omegas can give mating bites. They think it’s a genetic mutation, or something, from a long time ago. I don’t get it, really, lots of biological mumbo-jumbo, but I don’t really need to.” He presses their foreheads together. “Bite me, Will.”

Will draws in a shaky breath, “you'd want that?”

Mike nods immediately, “‘course I would. I’m yours, Will, always have been. Want everyone to know.”

“How do you even-”

Mike knows what he’s going to ask, “I know that because I’m fucking gone on you, Will Byers. As soon as you presented I spent six hours at the library reading everything the librarian would let me borrow about omega biology, and some stuff that she wouldn't. I stopped towel drying my hair when we were 17 because you said it looked soft when I used a blow dryer. I have a cupboard full of emergency supplies for you in case you ever go into heat at my flat. I-” he laughs, “I started drinking oat milk 8 months ago because it’s what you drink and I didn't want to have to buy two cartons.” He brings a hand up to cradle Will’s cheek. “I’m yours, and I have been for a long, long time.”

Will laughs incredulously, “you hate oat milk.”

“Yeah!” He laughs too, “I do! It tastes like blended cardboard!” Will scoffs, “but I refuse to buy two different bottles, and if drinking playdough flavoured milk makes you happy then I’ll do it, too.”

Will shakes his head, but his eyes are shining, “you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, a little. And kind of pathetic. So I kind of need you to bite me so no one else comes near me.” 

Will raises an arm, hand shaking, and trails one finger along Mike’s pulse point. “... Here?”

Mike shudders, “yeah. Or wherever you want it. Wherever you think it’ll look good.”

“Jesus, Mike,” Will’s throat bobs, “that’s-”.

Mike doesn't let him finish his thought, just grabs his hips, seeing as they’re still joined together, and rolls them so that Will is straddling him. The movement pushes his cock deeper, and they both gasp. 

Mike tilts his head back, baring his throat, and Will’s breathing stutters. He leans down slowly, trails his nose up the long column of Mike’s throat, places gentle kisses right against his pulse, then hesitates.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I just used your neck as a chew toy, Will. You’re going to have a bruise around it for a week. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

He’s silent for a long moment, like he’s ruminating over it, so Mike opens his mouth to try and convince him, but suddenly there’s teeth sinking into his throat and his vision goes white. 

Will’s right, the feeling is indescribable. There’s a brief moment of intense, shooting agony, but then it’s overwritten by pure liquid pleasure. His whole existence is Will; Will in his lap, Will’s cunt around his cock, Will’s teeth in his muscle, Will’s scent swirling around them. He’s pretty sure he blacks out. 

When his vision returns, Will loosens his jaw, and Mike shivers as he starts placing soft kitten licks around it. Cleaning it for him. It shouldn't be hot, but it is. Mike thinks he might cum again if a cool breeze passes through the room.

Will sits up, and Mike turns his head to look at him, but Will grabs his chin and forces his head backwards, then moans.

“Fuck.” Will pants, then grinds down on Mike’s cock, which is already hard again. “Fuck, Mike, I fucking bit you. Why is- that’s really fucking hot. You look so good.”

Mike reaches up with his arms, to hold his waist and guide his hips in their movement, but Will grabs both of his wrists and pins them above his head, and oh. Mike didn’t realise this was something he was into until right this second. 

“Stay there,” Will grunts, “I want- I want to-”

“Whatever you want.” Mike moans, arching up, “take what you want, baby. Make yourself feel good. Whatever you want.”

“Yeah?” Will grinds harder, and Mike’s rock hard, despite the fact his knot hasn’t even started to deflate yet. “What was that you were saying, earlier? About me wanting to be good for you?” Will smirks, swivels his hips, and Mike groans, “kinda seems like maybe you want to be good for me.”

“Fuck, Will,” Mike’s whole body feels hot, “yeah, I do. Want to be so good for you, love. Want to look after you.”

Will’s breathing is laboured, “you’re so fucking good for me, Mike. Take such good fucking care of me all the time. Made me lazy because you look after me so well.”

Mike whines, “good, fuck. Be lazy, baby, let me- fuck-” he gasps as Will clenches his hole around him, “fuck, fuck, holy shit, Will, I’m going to fucking cum again.”

Will cries out, “do it. Fill me up, Mike. Want your cum. Give it to me, yeah? Be good for me, alpha.”

Mike’s not even in control of his own body anymore, his hips fly upwards and he sobs out a moan, his arms pinned beneath Will’s grip, and Will’s so strong and solid and Mike stops breathing as his second orgasm rips through him, his cock working courageously to deliver another round of spend when it’s already been wrung dry. Will keens, rocks his hips again, and then he’s convulsing, cumming dry. The best he manages is a dribble of clear, watery ejaculate, and his whole body twitches with overstimulation and exhaustion as he collapses, sprawled across Mike’s chest.

“Holy fuck,” Mike can hardly get the words out, “holy fuck.”

Will bursts into laughter, taking gasping breaths between each shaky cackle, and presses his face into Mike’s sternum. 

“Holy fuck,” Mike says again, because holy fuck, and Will snorts against him, whole body shaking with the movement. Mike’s hands are free now, so he wraps both arms around Will’s body and holds him tight against him. 

They stay like that for a while, relearning how to breathe and trying to absorb one another into their own bodies, and eventually Mike’s knot softens. He twists, placing Will on his side on the mattress as gently as he can, and slowly withdraws himself from his body. Will lets out a noise of protest, so Mike leans back down and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ll be right back, baby, two seconds.”

It’s easier said than done, because as soon as he stands Mike realises his legs have turned into jello, but he manages to make his way to the bathroom. Cleans himself up as quickly and efficiently as he can.

He looks in the mirror above the sink.

The person who stares back at him is different to the one that he looked at this morning. Really, he probably doesn't look much different, but he feels it. Because he doesn't have the urge to pick at all of his features anymore. He looks the same as he did, but charcoal sketches flash through his mind now, superimposing themselves over his own reflection, and he realises he just… Doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t give a shit if his proportions are all wrong, and his nose is a weird shape, and his body rejects putting on muscle as if the idea is insulting. Doesn't give a shit, because Will likes him. Will loves him. Will feels safe and protected with him. He stares down at the mating bite on his neck, angry and red and still a little bloody, and nothing else about his appearance matters anymore. The only thing that matters is the physical representation of his devotion to the boy he loves. The boy who loves him back. 

He grabs a washcloth out of the cupboard, wets it with warm water, and adds a tiny bit of soap. He fills the glass that Will uses to rinse his mouth after brushing his teeth with cold water, and grabs a couple of tylenol out of the medicine cabinet. 

He takes one more look at himself in the mirror. 

Mike Wheeler doesn't look like an alpha, not in any of the ways he was always told he should. He never has, and he’s realised he never will, and for the first time in his life he’s okay with that. He doesn't need to look like an alpha. Just needs to look like Will’s alpha. 

He turns away from the mirror and exits the bathroom with his collection of supplies. 

After all, he’s turned looking after Will Byers into an art form, and he’s going to spend the rest of his life perfecting his craft. 

[viennacherries]

RAGDOLL

Will Byers/Mike Wheeler | NSFW | 17,734 words

Read on AO3

'It’s 8.56am, which means Will’s alarm will go off in 4 minutes. He’ll wake up, then text Mike to let him know his pre-heat has started, and Mike will let him know he’s on his way. He knows this, because he has turned looking after Will Byers into an art form - a carefully choreographed dance of adoration and tending. Right on schedule, his screen lights up with a notification. ' ___ Mike might not look like an alpha, but he's doing his best to act like one.

If Mike is completely honest with himself, he knows he doesn't look like an alpha. 

He always was a gangly kid, all limbs and no torso. His mom always said he'd grow into them. Said when he got taller everything would even out, like those puppies with giant ears that don't suit them until they hit 11 months old. Those breeds with the sagging skin, and giant paws, and the sad, haunting eyes that make them look as though they’ve lived a thousand lifetimes and enjoyed none of them.

The point is, he always thought - always hoped - that she was right; that he'd eventually even out a bit. That his shoulders would square off and his features would finally make sense. That he'd start looking like one coherent person, rather than the scattered remains of several people that someone had stitched together haphazardly.

When he first presented as an alpha at 15, a little later than most of his peers, he was ecstatic. Finally, finally, his body would get the memo and stop producing whatever the hormone was that made him look like a giant, pale string bean. He’d bulk out, gain some muscle, maybe get a little taller to compensate. He had visions of being some six-foot-five adonis who had to duck under doorways, and had to fly business class just for the leg room.  

As he stares at himself in the mirror now, age 22 and a bit, the full scale of his delusions hits him.

Objectively, his shoulders did widen, in that way puberty has a habit of doing to people. And he is taller now, somewhere around six-foot-one (but if you hear him telling someone he’s six-two then mind your business). Unfortunately for him, aside from that, not much else has changed. 

He's still got that bean-pole aesthetic going on. His arms still look a little too long for his body, and no matter how much protein powder he chokes down and how many times he drags himself through excruciating gym sessions, his body rejects putting on visible muscle as if it's allergic to the concept. Like as soon as his arms start to even hint at having biceps underneath them, his cells swarm to attack the foreign body. ‘I have protected you, you are safe another day,’ his cells whisper to him. ‘They will find my corpse floating in the river,’ he whispers back. 

His jawline is visible these days, but it's pointy and angular rather than the strong square he'd envisioned. His Adam’s apple is so visible it looks like he's got something stuck in his throat. He looks like someone grabbed the concept of what an alpha should look like and then stretched until they'd created a coat stand. His nose looks better suited for someone to hang their jacket on, anyway. 

For a while, he was still living blissfully in that tweenage delusion. Once he started eating better and working out more, it was so over for everyone. 

Problem is, he's close enough to his 23rd birthday that he can smell it, and he's running out of excuses to tell his reflection as to why he still doesn't look like the big strong leader he always dreamed he would. He can't really keep blaming the fact he’s a late bloomer when he has, for all intents and purposes, finished blooming.

So yeah, if he’s completely honest with himself, Mike Wheeler has never looked like an alpha. And with a sudden startling clarity, he’s realising he never will. 

He gets annoyed at himself for caring, because he knows it's all just stereotypes anyway. Stupid misogyny, rooted in the fact that people decided that omegas were ‘women’ and alphas were ‘men’ and for that reason they should look that way and act that way. Like just because a guy presented as an omega, he should suddenly become a quiet meek creature who stays at home cooking and pumping out kids. Like anyone deserves to be reduced to nothing more than their primary or secondary gender, as if that's the most important thing about them. It's stupid and offensive and outdated and ridiculous, and obviously Mike doesn't agree with them and he thinks it's silly anyone ever did, but that doesn't mean he's able to switch off the voice in his head that tells him he's never going to measure up. 

It also doesn't help that every single one of his friends has transformed into someone you'd see on the homepage of Calvin Klein. 

Lucas and Max both presented pretty early. Lucas was a stereotypical alpha in every sense of the word - strong and tall, calm and collected, but fiercely protective and loyal to a fault. He'd grown up and grown out. Mike is comfortable enough in his own sexuality to admit that Lucas looks hot, and he's comfortable enough with his own insecurities to admit that he’s incredibly jealous. 

Max’s own alpha presentation had been a surprise to everyone except the party. Girls presenting as alphas isn't exactly rare, but it's uncommon enough - especially in rural Indiana - that it had caused a bit of a stir. To the people who knew her, it made perfect sense. She’s deceptively strong, beautiful in that slightly scary way that female alphas tend to be, and Mike’s never known anyone quicker to anger than her. He’d told her all of this once, thinking he was being nice, and she’d punched him square in the stomach. He avoids attempting to compliment her now. 

Dustin and El, who had presented as betas a little while before his own presentation, wouldn't look out of place on a runway. The pair of them both have a neutral-secondary-gender vibe going on, where depending on the lighting they're in or on their clothes that day, he could believe they were alphas, or betas, or omegas. He’s pretty certain that's not a beta-specific thing, it’s just a them thing. Regardless, the pair of them look stunning now, no matter how they dress. 

And then there's Will.

Will was the last of their group to present, which wasn't exactly surprising. With everything that had happened to him, it was almost inevitable that the stress would affect it. Plus, anecdotally, omegas seem to tend towards later presentation (him and Will had sat researching it one night at a sleepover, when Will lamented that he thought there might be something wrong with him, because Mike absolutely couldn't let that stand).

When he did present, it was a surprise to absolutely no one. Little Will Byers, playground punching bag, with his big doe eyes and tiny stature, had been clocked as a future omega before he could even take off his comically oversized backpack on the first day of kindergarten.

The problem is that Will didn't stay that little doe-eyed kid. For some reason, perhaps because the universe hates Mike Wheeler specifically, Will had gotten buff.

It was genuinely absurd. Will Byers should not be buff. There is no world in which sweet Will, with his artist's hands and his freckled cheeks, should ever have gotten strong. 

Mike spends a lot of time trying to convince himself he isn't jealous, but the truth is that the way Will has matured makes him absolutely green around the gills. He’s still got that soft skin, those big round eyes, that constellation of freckles across his cheeks. But now he’s also got broad shoulders, and thick arms and thighs, and an ass so fucking fat with a p-h-a-t that you could bounce a quarter off of it. He’s still a head shorter than Mike like he always has been, and he's still sickeningly sweet and thoughtful in a way that makes Mike’s stomach churn with a feeling he won't dare name, but he's stoic and strong and handsome in all the ways Mike wishes he was. Mike wonders if maybe his own biceps took one look at Will’s, went ‘nah, why fucking bother’, and just gave up trying. 

It's weird too, because even despite his arms turning into tree trunks and his ass having developed its own gravitational pull, there's still something about Will that screams omega. Mike thinks it's just the way he holds himself, or his aura and chakras, or something like that. Will isn't meek or subservient or whatever the stereotypes say an omega ‘should’ be; in fact he's probably one of the strongest, bravest, most loyal people that Mike has ever met. Maybe it’s because he's gentle and sweet and kind, despite all the reasons the world has given him to be anything but. Maybe it's because he always smells like acrylic paint and charcoal, and his jasmine laundry detergent, and his vanilla shampoo, and his natural scent of light roast coffee and summer rain. Maybe it's just because somewhere deep down, where Mike tries to bury the thought, he wants to believe that he and Will were meant for each other in every possible way. Meant to be friends - best friends - no matter what. Like Mike’s purpose was always to protect Will.

He’s wondered before, in the privacy of his room late at night, if that's why he wishes he looked more like what society says he should. When the world is quiet, and the stars are his only witnesses, he lets himself come to terms with the fact that he wishes he was big and powerful and strong because he wants to keep Will safe - because he wishes he’d been strong enough to keep him safe when he needed it. Wishes he could've been there. Wishes he could've saved him from all of the awful things that happened to him. Then the sun rises in the morning and Mike pretends he never thought it, like he sweat the feeling out through his pores while he slept and the light of day peeking through his blinds is rinsing it off.  

He lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head, willing the thoughts to disperse, forcing his eyes to focus back on his reflection. Yeah, nothing about Mike’s form screams ‘protector’.

Still, he does what he can. Walks halfway across their sprawling college campus from his dorm to Will’s, just to walk back 90% of the way he already came so he can carry Will’s hulking bag of art supplies, instead of them just meeting at the café two blocks from Mike’s own front door. Will picks the movie at every hangout, picks the takeout they order. Mike takes him grocery shopping with him so that he can stock his own fridge with the stuff Will likes, and so he can force Will to buy his own groceries while Mike is with him, so he can carry them for him. 

He does what he can. Does everything he can. 

Today is another one of those days where he’s doing something for Will (as if that isn't what most of his life boils down to), but this is one of the more important things he does for his friend. 

He thinks it started a few cycles after Will’s presentation. They'd been on the couch in Mike’s basement, watching Star Wars for the hundredth-thousandth time as was their sleepover ritual, and suddenly Will was sweating bullets and shivering in his seat. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, in his soft tone, avoiding eye contact in the perfect picture of submission. “I- I think I need to go home.”

“What? Why?” Mike remembers he had sat bolt upright in his chair. Remembers thinking he’d done something wrong, or that Will was mad at him, or something like that.

“I- uh.” Will had stuttered and flushed and fumbled over his words, and just as Mike had opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, he’d smelt it. The acrid smell of hormones which was distinctly Will. Back then, his scent was softer, less mature, but it had suddenly been all around Mike. He felt it in his throat, against his eyeballs, could curl his hands around it in the air and touch it. 

“Oh.” He’d said, dumbly. “Pre-heat?”

Will had flushed even deeper, staring down at his hands, “y-yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Mike had said, because he couldn't fathom it. “It’s fine. Not your fault. Give me two seconds, don't move.”

He'd taken the stairs two at a time, slammed the basement door shut, taken a deep breath of air that didn't smell like Will, and formulated his game plan. 

He’d gone back downstairs prepped and ready for battle. Three bottles of ice cold water straight from the fridge, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel and a hot-water bottle tucked into a t-shirt (because he knew some people preferred heat for their cramps and others preferred cold, because as soon as Will presented he’d made it his mission to be ready just in case), and an armful of soft blankets he’d been keeping under his bed for if this situation ever arose. He had tied his hair out of the way, had rolled up his sleeves, and he had half a roll of toilet tissue stuffed up his nostrils, with one of his mom’s clothespins clamping over them for good measure. 

Will had stared at him, face blank, mouth hung open. 

“I got you some things.” Mike had said, nasally and stilted through his plugged nose, and Will had stared at him a moment longer before bursting into a fit of hysterics.

“You look ridiculous!” He’d all but choked around the words as he gasped for breath, clutching his stomach with the force of his laughter, and Mike had just smiled.

“What? You don’t like it? The girls at school say this look is super in right now.” He’d dropped his bundle of supplies to the floor at his feet and started posing like a vogue model, flexing his non-existent muscles and pouting his lips like a duck, and Will had lit up in another round of bright cackles. 

Once they’d calmed down, he'd spoken seriously to Will. “You can go home, if you want, but I know it's late and you hate calling your mom when she’s already in bed. We’ll set you up down here, make sure you're comfy, and then first thing tomorrow your mom can take you home.”

He remembers clearly that Will’s eyes had shone with unshed tears, full of emotion and thankfulness and awe which made Mike’s young heart clench in a way he didn't understand yet. “Thank you.”

“Don’t need to thank me. You want the hot-water bottle or the ice pack?”

“Uh.” He’d flicked his eyes between both of them, “I don’t know.”

Mike had raised his eyebrows, then chuckled. “Just take both. See which you prefer. I bought them for you anyway.” Will didn't have anything to say to that. Just stared at him some more. Mike remembers he tried not to think about it as he set up the pull-out sofa for Will and built him a nest using a few of the blankets. Then he tucked Will up in it, used the last blanket to swaddle him like an oversized newborn, and took a few steps back to admire his handiwork. 

“Comfy?” He’d asked, and Will had nodded.

“So comfy.” He’d muttered, sinking into the duvets, rubbing his face up against their downy texture. Mike’s heart had done somersaults. 

He had scooted the water bottles as close to Will as he could get them without putting them on the bed, stepped back once more to check everything looked in order, then nodded to himself in satisfaction. 

“Okay, sleep well, alright? I’ll be in my room if you need me, but don’t get up, just use your walkie. I’ve put it on the table for you.” 

He’d turned to leave, made to step towards the door, before he heard a tiny, muffled “wait,” coming from the mountain of blankets. 

He’d turned back, crouched down next to him, peering down to check he was okay, “what’s wrong? I can bring the walkie closer if you want, just in case.”

Will had looked up at him, eyes slightly hazy in the way that pre-heat makes people, and whispered in the sweetest, most heartbreaking voice; “stay?” 

And, really, who in the world could refuse that?

Mike’s mom found them both there the next morning, Will curled up against Mike’s side, Mike drooling heavily as his mouth hung open to breathe, paper and pin still firmly blocking his nose. 

His and Will’s moms hadn't been super happy with them. Said they should've woken someone up so they could take Will home. But they also recognised that Mike had done everything he could to make sure Will was comfortable, and more importantly safe, so they weren’t even really that mad. They were kids, after all. He was just looking after his friend. 

After that, it sort of just became a thing. Joyce would phone over just as Will was entering his pre-heat to let the Wheelers know, and Mike would beg and plead and offer to do everyone’s chores for a week if his mom would let him go to Will’s house. He’d stumble out of Nancy’s car, weighed down by all of his supplies, knocking on the door with his forehead because his hands weren’t free, nose already plugged. Every time, Joyce gave him the talk. Told him if he at any point felt like he was going to do something he shouldn’t, then he needed to come and wake her up, and every time Mike would swear on his life he would and bound up the stairs as quickly as he could. He never stayed for the rest of Will’s heat cycle, just that first day where he was hazy and sad and his stomach was hurting enough to make him feel sick. He’d tuck him up, keep him hydrated, and let him fall asleep on his chest. 

Once they got a bit older, Joyce stopped letting him stay round; she said knew Mike was careful and she trusted him, but hormones were just too unpredictable for it to be safe. That they weren't kids anymore, that they were becoming men. Mike hated it, but he understood. He still always came round, made a nest the best he could with his giant clumsy hands, and tucked Will up into it. 

Now here they are. Both 22, both knee deep in their final exam season, and Mike’s still tending to him like it’s a full time job. Like his role in the cosmos is to come to Will’s beck and call whenever he needs him. Like Will is his. He tries not to think that last bit. He usually fails.

It’s 8.56am, which means Will’s alarm will go off in 4 minutes. He’ll wake up, then text Mike to let him know his pre-heat has started, and Mike will let him know he’s on his way. He knows this, because he has turned looking after Will Byers into an art form - a carefully choreographed dance of adoration and tending. 

He’s already freshly showered to remove as much of his own scent as possible, and he’s blowdried his hair despite the fact he thinks it makes it look frizzy (because one time when they were 17 Will made an off handed comment that it was softer when he did, so he has done ever since). He’s packed his backpack, with a set of spare clothes he keeps in a cupboard away from the rest and washes with a special detergent so that none of the smells aggravate Will’s heightened senses, just in case it's ever particularly bad. He’s got two of those massive hydroflask things full of ice cubes so that the water will stay cold for at least the next 24 hours, a spare blanket in case Will suddenly decides he hates the texture of his own, a tube of lemon flavoured throat sweets, and a pack of those damp towelette wipe things, because that way he can put a wet cloth on Will’s forehead if he starts to burn up without needing to leave the room. He’s ready to go, it's just a case of standing, staring at his own lackluster visage, and waiting for his phone to buzz. 

Right on schedule, his screen lights up with a notification. 

Mike rolls his eyes. For some reason Will always asks, even though Mike’s answer is always the same. 

He smiles down at his screen, because he loves that Will lets him do this for him. He’s sure Will would be completely fine without Mike hovering over him like a worried mother, but he lets him fuss and dote anyway. It makes something in his chest light up with pride, like he’s a good alpha taking care of his mate. 

Not that that's what they are. They're just friends. Best friends. It’s just one of those primal, instinctual alpha feelings that he couldn’t switch off if he tried. And believe him, he’s tried. 

He swings his bag over his shoulder, strides out the door to his apartment and locks it behind him, then sets off. 

~*~

He’s outside Will’s door exactly fifteen minutes later, reaching into his pocket to grab his nose plugs (they mass produce them these days. Mike likes to think he was somewhat of a pioneer). They're these insanely uncomfortable little rubber bullets that he has to shove up each nostril, but they have little breathing holes in them and internal filters, so he doesn't have to breathe through his mouth. It has the added benefit of making him sound less like he’s talking through a tin can. They still do, objectively, make him look a little ridiculous; as if he’s flaring his nostrils constantly.

He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Twists the handle to Will’s apartment and steps inside. 

Will’s sitting on the sofa facing the door, wrapped in one of the fluffy weighted blankets Mike brought him a couple years back, sketchbook on his lap and pencil in hand. The TV is on, some random daytime show droning in the background (because Will hates sitting in silence), and the blue light illuminates him in this halo-esque glow that, for a brief moment, has Mike’s heart working overtime to escape out of his mouth before he swallows it back down. Will looks up as soon as Mike steps through the threshold, and an easy smile finds his face.

“Hey.” He closes his sketchbook gently, “thanks for coming.”

Mike rolls his eyes at that, “how many times are we going to have this conversation?”

Will laughs, “probably for the rest of our lives?”

And, yeah, isn't that a lovely thought? Will, letting Mike look after him forever. Mike, keeping Will safe until they're old and grey and wrinkled. The mental image is so vivid and so sudden that Mike trips over his own feet, just a little.

He just laughs, instead of breaking out into tears like he wants to, “yeah, probably, but still. Stop thanking me.”

He comes to a stop next to the sofa, Will craning his neck to look up at him, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Stop giving me a reason to.”

Mike grins, “never, and fuck you for asking.”

Will chuckles, then makes to stand. “Sit down, I’ll go put the kettle on.”

Mike’s hand is on Will’s shoulder before the sentence is even fully out of his mouth. “Yeah, right, like I don't know where your kettle is. You want lemon and ginger?”

It’s Will’s turn to roll his eyes, but he’s smiling, and he gives up on his attempt at getting up. “Yeah, please. I’m doing alright at the minute, but I give it an hour before my stomach starts trying to escape my body.”

Mike just nods, deposits his backpack on the sofa next to Will in case he wants to root through it, and makes his way into the kitchenette. Fills the kettle, sets it to boil, grabs them both a mug. He puts a lemon and ginger teabag in one and dumps some coffee granules in the other. Will has an extensive collection of different fruity teas, and Mike doesn't hate all of them, but when his nose is plugged up he can't taste anything anyway, so he doesn't like wasting them. Especially because Will gets the kind of enjoyment out of them that most people only find snorting a line of powder off of a seedy club bathroom’s toilet seat. The lemon and ginger is actually his least favourite, but it settles his stomach when the nausea hits. 

He takes both mugs once they’re brewed, setting each down on a coaster on the coffee table. Will has curled himself back up against the arm of the sofa, knees up towards him, sketching again. Mike’s backpack is on the floor now, and the tube of lemon throat sweets is open by Will’s socked feet. Mike smiles to himself as he sits down. 

“What’cha drawing?” 

Will’s eyes flick up briefly to meet Mike’s, then are back on the paper. “Nun.”

Mike scrunches his face up in confusion. “You’re drawing a nun? Is this coursework?”

Will looks back up at him, and then a smirk starts gradually taking over his features. “Nun’ya business.”

Mike groans, throwing his head back over the back of the sofa, and Will bursts out into laughter. “That wasn’t even funny, that was dumb.”

“It was funny!” He can barely get the words out, “you should've seen your face!”

Mike scowls, lifting his head back up to level Will with a glare. “It wasn't this funny!”

Will shrugs, still chuckling. He’s looking back at the paper now, his pencil resuming its movements over the page, “was to me.”

“That's because your sense of humour is broken. You watch too much TikTok.”

He snorts, not bothering to look up. “Don't even, you’re just as bad.”

Mike just tuts in response. “Are you seriously not going to show me what you’re working on?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Mike groans again, then toes off his trainers and puts his feet up on the coffee table. “That sucks. You suck. You’re awful.”

There’s another snort from the other end of the couch, “and you’re a bad liar.”

He doesn't respond, because he’s right. 

They drift into a comfortable silence after that, Will sketching his secret art (Mike’s so over it), Mike staring at the couple on TV arguing over a DNA test. Turns out the baby isn't his, which is a real shocker obviously, because they seemed so happy together. The guy has just screamed and pushed the cameraman when Will starts to fidget.

Mike looks at him from the corner of his eye, and he can see the signs that he’s starting to get uncomfortable. He’s known him long enough that his quiet tells are like blaring claxons. There’s a light flush dusting itself over Will’s cheeks, his hand movements as he draws have started to get a little stilted, and his eyes are just beginning to get that hazy, faraway look.

Mike turns to face him. “Drink your tea.”

He looks up at him, surprise ghosting his features, “why?”

Mike tilts his head down, looking up at Will through his lashes with his eyebrows raised in a face that he hopes says ‘do you really need to ask?’, but when Will still doesn't move he says, “you’ve started getting twitchy, which means your stomach is going to start churning soon, and we both know you'll feel better if you drink it sooner rather than later. You need to coat your stomach.” 

Will’s silent for a second longer, just staring at Mike and not saying anything, so Mike swings his feet off the coffee table and grabs Will’s mug, placing it in his hands. “Drink it, dummy, the drawing can wait.”

Mike leans back in his chair and turns back to the TV again, satisfied, but after a moment realises Will still hasn't moved. He looks back at him, and he’s still staring. 

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“How do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

Will makes an exasperated noise, somewhere between a choke and a laugh, and waves the hand that isn't clutching his mug in Mike’s direction. “That! That thing where you just- you just know! How do you do that?!”

Mike shrugs, because he doesn't have an answer, really. To him, it’s just obvious. “Because I know you.”

Will laughs humorlessly, “I had literally just started feeling ill. Like, literally thirty seconds ago. I was about to ask you to pass it to me.”

“Oh sick, go me.” He’s going to be preening like a peacock for the next week.

“But how?” Will sounds exasperated. “I don’t get it you just- you notice things about me that I don’t even notice.”

Mike shrugs again, even though hearing Will say that gives him butterflies. “I guess-” he cuts himself off, because he can't say what he had been about to. He can’t say ‘I guess I’ve loved you for so long that I’ve made it my whole personality. I guess I need you to be happy and healthy and safe more than I need oxygen. I guess, whatever your soul is made of, mine is made of too.’ 

He clears his throat. “I guess I’m just observant, when it comes to you.”

Will drops his arm back in his lap, and doesn't say anything else, just keeps staring. He keeps staring, and it’s doing something to Mike’s gut that he doesn't think he’ll be able to survive, so he turns back towards the TV.

“Drink your tea, Will. Don’t make me say it again.”

He hears Will’s breathing stutter slightly beside him, and then he hears him sipping on his drink. He feels a small, satisfied smile creep onto his face. They sit like that for a little while, just basking in silence, until eventually Will holds his mug out to him. 

He turns back to look at him and takes it out of his hands. Glances down into the mug to check it’s empty, which it is, and his eyes flick back up to meet Will’s. 

He looks so soft, wrapped up in his blanket. His eyes are wide and expectant, like he’s waiting for Mike to say something, like he’s waiting for Mike’s approval, and the words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Good boy.”

The room freezes. Time stops. Will stares at him, eyes wide, mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’, his cheeks flushing crimson. A pit opens up in the bottom of Mike's stomach. 

“Uh,” how the fuck does he recover from that? “I mean- like- good that you- you know? Good that you drank it. That’s good. It’s good for you. It’ll help.”

Will just nods, dumbstruck. “Yeah.”

Mike nods too. “Yeah.” 

He puts the mug back down on the coaster, leans back in the seat, and stares resolutely at the screen, aware that his own face has gone bright red. 

He clears his throat. “How’s your drawing going?” He needs to talk about something else right this second or he’s going to melt into the ground out of embarrassment.

Will sighs, “I’m still not showing you it.”

Mike groans dramatically, some of the tension easing away already. “I know. I’m just asking how it’s coming along. Not everything I do has an ulterior motive.” He makes the mistake of looking over at him then, because for some reason he has magnets in his eyes that are scientifically drawn to Will, and he’s smirking at him.

“Not everything? So some things do?”

“What?! No! That's not what I meant and you know it.”

Will’s laughing, “hmm, do I? It definitely sounded like that was what you meant.”

Mike groans, closing his eyes and letting his head fall backwards. “I give up. Don’t tell me about your hobby. Sit and do it in silence while I pretend you don't exist.”

That makes Will crack up again, and he comes scooting along the sofa to slot into Mike’s side. He rests his head on Mike's shoulder, “you couldn't ignore me, you’d feel too bad.”

Mike feels his own heart rate ratchet up, just a tad. Him and Will have always been kind of touchy, which Lucas and Max especially have always loved to point out (‘hey Mike, why is Will the only one that gets to lay on your lap while we watch movies?’ Lucas had said once. ‘Don’t be jealous. Wheeler’s more bone than anything else, Will’s got the worst pillow in the room.’ Max had bit back). Still, there's something about the feeling of Will clinging to him that makes him feel like his body is about to start vibrating. Like you could hook him up to the electrical grid and he'd power the city for a week.

“Not true,” he somehow manages to spit out. He feels like someone's got a gun to his head.

“Completely true,” Will laughs as he says it, and Mike needs someone to pull the fucking trigger. “You’re clingy as shit, you’d make it five minutes before you were begging for my forgiveness.”

Will doesn't know just how ready Mike would be to beg him for anything, so instead of trying to argue he just scoffs. “Whatever, shut up and do your drawing.”

“Can’t.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Will lets out a sigh, as if he's suffering immensely, “I’m comfy here, and I know you’ll look over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. If I want to draw in private I need at least a foot between us.”

Mike’s almost hurt. “You don’t want me to see it that bad?”

Will goes quiet for a second, and Mike imagines that he’s probably chewing his lip. He does that a lot when he thinks. “It’s just a personal project. I’m not ready for anyone to see it yet. It's not like I don’t trust you, or anything like that.”

That makes Mike feel better, although now he feels guilty too, because Will sounds upset. “Sorry, I wasn't trying to make you feel like you had to show me. It’s your art and it’s your choice. I just like looking.”

Will nods, and his hair brushes against Mike’s neck. The flush floods back to his cheeks in full force. “I know. I just wanted you to make sure you knew that.”

Sweet, kind, thoughtful William Byers. Mike’s so in love with him he thinks he might split apart at the seams. 

“You want another cup of tea?”

Will shakes his head no. 

“You sure?”

He nods. “Don’t move. Comfy.”

That's the next sign that Will’s pre-heat is starting to progress. He gets clingy and cuddly, and a tiny bit bratty. Mike kind of loves it. He smiles at the screen, like it's a private secret between him and the dysfunctional couple there who are still arguing about the parentage of their kid. “If you’re sure. Just let me know if you change your mind, you know I’m happy to get you one.”

“I know.” He’s speaking quietly now, soft and sleepy, “I know you are. You’re so good to me.”

Mike’s eyes bulge out of his head, he feels the color drain from his face as all of the blood rushes down south. “I- You know. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is.” Will whispers again, and he’s tilting his head now to try and look up at Mike, so his breath brushes against his throat when he speaks. “It is a big deal. You always take care of me. I’m lucky to have you.”

Mike thinks he might be having a cardiac event. Will’s gentle, quiet praise is like a drug, rushing through his veins and making his brain feel sluggish and weak. He has no idea just how badly Mike needs to hear him say that he’s useful. Has no idea what the concept of Will feeling lucky to have him does to him. He might have an aneurism right now on his couch. 

“By the way,” Will says, and Mike is thankful for the topic change, because his heart can't take much more of this. “How are you always so quick?”

“Huh?”

“When I message, to ask you to come round. It’s like you already know. How do you do that?”

Actually, scratch that. Pause, freeze frame, rewind, because Mike’s changed his mind, he is not thankful for the topic change. Because there isn’t a world in which he can sit and lie to Will Byers, especially when he’s using his shoulder as a cushion, but the truth is a little bit mortifying. He sort of hoped that Will would just never notice. 

He sits quietly for a second, trying to work out how to say it, before eventually just sighing and rooting around in his jean pocket for his phone. Unlocks it, swipes to the third page on his home screen, presses the app icon, and passes Will his phone. 

Will sits up, and Mike mourns the loss of contact. He stares down at the screen. Looks up at Mike. Looks back down again. Repeats. Finally stops and just stares at the side of Mike’s face, because Mike is resolutely not looking at him right now. 

“What is this?”

“What does it look like it is?”

Will scoffs, “it looks like you have an app on your phone that you use to track my heat cycles.”

Mike shrugs.

Will’s quiet, and Mike is weak, so he turns to look at him. 

Will’s staring at him incredulously. “You have an app on your phone that you use to track my heat cycles?”

Mike shrugs again. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Mike furrows his brows, “so that I know when your heat is?”

“You know what I mean, idiot.”

Mike sighs and turns back to the TV. The woman is crying now, the man stood up in front of her, screaming, with a finger pointed at her chest. The show host has a kind of constipated look on their face. “So I can make sure I’m ready. I’m usually halfway out the door before you’ve even texted me, if I’m being completely honest with you.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mike, I don’t even track my heat cycle.”

“You should, it’s pretty useful. The apps these days are quite good, they've gotten pretty accurate.”

“Clearly!” Mike looks back, because Will sounds upset, but he doesn't actually look upset, so now Mike is kind of confused.

“Sorry if it’s weird. I can delete it,” he goes to take his phone back, but Will pulls it away from him and out of reach. He’s still staring. 

“How long have you been doing this?”

Mike winces, “do I have to answer that?”

Will narrows his eyes at him, “yes, Michael, you do. How long?”

He would've told him anyway, but Will saying his full name is a dirty trick in an attempt to get him to confess, and he knows it. The worst part is that it works every single time. 

“About 4 years. Give or take.”

Will’s jaw drops. He blinks twice. “You're lying.”

“I’m not. Check the tracking history if you want. Though it might not have all of it on there, now that I think about it. I switched apps at some point.”

Will just stares. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike is feeling incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden, and he looks down at his hands in his lap, “I realise that's probably a huge invasion of your privacy and you’re probably pissed at me. I just wanted to make sure I always had everything ready to go. Didn’t like the idea of you sitting waiting for me if you wanted me there with you.”

“I’m not pissed.” 

He looks back up. “You’re not?”

Will laughs, “you’re joking, right? How could I be pissed? That’s so-” he stops, floundering for the word, “it’s sweet Mike. It’s really sweet, and incredibly thoughtful.”

Mike’s cheeks are bright red again and he knows it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is!” And now Will kind of does sound annoyed, which is weird, because he just said he wasn't. Mike’s not really keeping up with what’s happening. “It is a big deal! No one does that, Mike. Literally nobody.”

Mike just shrugs. “I do.”

Will’s eyes soften. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. You do.”

He holds Mike’s phone back out towards him. Mike takes it. Tucks it back into his pocket. 

“How are you feeling?”

Will takes a deep breath. “Pretty shitty, actually. Whatever my stomach is doing right now, I’m pretty sure it should be classed as a hate crime.”

Mike barks out a laugh at that, then stands. “Well you’re not using me as a headrest anymore, so I’ll grab you another cup of tea, and then we can go lay down?”

Will nods, looking up at Mike. He’s glancing up through his lashes, eyes big and round and brown, and Mike has the overwhelming urge to sweep him into his arms and squeeze him until his ribs crack. Mike grabs the mug off the table and walks to the kitchen before he does something stupid like kiss him.

He spends longer than technically necessary making Will’s drink, just for the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and stare out of the window above the sink, like he's a wife who’s waiting for her husband to return from war. Except in this situation his husband is his blood cells and the war is somewhere below his belt. He’s pretty sure he’s about to become a widow. 

When he steps back into the living room, Will looks noticeably worse. He’s a little paler now, except for the flush on his cheeks, and there’s a few beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. Mike’s husband/blood makes a sudden and urgent return trip to the homeland of his brain.

“Hey, you feeling okay?” Mike puts the back of his free hand against Will’s forehead. His temperature has started to pick up, which is pretty normal for him, but it always makes Mike nervous regardless. Will’s lack of words, just a small shake ‘no’ of his head, doesn't help either. Mike nods resolutely, “okay, vertical time is over. You’ve used your vertical quota up for the day. We're going' horizontal. It’s all the rage, I’ve heard.” 

Will lets out a small, shaky laugh. “You’re dumb.”

“And you're going to puke if we don't go lay down, so let's get moving shall we?” Will makes another noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and slowly lifts himself up. He goes to start collecting his things, and obviously Mike won't be having that, so he grabs his wrist. Will twists to look back at him so fast Mike has half a mind to check him for a strain injury. “What are you doing? Go lay down, I’ll bring it all through.”

Will glares at him, “I’m not an invalid, Mike.”

Mike just hums, “whatever you say, grandpa. Go lay down before I throw you.”

Will just rolls his eyes and gives up the fight, making his way to his room. Mike throws his backpack over his shoulder, folds the blanket, and stacks Will’s sketchbook and pencil - plus the tube of sweets - on top of it. He picks everything up, using his hip to support it all so he can hold the mug in his other hand, then follows Will through to his room.

He’s already laid down, flat on his back and taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He cracks one eye open when Mike walks in. “I genuinely think omega biology is a cruel prank the universe is playing on me. How is this useful?”

Mike laughs, depositing Will’s belongings at the foot of the bed, and walks to the bedside table to place his mug down. “I can answer that if you really want me to, but I’m not certain you do.” He lets his backpack fall off his shoulder down his arm, then places it on the floor. 

Will’s eyes are wide open now, and he props himself up on one elbow, “you mean there’s an actual reason that my body tries to eat itself alive before it tries to make me breed through any means necessary?”

And, okay, Mike needs to never hear Will say the word ‘breed’ ever again. Or maybe he needs to hear it every day for the rest of his life. Jury’s still out, all he knows is he has to think about the wrinkliest of his professors and pray to any God that’s listening. 

“Yes, Will, there’s a reason. It’s not just a cruel and unusual punishment for your sins.”

“Feels like it,” Will mutters. “What's the reason then, Oh Wise One?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “The generally accepted theory is that your hormones are trying to raise your core body temperature, among other things.” He grabs Will’s sketchbook and pencil from the pile and deposits them on the table next to the mug, in case Will decides he wants to keep drawing. “The stomach pains and cramps are because your body is stimulating the muscles around your uterus, to make implantation of an embryo more likely.” 

He leans down and starts rooting through his backpack. “By raising your core temperature, it increases the likelihood of successful fertilisation of an egg. Basically, everything is chemically designed to make pregnancy as easy as possible.” 

He pulls out the towelettes, because Will’s forehead was a little warm for his liking, and one of the hydro flasks, because so far he’s only seen Will drink one single cup of tea, and that's not nearly enough to keep him hydrated. “Plus, supposedly, if you have sex during your heat cycle, you get some relief from the symptoms for a little while. That’s to encourage you to breed as many times as possible, apparently. But I don’t know, I’m not a scientist, just a guy with a wireless internet connection and too much free time.”

He stands up straight, flask in one hand and wipes in the other, and looks at Will. He’s staring at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, cheeks a vibrant scarlet.

Mike looks down at himself. Looks back up at Will. “... What?”

Will, if possible, flushes darker. He closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it again. “... Why do you know that?”

Mike shrugs. “‘Cos you’re an omega, duh. It’s already kind of unfair that this happens to you once a month while I get to rock around fine, the least I can do is understand it. Right?"

Will seems to chew that over. “... Right.”

Mike steps closer and hands him the bottle, “drink something, yeah? The muscle stimulation is dehydrating.”

Will’s eyes bug out of his head as he takes it from Mike, and he stares at the flask for a moment before looking back at Mike. “That’s why you’re always forcing me to drink so much?”

Mike nods, “yeah, obviously.” Now he’s got another free hand, he rips open the packet of wipes, removes one, then dumps the pack onto the table. He folds it into a rectangle, then smushes it against Will’s forehead to make it stick. He pulls away, and Will is still just staring at him, but he’s got a huge bottle of water and something cold and damp on his forehead, so Mike nods to himself, satisfied, and turns to grab the blanket. 

Will makes a noise behind him, like he’s in pain, and Mike whips back around. Crouches down next to the bed so they’re eye level.

“What's wrong? Are you alright? What hurts?” He scans his eyes frantically over Will, like if he thinks about it hard enough he can xray him and pinpoint the problem. 

Will groans, and throws himself backwards into the pillows, laying an arm over his forehead. “Nothing, Mike. I’m fine.”

Mike narrows his eyes. “Are you lying?”

He sputters, “no- no! I’m fine! I feel good!”

“You promise?”

“Oh for fuck-” Will stops, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I promise I am not in pain, Michael.”

He opens his eyes and looks over at Mike, and the sight of Will, sprawled out on his back making direct eye contact, makes his stomach lurch. 

“Okay. Just tell me if you’re not, right?”

He rolls his eyes, “I always do.”

Mike’s chest aches. 

“You want the blanket still? Or are you too hot?”

Will gives him a withering look, “obviously I want the blanket, what kind of question is that?”

Mike chuckles, “you’re right, my bad.” He stands up, “where’s your laptop? You want me to put something on Netflix?”

Will nods, “sure, I think it’s on my desk. What was that show we were watching the other day? That really awful ‘Traitors’ rip-off?”

“Uhhh… ‘The Mole’? I think?”

“That one!” Will laughs, “God, that show fucking sucks. Put that on.”

Mike laughs, “gotcha.” He retrieves Will’s laptop, grabs the blanket, and climbs onto the bed next to him. He throws the blanket out so that it covers them both, then lays back with his head on the pillows and the laptop on his thighs. Will immediately capitalises on this and turns onto his side, and Mike automatically lifts his arm so that he can lay his head on his chest. 

This is part of their routine. They’ll curl up together while Will naps away the worst of the cramps and the sweats. Mike will wake him up periodically to make him drink some water, and then once it gets dark Mike will leave and let Will ride out the rest of his cycle… however it is that he does that. Mike has a very strict rule of not thinking about what happens after he leaves. 

Will starts snoring before Mike even has a chance to turn the show on, but he sticks with Will’s choice anyway, just in case he wakes up and decides he wants to watch it. Neither of them care about what’s actually happening or who the ‘Mole’ is, anyway. They just watch it to laugh at all of the arguments.

Mike makes it a solid ten minutes before he falls asleep.

~*~

When he wakes up, Will is sitting up against the headboard, sketchbook in his lap, midway through a sip from the hydroflask. The cold compress from before has disappeared from his forehead. He places the bottle back on the table, unwraps a lemon sweet and pops it in his mouth, then continues sketching. 

Mike lets himself just watch him for a minute. 

The look of concentration he always has when he draws, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he looks in the room’s low light. Wide arms and strong jaw. He lets himself bask in just how handsome Will really is. Eventually though, he has to come back to reality. 

“Hey,” he chokes it out through a mouthful of sleep, and Will turns to look at him, a smile lighting up his features. Mike’s heart performs a gymnastics routine in his chest. 

“Hey,” He says it with a smile, all teeth and blinding light. “How'd you sleep?”

“Good, yeah.” Understatement of the century. “How long have you been awake?”

Will peeks at the laptop, then turns back to him, “an hour or so, ish.”

That has Mike sitting up, rubbing his eyes, trying to bring himself back to the land of the living, “why didn't you wake me up?” 

When he pulls his hands away from his eyes, Will has a small, bashful smile on his face. He shrugs, unapologetic, “you looked peaceful. And it was kind of nice to feel like I was doing something for you for a change.”

Mike’s tired, and Will looks adorable, so he doesn't think before he reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind Will’s ear. Will’s smile drops, surprise coloring his features. “You do plenty for me, Will. More than you know.” Because how can Mike tell him that the fact Will lets him look after him makes him feel like what he imagines heroin would? How can he put into words how much it means to him that Will trusts him like this? 

Will doesn't say anything, just stares at him, and he realises his hand is still cradling his face, so he drops his hand. Clears his throat. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

Will nods, turning back to his paper. He angles it away from Mike, which definitely doesn't hurt his feelings. “Alright for now. The nap helped.” His cheeks tinge with pink, “it usually does.”

“What time is it? Have you eaten?”

Will laughs, “relax, Mike. You literally just woke up. I’m not going to starve in the next five minutes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says it around a chuckle, “it’s 3pm.”

Mike scowls as he does the math in his head. “Okay, so you’re lying to me?”

Will snaps his head up at that, “what do you mean?”

Mike just levels his gaze at him. Raises his eyebrows. Will raises his own back, and Mike sighs. “It’s been five hours since your symptoms started kicking in. Which means you probably started feeling sick again, like, thirty minutes ago.”

Will’s eyes widen. Mike keeps staring, and eventually Will looks back down at his paper and huffs. 

“Seriously, why do you know that? Do I need a restraining order?”

“I told you,” he shrugs again, “I pay attention to you.”

Will doesn't look back up, just keeps staring at his page.

“So are you hungry? I could order chinese?”

That makes him look up, eyes wide and gleaming, “really?”

Mike rolls his eyes at him, “yeah, obviously. As if I’d joke about that, I know how you get about your fried rice.” Will laughs, eyes shining, and for a second Mike feels breathless, “the usual?”

“Yeah. Please.”

~*~

By the time their food arrives, they’ve eaten, and Mike has washed and dried the dishes, it’s just shy of 6pm. Mike’s leaning against the door frame of the bedroom, and he looks at Will, where he’s sat back against the headboard again.

“I’m going to make a move in a few, are you going to be okay?”

It’s a silly question, really. Will’s at that point where his pre-heat is tilting towards full, actual heat, and it shows. He’s sweating, shifting constantly in his seat, and despite his dedication to his art, he’s barely even drawing anymore. He looks up when Mike speaks, and his eyes have that glazed look that tells him he’s going to be out of his marbles in the next couple of hours. 

Will looks up and stares at him for a long moment, as if debating something with himself. Closes his sketchbook.

“No.”

“... No?”

“No,” He says again, resolute. “I’m not going to be okay.”

Fuck, Mike hates hearing him say that. Hates the idea of Will suffering in any way, shape, or form. He stands up straighter. “What can I do?”

Will’s eyes flick between both of Mike’s. Like he’s looking for something. Whatever it is he finds, he makes a decision.

“You could stay.”

Mike’s brain stutters, “... what?”

Will turns his body to face him fully. “You could stay here. With me. Like we used to.”

Mike sighs, “Will, we haven’t-”

“Since we were kids.” Will cuts him off. “I know. But I’m asking you to. I’m asking you to stay.”

Saying no to him makes something twist in his gut, because he wants that more than anything. Wants to stay, wants to take care of him. He wants. “Will… I can't.”

His face hardens, a scowl across his face, “why?”

Mike raises a brow, incredulous, “why can’t I stay with you, while you go into heat? Is that really what you’re asking me right now?”

“Yeah, Mike. It is.” Something like hurt laces his words. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Will throws the blanket off himself, rises and crosses half of the room. Stands a few feet away from Mike and crosses his arms over his chest. “I am. I’m completely serious.”

Mike rubs a hand across his mouth and the lower half of his face, but Will is still staring at him, expecting an answer. He sighs. 

“You know why, Will. You might want me here now, but you’ll wish I wasn't later when-” he cuts himself off, because he’s dangerously close to breaking his rule about not thinking about it, “you’ll just wish I wasn't.”

Will tilts his head to the side. Runs his gaze across Mike’s face. “What if you’re wrong?”

Mike rolls his eyes, “I’m not wrong, Will, I-”.

Will takes several steps closer, until there’s less than a foot of space between them. “What if,” he interrupts, “you are? What if I will want you here? What if-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath, closing his eyes. Stands up straighter, then opens his eyes and stares right into Mike’s. “What if I always wish you were here?”

The question hangs in the air, and Mike feels frozen. The idea of Will, knee deep in the throes of his heat, wishing Mike was with him, is the most sensual thing Mike has ever heard. Suddenly, the dam breaks, and his self imposed rule of not thinking about it isn’t much use. He’s flooded with the mental image of Will, heat slick and needy, writhing around in the blanket Mike brought him, moaning Mike’s name, wishing Mike was there with him.

He swallows heavily. “You don't mean that.”

Will laughs, but it’s flat and lacking any real mirth, “oh, you’ve decided that, have you?”

Mike feels like he’s going to die. “You don’t mean it, Will, because you’re a sneeze away from going into heat. You’d ask any alpha who walked in here right now to stay with you.”

Will scoffs, and the look in his eyes is pure rage. He’s nearly shouting now, “oh! Oh! I would, would I?! Because I’m a helpless little omega, right? Who can’t make his own decisions?!” 

“I’m not-” Mike groans, “That’s not what I’m saying, Will-”

“Then what are you saying, Mike? Because that's how it sounds to me.”

The air feels hot. Will is staring at Mike like he hates him, and like he wants him, and Mike can’t handle that. 

“I’m saying-” he takes a deep breath, “I’m just saying you don’t want me. Not really.”

The room goes silent, and Mike looks down at the floor. He can’t bear to look at Will, because that was dangerously close to a confession, and he can’t bear to see his face when he realises that, too.

The silence drags, and then Will’s shadow moves across the floor. He puts a finger under Mike’s chin and lifts. Their eyes meet, and they’re so close now Mike can feel his breath across his face, because Will is craning his neck up to look at him, and Mike is looking down. 

Will’s quiet when he speaks. “Is that what you think?”

Mike just gulps. Nods. 

Will’s eyes are darting between his again, like he’s desperately looking for the answer to a question he hasn't said out loud yet. “You think I don’t want you?”

Mike doesn't recognise his own voice, when he finally finds it. It’s soft. Broken, almost. “I know you don’t.”

Will’s eyes soften. He doesn't look mad anymore. His hand drops and he takes a step back, and Mike feels his heart shatter as the rejection registers. 

But then Will turns, strides towards his bed, grabs something and comes right back. There’s no space between them, Will’s hands pressed against Mike’s chest as he pushes something into him. 

“Take it.”

Mike glances down, his hair brushing against Will’s. Lifts his hands from where they've been frozen at his side. His hands graze Will’s as he takes the offering. 

His sketchbook. 

Will takes a single, small step back. 

Mike looks at the leather bound book in his hands. Looks back up at Will, who nods at him encouragingly. “Open it.”

“Any page?”

Will snickers, as if Mike’s question is funny, “yeah, Mike. Any page.”

Mike looks back down at the book in his hands. Traces the spine gently with one finger. Thinking about it, he doesn’t think Will’s ever shown him anything he’s drawn in this one. He finds the ribbon marking Will’s page, and uses it to flick the book open to the latest drawing. 

He stares at it. He looks up at Will. Looks back down at the page. Then all of the air leaves his lungs, because the ‘personal project’ Will has been working on all day is a drawing of him.

It’s a side profile, with Mike’s head tilted up to the sky, his eyes raised higher still. He’s composed of soft, arching lines of charcoal, and Will has captured every feature of Mike’s that he himself hates. His angular jaw, his prominent Adam’s apple, his huge nose. But, the way Will draws him, it’s like his features all suddenly make sense. For once, he doesn’t look like a hastily designed ragdoll, thrown together with spare parts. He looks like something someone made on purpose, something carved out of marble and designed to remain. Something cherished, and revered. Something loved. There’s a soft smile on his face, and a light in his eyes, and his dark black curls fall around his face in a way that looks pretty. It looks intentional. Will’s made him look like he’s meant to look like that. Like he was crafted and designed that way, rather than stretched and twisted into shape as an afterthought, like he always imagines himself being. 

He flips to the previous page. It’s him again. This time, he’s leant back on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. You can tell it’s Will’s living room, but the background is drawn in a way where that’s not the focus, Mike is. He’s looking ahead, in the direction the light is coming from, and it casts shadows behind his jaw and under his nose. He’s laughing at something, obviously, because he has a huge toothy smile on his face, and once again Mike is struck with the realisation that, like this, he looks right. His arms don’t seem too long, where they’re tucked up in his lap, and his hair doesn't look frizzy, and his nose kind of suits his face. 

He flicks backwards again, and again, and again, and every single page is a sketch of him, laughing or smiling or with an eyebrow raised in judgement. Sat on Will’s bed, or stood in Mike’s kitchen cooking, or sipping a coffee at the café by Mike’s flat. In every single picture, Will has captured him as though he’s a model, like the art is Mike, rather than the drawing Will has done of him. He looks strong. He looks handsome.

When he looks up again, Will hasn’t moved. Is still staring. Waiting for him to say something, maybe.

He swallows. “... You draw me?”

It makes Will burst out laughing, and he buries his face in his hands, snorting into them. “Yeah, Mike,” he speaks into his palms, then lifts his head back up. He’s bright crimson. “Only every day since we were, like, eight years old.”

Mike feels like he’s having an out of body experience. “... Why?”

Will’s eyes soften. He steps closer again. Looks up at him in a way that has Mike’s chest thundering. There’s barely an inch between them.

“Because you’re my best friend. Because you’ve always looked after me, and kept me safe. Because no one knows me the way you do. Because you-” He laughs, and it’s slightly wet sounding, his eyes glistening, “because you track my cycle and know more about what my body is doing than I do.” He smiles, soft and private, just for the two of them. “Because I love you, you idiot.”

He takes a second to let that sink in. To let himself enjoy a moment in this new world, where Will loves him, and wants him. Where he makes Will feel so safe, has done so for so long, that he fills up pages with his image. Then, once that sinks in, and his brain catches up, and his body remembers that it’s attached to his brain, he leans in and kisses him.

Whatever Mike had imagined their first kiss might be like, on the rare occasions when he let himself, nothing can compare to the real feeling of Will’s lips against his. They’re soft, and pliant, and even with his nose blocked he can taste a hint of the lemon sweets Will’s been eating all day, and the vague undertone of that natural coffee and rain flavour that’s so distinctly him. Kissing him feels like he’s finally breathing, after holding his breath for the past six or so years. 

He pulls away, and they stare at each other for a moment, before suddenly they’re both laughing. 

Mike speaks, his voice slightly hoarse, “I’ve loved you for so long. Before I even knew what it meant, I think.” 

The laugh Will lets out is slightly giddy, tinted with disbelief, and he drops his forehead down onto Mike’s chest as it wracks his body. Mike tucks his chin onto the top of his head. They stand like that for a while, Will’s hands on Mike’s chest, Mike still clutching his sketchbook. 

When Will pulls away, he doesn't go far. Creates just enough distance to make eye contact. “So you’ll stay, then?”

Mike’s reminded of a time, back in his basement, eerily similar. The same boy, wide eyed and scared, begging him in the same tone of voice, asking the same question. He makes the same choice he made back then. How could he not? 

“Of course. Whatever you need. Anything.”

Will quirks an eyebrow at him, smirk finding its way onto his face, “anything?”

Mike groans and rolls his eyes, but his stomach jumps at the implication. “You’re not even in heat yet, Byers, take a deep breath and count to ten.”

Will giggles, an honest to God giggle, and Mike’s so completely enamoured with him that he has to lean down to kiss him again. It’s still just a simple press of their lips, but his heart rate picks up like he’s on a rollercoaster. When they pull apart, Will’s face is flushed, and his eyes are hazy, and Mike is suddenly and violently reminded of his actual purpose in being here - looking after Will.

“Come on, you need to lay down.”

Will rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile firmly planted on his face, “trying to get me into bed? Now who needs to take a deep breath, huh?”

“You’re literally insufferable.”

“You kinda like it, though.”

Mike smirks, breaking away from him to put the sketchbook back on the table next to the bed, “only kinda. I’m serious, though, let's lay down.”

Will hasn't moved still when Mike turns back around to face him, so he raises an eyebrow. Will smirks. 

“Make me.”

And, oh, his heat must be starting to hit, because he’s being brattier than usual, and it’s really doing something to Mike. His cock twitches in interest.

“Make you?”

Will nods.

Mike has a theory, though, and he’s drunk enough on the taste of Will’s lips that he feels bold. He takes a step towards Will, just close enough that he’s forcing him to look up at him, “I don’t think I need to make you, Will.” He lets his eyes flick down to Will’s lips, then lets them linger there. Will sucks in a breath, and Mike looks back up so that their eyes meet again. “I think you want to do as you’re told, right? You wanna be good for me so I can look after you, don’t you?”

Will actually groans at that, a soft stuttered noise that he tries and fails to keep in, and his tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his lips. He nods. 

“Good,” Mike feels high off of it, Will’s attention and attraction and the dazed look in his eyes. “Let's lay down then, yeah?”

Will nods again, and Mike can’t help but grin. Hypothesis tested, theory proven. He’s a genius, and he’s also rock hard beneath his jeans. 

Just as he starts celebrating his victory, about to claim the title belt, Will throws a last minute haymaker; he starts unbuttoning his pants. 

It’s basically the definition of malicious compliance. He’s getting ready for bed, just like Mike wanted, but suddenly Mike’s wishing he’d kept his damn mouth shut, because now his jeans are peeling away to reveal long, tanned lengths of skin, and Mike feels like one of those tudor men who got excited if a woman flashed her ankle. Will’s standing there, his t-shirt just barely covering his boxers, and then he strikes his final blow.

“Can I have your shirt?”

Mike chokes on his own spit, “w-what?”

“Your shirt.” He deadpans, like it’s obvious. “I want it.”

Mike doesn't even have the upper brain function to question him, just grabs the neckline of his shirt and tugs it off, then balls it up and throws it to Will. He catches it with one hand, which is for some reason stupidly attractive, and presses it up to his nose and inhales. Mike’s brain stalls, and before he has a chance to process what’s happening, Will’s yanking off his own shirt and tugging Mike’s over his head. It’s long on him, falling to his mid thigh, and Mike is immediately and violently overwhelmed with the instinctual urge to keep, and claim, and fuck. His eyes can’t settle in one place, flicking from where the shirt hem brushes his legs, to his newly exposed collarbones, and Will suddenly has the nerve to look sheepish. 

“Your scent helps.” He shrugs, as if it's no big deal, and Mike feels his soul leave his body and start ascending. Before he can stop it, he lets out a loud, pitiful groan. Will’s eyes bulge, and his face flushes. 

“Will,” Mike is starting to have a very difficult time focusing on the task at hand, “you’re killing me, here.”

He thinks it’s ironic Will looks embarrassed now, considering he’s spent the last 10 minutes trying to ruin Mike’s life, but he finally crosses the room and climbs into bed. He stares expectantly. 

Mike climbs in after him, throwing the duvet over them both, then places a soft kiss onto his forehead. “Thank you.”

Will shivers, and Mike wraps his arms around his shoulders, manhandling into position so that he’s sprawled across his chest. “How are you feeling?”

He shivers again, “hot.”

“I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Mike buries his face into Will’s hair and whispers comforting words and noises into it, until they both drift off to sleep.

~*~

This time, waking up in Will’s bed for the second time today, the situation is wildly different.  

It’s dark now, for one. The only light is the soft white glow of the fairy lights Will has hung on the far wall. It suspends the room in a slightly ethereal atmosphere.

The other difference is more stark. Soft huffs and moans against his ear. Rhythmic pulses of a firm pressure against the outside of his thigh. Fingers curled into the hair at his neck, tugging gently. Mike tightens his grip on Will with the arm he has curled around him, fingers gripping Will’s waist, and he’s rewarded with a high pitched whine into the sensitive skin of his neck.

“What’s wrong, baby?” The pet name slips unintentionally, and Mike’s voice is an octave lower than usual, rough with sleep, but the other boy doesn't seem to mind, because he lets out another breathless noise and presses his hips in harder. “What do you need?”

“Anything,” Will pants, “you.” Mike’s rock hard immediately, stifles his own moan, but Will isn't finished. “Need you to help, Mike, please.”

He can’t stop the noise that tears its way out of his throat this time, and he buries his nose in Will’s hair. He takes a deep breath, trying to smell his scent purely on instinct, only to realise he’s still got those fucking nose plugs in. 

“Give me two seconds, love, can you do that for me? Just two seconds, then I’ll take care of you.”

Will’s breath stutters, his hips stalling. “... you promise?”

Mike’s cock twitches, “I promise, baby. Going to make you feel so good, okay? I’ll make it better.”

Will whines again, then nods into his neck and pulls back. In the dim light of the room, Mike can see his pupils are blown huge - so wide his eyes are almost swallowed by them. Mike’s consumed by the sudden urge to eat him whole. 

He turns around to face the small bedside table, because truthfully there’s no attractive way to root nose plugs out of your nostrils. He’s pretty sure Will’s too far gone on heat to care, but it’s the principal of it more than anything. 

The thing is, since that very first time all those years ago in the basement, he hasn't smelt Will while he’s been on his cycle. He knows, in theory, that an omega's hormones make their scent more potent during heat, but it’s another thing entirely to be suddenly and violently confronted with that fact. As soon as he takes a breath of air that isn’t being filtered, it slams into him like a brick wall. It smells like pure arousal and need, and something in the back of his brain suddenly sits bolt upright in attention. Will’s scent is so much different to how it normally is - full-bodied and musky, dark espresso and petrichor, and Mike’s not sure how but he can smell how horny he is. Can taste Will’s desire in the back of his throat. 

He groans and turns back to Will, drawing him up into his arms, and buries his nose into his throat. Will’s breathing stutters. “Fuck, Will, you smell fucking incredible.” He runs his mouth across Will’s scent gland, against the pulse point in his throat, and he feels the moment Will’s heart rate picks up against his lips. “Tell me what you need, baby, tell me how to look after you.”

“Fuck,” the word comes out broken and pitchy, and Will presses his hips back in hard, “just want to cum, please- please.”

“Can I take your boxers off?”

He nods aggressively, small tears springing to the corners of his eyes, “please.” 

Mike wants to savour this moment - strip him slowly and spend all night worshipping his body - but he knows that’s not what he needs right now. He decides he’ll have plenty of time during the rest of their lives to take Will apart piece by piece with his mouth and hands. He’ll bring him to the edge again, and again, and again, keep him on that precipice until he’s sobbing and begging for release, but it has to wait for now, because he made Will a promise. He’s got a pretty good track record, when it comes to looking after Will, and he doesn't intend for that to change tonight.

He yanks Will’s boxers off without ceremony, and his cock slaps against his stomach with the movement. Mike thinks Will would be embarrassed if his head was a little clearer, but as it stands it just forces a gasp out of his mouth, and the air blooms with the heavy scent of arousal and slick. The head of his cock is red and aching, so Mike licks a strip up his own palm and wraps it around him. 

Will lets out a shattered, broken noise, somewhere from deep in his chest, and his back arches off of the mattress before he curls his body into Mike, pressing his nose to Mike’s scent glad and taking deep, gasping lungfulls, and wrapping his legs around Mike’s thigh. Mike jerks Will fast, because all he knows is that Will needs him - that he begged him - and he’s going to provide. His hands, big and clumsy as he normally thinks of them, are the perfect size to wrap around the whole of Will’s cock with one solid grip, and for the millionth time in his life, he feels like he was made for this. For taking care of him, and loving him. He was made for this boy wrapped around him, moaning and hissing and sobbing into his throat, choking back gasps and whimpers. 

And, fuck, he can smell when Will starts to get close. It's nearly impossible to describe the way his scent seems to sweeten. With Will’s fragrance all around him, curling into his lungs every time he breathes, infecting his brain, he feels it instinctually somewhere deep in his chest when Will starts to approach his climax. 

“That’s it, baby, let go for me.” His voice is soft, and soothing, but it’s still an instruction. “Cum for me, Will, that's a good boy.”

Will howls as his body rushes to obey, and his whole form tenses as his release rips through him. Mike feels cum spill over his hand, feels it shoot up towards their stomachs, feels a wet rush of Will’s slick cover his thigh where he’s wrapped around it. He grits his teeth and works him through the shuddering aftershocks, meanwhile his own cock is twitching and weeping in his boxers and his brain is screaming at him to sink his teeth into Will’s neck. He pushes the feeling down, because the only thing that matters to him right now is Will, gasping and keening as his body twitches, while Mike eases him through the final stretch of his orgasm. The room around them could burst into flames, and Mike would use his own body to shield Will’s so that he wouldn’t have to stop touching him.

Eventually, Will’s hips still, and Mike gets the memo. His grip loosens, and as he draws his hand away Will whines. His breath is still coming in these fast, shallow pants, and Mike has the sudden fear that he’s done something wrong - hurt him or broke him - before Will starts kissing and sucking Mike’s throat, and the realisation hits that Will is still hard. That coupled with the feeling of Will grazing his teeth along Mike’s scent gland has him throwing his head back with a groan. 

“Jesus, Will, you’re gonna kill me.”

He hums against his skin. 

“Are you feeling okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

He mumbles a “no” into his throat, and Mike nods… Then frowns. 

“... No I didn't hurt you, or no you aren't feeling okay?”

Will lets out one laugh, and draws his head back to look at Mike. The sight bowls him over; Will’s lashes wet and face flushed, hair messy where he was writhing against the pillow. He levels Mike with the deadest, flattest stare he can muster. 

“You definitely didn't hurt me.”

The atmosphere shifts, and the pair of them burst into laughter. Mike leans in and presses their foreheads together, and in his whole world narrows down to Will. Will’s laugh, Will’s smile, Will’s skin against his. He wants to tell him he loves him, and he realises with a start that he can, because Will loves him, too.

“I love you so much it’s fucking absurd,” he says, and it sets Will off again in another bout of hysterics.

“I-” he can barely get the words out, “I’m covered in jizz and sweat!”

Mike knows he must look ridiculous, what with the huge grin on his face, but he doesn't care. “And you’re still beautiful. And I’m still in love with you.”

“God, you’re such a sap. Who are you and what have you done with Mike Wheeler?”

He snorts, “you did this to yourself. I’m going to say all of the cringey simpy shit I think in my head out loud now.”

Will’s eyes gleam with mirth, “you mean you weren’t doing that already?”

“Nuh uh,” God, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face if he tried, “if you thought I was bad before, you’ve seen absolutely nothing. I’m going to be so fucking insufferable.”

They're wrapped up together in this cloud of love and hormones and post-nut bliss, and for a second Mike forgets that Will’s body is currently on a mission to turn itself inside out, until all of a sudden a shiver wracks his body and Mike smells a fresh wave of slick spreading across his thighs. 

He groans and clenches his eyes shut. His voice drops an octave on its own accord, probably some hormonal thing he hasn't researched enough about to understand. “Feeling you get wet for me is so hot, Will, fuck.” 

Will pulls away to look at him, eyes dancing across his face. 

“I always think about you, you know.” He’s quiet, but there’s a challenge there in his tone. It sends a bolt of lightning down Mike’s spine. “When I’m in heat.”

Mike shivers. Swallows. “... Yeah?”

Will nods. “Every time.”

“What do you think about?” Mike presses his thigh up between Will’s legs, and Will makes a soft noise. 

“T-think about your hands.”

“My hands?”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “Think about how they’d feel on my body.”

Mike rolls them so that Will’s back is flat against the mattress, and Will gasps. Both of them have a thigh between the other’s legs, and Mike uses the new leverage he’s given himself to rock downwards. Will’s breath staccatos and his own hips come up to meet him, rubbing his cock into Mike’s thigh. One of Mike’s hands is braced on the pillow next to Will’s head, but he places his other hand on Will’s thigh; slides it upwards slowly, slowly, slowly, until it dances under the hem of Will’s - Mike’s - t-shirt. He drags his hand featherlight until it’s over Will’s ribs. Will draws in a shaky breath.

“What else do you think about, Will?”

He chews on his lip, almost as if he’s nervous to speak, but Mike applies some more pressure with his thigh, and with a gasp the words come tumbling out.

“I- I think about you kissing me.”

It sounds so innocent, in reality, but something about that makes it that much more sexual, and Mike’s own breathing is starting to pick up now. “Kissing you where?”

Will’s eyes fall shut, “anywhere.”

Mike tuts, leans down until their lips are almost touching. “Not good enough, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He groans beneath him, “please kiss me, Mike.”

Mike’s pretty sure he’d do anything Will asked him, especially if he asked in that breathy tone of voice, and especially if he said ‘please’, so he doesn't bother resisting anymore. Just leans down and lets their lips meet in an open mouthed kiss.

Will tastes exactly like he smells; rich and decedent, sweet and savoury, and Mike groans into it as their tongues meet. The air is thick now with the smell of Will and his arousal and Mike feels high on it. When he pulls away, Will chases his lips needlily, a small noise squeezing out of his throat. 

“Where else do I kiss you?”

Will’s eyes are wide and seeking, darting around Mike’s face, but he doesn't say anything, so Mike tries again. Presses his thigh down like before to make Will keen. “Come on, Will. Tell me.”

He gasps, “m-my neck.”

Mike places a kiss on his lips, then his jaw. Will tilts his head up and back and it’s so blatantly submissive that Mike rocks his own cock down into Will’s thigh as he mouths at pulse point. Will gasps, arching into it. 

Mike speaks into his skin, “where else?”

“Fuck, Mike,” The words are airy and quiet, “my chest.”

He trails his mouth downwards, pulling the neck of the t-shirt down, tonguing and nipping as he travels down Will’s collarbone. He stops on his way to suck a dark mark just below his clavicle, and he feels Will’s cock pulse against his leg. He draws Will’s t-shirt up to his chin and keeps going, then takes his nipple in his mouth, licking and sucking and kissing until Will is a breathless mess beneath him. 

“My stomach,” Will pants, and Mike smirks into his skin, because he’s finally picked up on how the game works. He rewards him by adjusting his position so that he’s knelt between Will’s legs, and then continues his journey south, placing barely-there kisses across his skin until he’s level with Will’s navel, both hands clutching his waist. He looks up at him from his spot below, and Will’s already staring down at him; eyes hooded, propped on his elbows, mouth dropped open as he pants desperately.

Mike pulls away, just enough that Will can see his mouth when he speaks, “where do you want my mouth, Will?”

Will clenches his eyes shut and groans, then wrenches them open again. “Please, Mike.”

It’s not really within the rules of the game, if Mike is being honest, but the truth is he’s so desperate to get his mouth around Will’s cock that he decides it’s close enough. He slides one hand down from Will’s waist to his groin, wraps his grip around his cock, and then covers the tip with his mouth. 

Will’s whole body jolts and a loud moan rips through his throat, his head falling back in a picture of bliss. Down here, so close to the source of his arousal, Will’s scent is all encompassing. Mike absorbs it into his pores, lets himself drown in it, sucks Will further down his throat until his nose is pressed against the hair at the base and sucks, and Will is writhing and keening and puffing out short breaths on each noise he makes. Mike decides he could do this forever, could live between Will’s thighs for the rest of his life if it meant keeping him in this perpetual state of pleasure. 

Will reaches one hand down to lace into Mike’s hair, and when Mike traces his tongue along the slit of his cock Will tightens his grip and tugs. A moan forces out of Mike’s throat, vibrating around Will’s cock, and he grinds his own length down hard and needy against the mattress below him.

“Shit, Mike that feels- fuck- that feels so fucking good.” And that simple praise has every neuron in Mike’s brain firing at once, has him redoubling his efforts and thrusting down on the fabric below him with his own broken moan, because the sound of Will breathlessly telling Mike how good he’s doing rewires something in his brain. “Fuck- stop, stop, stop.”

Mike yanks backwards with a start, his blood running cold. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Will laughs, “no, no I just- I’m really close.”

Oh. “Oh. That was… sort of the idea.”

“Well yeah, but-” Will pauses, face flushing, averting his gaze, “I kind of thought- I mean I hoped-” He sighs. Looks back into Mike’s eyes. “Please don’t make me say it.”

Oh. Mike grins, “say what?”

Will groans, dropping flat onto his back, “I hate you.”

Mike climbs up his body, caging either side of Will’s face with his arms, and presses their foreheads together. “No you don’t.”

“Ugh.” But Will smiles despite himself.

Mike leans down, glances his mouth along the shell of Will’s ear, “tell me what you want and it’s yours, baby.”

Will shudders, “you’re such a fucking asshole.” Mike just snickers and takes his earlobe between his teeth, and Will keens. “Please fuck me, Mike.”

Mike’s arms quiver. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

“Fuck,” he sounds breathless, “please, Mike.”

He’s not going to torture himself or Will any longer. He sits up, sheds his own jeans and boxers, and lines himself back up between Will’s thighs, which fall open for him so easily that Mike nearly crumbles then and there. The view of Will, sprawled out open below him, Mike’s t-shirt tucked up under his armpits, cock hard and weeping against his stomach, genuinely takes his breath away for a moment. He spends a second just staring at him, taking in how beautiful he looks, hair haloed across the pillows, but then Will thrusts his hips forward and grinds against Mike’s cock, covering him in slick. Mike’s breath hitches. 

“Please,” his eyes are wide, clouded with lust, eager and begging and desperate, and Mike lets out a deep, guttural groan before notching the head of his cock into Will’s slit and sliding forward. 

He's expecting to have to take his time, expects to have to work Will open slowly with his cock, but he’s so wet for him that he slides in easily, and all of a sudden he’s buried to the hilt in Will’s cunt. 

Will throws his head back with a cry, “fuck!”

Mike can't even say anything, because his brain has turned to soup in his skull. Will is tight and warm, and his skin is smooth and tanned save for the dark hickey on his chest that Mike put there, and his neck is bared, and all Mike can think is that he’s so, so, so in love with him. Nothing else matters but Will, his best friend, who he’s grown up with and loved and cherished since before he understood what the feeling was, split open below him, and it’s overwhelming in the most incredible way. 

“God, Will, you-” his voice is gravel, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die, “you feel so good around me. You look so fucking beautiful like this.”

He grabs Will’s hip with one hand, puts his other over his navel, then gives one shallow thrust, and Will screws his eyes shut. His jaw drops open in a silent cry, and he lifts one leg to wrap it around Mike’s side.

“Can you tell me what feels good?” Because he needs to make him feel good like he needs air.

Will takes a deep breath, “you feel good, Mike. Please just fuck me. Waited so long for this.”

Mike groans, drags his cock out slowly, then thrusts back in hard, and Will cries out. “Yeah? Been waiting for me to fuck you?”

Will doesn’t say anything, mouth still hung open. He just nods aggressively, and Mike rewards him with another deep press of his length. The noise Will makes in response is garbled and wet. 

“You look so fucking pretty like this, Will.” Apparently now he’s started talking, he can’t stop. He starts to build a rhythm; slow, deep thrusts from root to tip, and every time Will bears down around him, “so pretty, and strong, and perfect. So fucking perfect for me. My perfect boy.”

Tears flood over Will’s lashes, “yours!”

Mike’s cock pulses and he lets out a guttural noise of his own, leaning down with his elbows either side of Will’s head and pressing their cheeks together as he thrusts. “Yeah, baby? You’re mine?”

Will keens, “yes!”

“Say it, Will,” his voice is unrecognisable even to his own ears, rough and low and full of longing. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The noise that rips out of Will’s throat barely sounds human, “I’m yours! I’m yours, Mike, I- fuck,” he stutters as Mike grinds his hips in a circle, pressing deeper, “always been yours, always, always-”

The words pool like lava in his gut, “yeah?”. 

“Yes!” Will crying now, actual tears rolling down his cheeks, because Mike can feel them against his own. “You always- God- you always look after me so well. So good to me. So gentle with me- ah! Always been yours, Mike.”

Mike buries his face in Will’s neck, mouths at his scent gland, barely restraining the urge to bite him there. To make good on Will’s words and claim him properly, so everyone else knows that Will is his, too. He reaches down to grab the back of Will’s knees, pushes them up towards his chest, and on his next thrust his fucks so deep into Will that he nearly sees stars. Will thrashes below him, letting loose a frantic string of desperate noises and gibberish pleas. 

“I’m-” Mike can barely catch his breath, “I’m not going to last much longer, Will, I need to pull out.”

He moves to, but Will wriggles his legs free from Mike’s grasp and wraps them tight around his waist, digging the heels of his feet into his lower back, and when he speaks he hisses out through his teeth: “don’t you dare stop.”

It sends a pulse right through his core and he groans, “Will, I need-”

“I fucking mean it, I don't care, Mike, I don't care- You can go to the pharmacy- get me a pill, I don't care. But if you don’t- fuck- if you don't cum in me I’m going to kill you.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Point made, and who’s Mike to argue with that? He told him he’d give him what he wanted, so he just grabs hold of Will’s legs again, folds him in half like a sheet of cardstock, and creates a brutal, frantic rhythm as he chases both of their releases. 

“I think you're lying.” He growls it out through his teeth, because Will’s begging and crying has flipped a switch in his brain and he feels like a primal fucking creature. Words start flowing out of him before he has a chance for his brain to vet them first. “I think you want me to put a baby in you, don’t you? I think me talking about how your beautiful body works got you all riled up, and now you want me to fuck you pregnant. Hm? Am I right?”

He’d might have been embarrassed if Will didn’t clench down on him like a vice at his words, breathing picking up and moans skewing to a higher pitch, breathy and needy. “Mike.”

“You close, baby?”

He nods wildly, and Mike drives in harder, gritting his teeth at the feeling of his knot starting to swell. “Touch yourself, Will, want you to cum on my cock. Need to feel it, baby, please.”

Will shakes his head, “bite me.”

Mike’s gone. He has no upper brain function left, just growls into Will’s throat and then bites, sinking his teeth into the soft, thin skin. The taste of copper fills his mouth, tangy but with a hint of something that belongs distinctly to Will, and Mike’s knot swells almost painfully, catching on the rim of Will’s entrance. Will reaches a shaky hand down to his own length, gives one, two, three brisk strokes, and then his mouth opens in a silent scream as his release rips through his body, his whole form pulled taunt and tensed, ropes of cum hitting his chest and covering his stomach.

Mike manages three more pounding thrusts into his cunt before his knot is pushing into his entrance, and he cries out around his mouthful of Will’s skin as his own release shatters through him, painting Will’s insides. All Mike can think is that he’s claiming Will in every way possible, biting his throat and merging their scents and filling him up, and his cock gives one final valiant twitch and one final pulse of spend before he collapses in a heap. 

The whole room stills in the aftermath, a comfortable quiet broken only by the sound of both of their heaving breaths. Mike releases his grip on Will’s throat, feels Will wince below him as his teeth withdraw, and he laps at the wound apologetically. He slowly lowers Will’s legs, laying them flat on the bed and rubbing soothingly over the muscles in his thighs. 

Will shivers. Mike tastes salt and realises that Will is crying, the tears rolling down his throat to where Mike is kissing his mating bite. 

He draws back, and Will looks wrecked. His hair is fluffed and knotted, his eyes red and face wet with tears, bloody bite on his throat and a dark bruise on his chest. He’s shaking. 

“Are you okay?”

Will nods, letting out another wet sob.

“Are you sure? Because you’re kind of giving me mixed signals here.”

Will laughs, and it’s soggy and sounds slightly like he’s drowning, but he’s got a bright radiant smile on his face through the tears, and Mike is entranced. “God, Mike,” he sniffs, “I’m just- I’m so fucking happy.”

Now Mike’s laughing too, and the pair of them are laying there in hysterics, still locked together thanks to Mike’s knot, with Will looking like he fought a particularly violent possum and lost, and all Mike can think is that he’s the luckiest person in the whole world. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“A little,” Will says, candid as always, “but I liked it. Didn’t expect it to feel like that when you bit me.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, curious, “what did it feel like?”

Will opens his eyes, and Mike realises how much he missed them. “It really hurt at first, like, a lot, but then it was like- I don’t even know how to explain it- euphoric, maybe? It was crazy.”

“Does it hurt now?”

He shrugs, “a little. Kinda sore.”

Mike nods. Stares at Will. Makes a decision.

“Bite me, too.”

It’s like someone’s poured cold water over him. He stares at Mike, eyes wide. “What?”

“Bite me, Will.”

He laughs, “it doesn't work like that, Mike-”

“It does, actually,” because Mike has researched it. Has thought about it. “Male omegas can give mating bites. They think it’s a genetic mutation, or something, from a long time ago. I don’t get it, really, lots of biological mumbo-jumbo, but I don’t really need to.” He presses their foreheads together. “Bite me, Will.”

Will draws in a shaky breath, “you'd want that?”

Mike nods immediately, “‘course I would. I’m yours, Will, always have been. Want everyone to know.”

“How do you even-”

Mike knows what he’s going to ask, “I know that because I’m fucking gone on you, Will Byers. As soon as you presented I spent six hours at the library reading everything the librarian would let me borrow about omega biology, and some stuff that she wouldn't. I stopped towel drying my hair when we were 17 because you said it looked soft when I used a blow dryer. I have a cupboard full of emergency supplies for you in case you ever go into heat at my flat. I-” he laughs, “I started drinking oat milk 8 months ago because it’s what you drink and I didn't want to have to buy two cartons.” He brings a hand up to cradle Will’s cheek. “I’m yours, and I have been for a long, long time.”

Will laughs incredulously, “you hate oat milk.”

“Yeah!” He laughs too, “I do! It tastes like blended cardboard!” Will scoffs, “but I refuse to buy two different bottles, and if drinking playdough flavoured milk makes you happy then I’ll do it, too.”

Will shakes his head, but his eyes are shining, “you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, a little. And kind of pathetic. So I kind of need you to bite me so no one else comes near me.” 

Will raises an arm, hand shaking, and trails one finger along Mike’s pulse point. “... Here?”

Mike shudders, “yeah. Or wherever you want it. Wherever you think it’ll look good.”

“Jesus, Mike,” Will’s throat bobs, “that’s-”.

Mike doesn't let him finish his thought, just grabs his hips, seeing as they’re still joined together, and rolls them so that Will is straddling him. The movement pushes his cock deeper, and they both gasp. 

Mike tilts his head back, baring his throat, and Will’s breathing stutters. He leans down slowly, trails his nose up the long column of Mike’s throat, places gentle kisses right against his pulse, then hesitates.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I just used your neck as a chew toy, Will. You’re going to have a bruise around it for a week. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

He’s silent for a long moment, like he’s ruminating over it, so Mike opens his mouth to try and convince him, but suddenly there’s teeth sinking into his throat and his vision goes white. 

Will’s right, the feeling is indescribable. There’s a brief moment of intense, shooting agony, but then it’s overwritten by pure liquid pleasure. His whole existence is Will; Will in his lap, Will’s cunt around his cock, Will’s teeth in his muscle, Will’s scent swirling around them. He’s pretty sure he blacks out. 

When his vision returns, Will loosens his jaw, and Mike shivers as he starts placing soft kitten licks around it. Cleaning it for him. It shouldn't be hot, but it is. Mike thinks he might cum again if a cool breeze passes through the room.

Will sits up, and Mike turns his head to look at him, but Will grabs his chin and forces his head backwards, then moans.

“Fuck.” Will pants, then grinds down on Mike’s cock, which is already hard again. “Fuck, Mike, I fucking bit you. Why is- that’s really fucking hot. You look so good.”

Mike reaches up with his arms, to hold his waist and guide his hips in their movement, but Will grabs both of his wrists and pins them above his head, and oh. Mike didn’t realise this was something he was into until right this second. 

“Stay there,” Will grunts, “I want- I want to-”

“Whatever you want.” Mike moans, arching up, “take what you want, baby. Make yourself feel good. Whatever you want.”

“Yeah?” Will grinds harder, and Mike’s rock hard, despite the fact his knot hasn’t even started to deflate yet. “What was that you were saying, earlier? About me wanting to be good for you?” Will smirks, swivels his hips, and Mike groans, “kinda seems like maybe you want to be good for me.”

“Fuck, Will,” Mike’s whole body feels hot, “yeah, I do. Want to be so good for you, love. Want to look after you.”

Will’s breathing is laboured, “you’re so fucking good for me, Mike. Take such good fucking care of me all the time. Made me lazy because you look after me so well.”

Mike whines, “good, fuck. Be lazy, baby, let me- fuck-” he gasps as Will clenches his hole around him, “fuck, fuck, holy shit, Will, I’m going to fucking cum again.”

Will cries out, “do it. Fill me up, Mike. Want your cum. Give it to me, yeah? Be good for me, alpha.”

Mike’s not even in control of his own body anymore, his hips fly upwards and he sobs out a moan, his arms pinned beneath Will’s grip, and Will’s so strong and solid and Mike stops breathing as his second orgasm rips through him, his cock working courageously to deliver another round of spend when it’s already been wrung dry. Will keens, rocks his hips again, and then he’s convulsing, cumming dry. The best he manages is a dribble of clear, watery ejaculate, and his whole body twitches with overstimulation and exhaustion as he collapses, sprawled across Mike’s chest.

“Holy fuck,” Mike can hardly get the words out, “holy fuck.”

Will bursts into laughter, taking gasping breaths between each shaky cackle, and presses his face into Mike’s sternum. 

“Holy fuck,” Mike says again, because holy fuck, and Will snorts against him, whole body shaking with the movement. Mike’s hands are free now, so he wraps both arms around Will’s body and holds him tight against him. 

They stay like that for a while, relearning how to breathe and trying to absorb one another into their own bodies, and eventually Mike’s knot softens. He twists, placing Will on his side on the mattress as gently as he can, and slowly withdraws himself from his body. Will lets out a noise of protest, so Mike leans back down and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ll be right back, baby, two seconds.”

It’s easier said than done, because as soon as he stands Mike realises his legs have turned into jello, but he manages to make his way to the bathroom. Cleans himself up as quickly and efficiently as he can.

He looks in the mirror above the sink.

The person who stares back at him is different to the one that he looked at this morning. Really, he probably doesn't look much different, but he feels it. Because he doesn't have the urge to pick at all of his features anymore. He looks the same as he did, but charcoal sketches flash through his mind now, superimposing themselves over his own reflection, and he realises he just… Doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t give a shit if his proportions are all wrong, and his nose is a weird shape, and his body rejects putting on muscle as if the idea is insulting. Doesn't give a shit, because Will likes him. Will loves him. Will feels safe and protected with him. He stares down at the mating bite on his neck, angry and red and still a little bloody, and nothing else about his appearance matters anymore. The only thing that matters is the physical representation of his devotion to the boy he loves. The boy who loves him back. 

He grabs a washcloth out of the cupboard, wets it with warm water, and adds a tiny bit of soap. He fills the glass that Will uses to rinse his mouth after brushing his teeth with cold water, and grabs a couple of tylenol out of the medicine cabinet. 

He takes one more look at himself in the mirror. 

Mike Wheeler doesn't look like an alpha, not in any of the ways he was always told he should. He never has, and he’s realised he never will, and for the first time in his life he’s okay with that. He doesn't need to look like an alpha. Just needs to look like Will’s alpha. 

He turns away from the mirror and exits the bathroom with his collection of supplies. 

After all, he’s turned looking after Will Byers into an art form, and he’s going to spend the rest of his life perfecting his craft. 

[viennacherries]

sorry guys can't talk i'm busy pondering the orb

[clacy2812]

Flambae lock the hell in please

[kidovna]

the full senior promic!🍀

bonus:

[mikesbasementbeets]

[jevdart]

Merry bylermas everyone 🌈

[leecheedoodles]

sorcerer ✨