boy lover😞

she/her | 20 | istp

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⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ mike wheeler 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

the jealous type

not built for malls or feelings

the flowers were a bad idea(until they weren’t)

modern!mike hcs

mike wheeler x bestfriend!reader

if you ever need it

painting mike’s nails

the mixtape confession

dirty little secret | pt2

mike x karen smith!reader req

mikey!

mike wheeler x tall!reader req

mike wheeler x short!reader req

lacy

strawberry kisses

unbearably warm

mikey’s nose

mike x clingy!reader req

even a golden retriever is still a dog

truth or dare?

abc fluff hcs

nightmare

paladin!mike x reader (req)

sticky peaches

movie night!

red kisses

loser’s punishment

duty & desire

let me explain!

kissing booth

paladin!mike x reader

post s5 bf!hcs

always just you(cheating fic👀)

CRUNCH!

so real

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ chris tian 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

chris x carrie white!reader req

chris x vamp!reader req

chris x nonverbal!reader req

chris x elle woods!reader req

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ziggy katz 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

ziggy x nonverbal!reader req

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ petro 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

train you

alphabetical fluffy headcanons

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the steel of his pauldron was always cold, but the skin beneath it burned. he hated the weight of it. he hated the weight of the sword, the weight of the oath, and mostly, he hated the weight of the silence he kept between them. he stood in the doorway of your chambers, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall three inches above your shoulder. his job was to be a wall. to be a barrier. but somewhere, he’d forgotten that. somewhere, he’d stopped watching the doors for assassins and started watching the way the candlelight caught in your hair.

he was a mess of contradictions. on paper, he was just a guard. in reality, he was a man who felt like he was constantly holding his breath. he remembered the first day. he’d been so proud of the title, so sure he could handle the duty. now, he felt like a thief. every time he helped you off your horse, his fingers brushed your arm, and he felt the phantom burn of it for hours afterward. he would retreat to his own cot, lay on his back, and stare at the ceiling, trying to scrub his brain clean of the way you laughed at dinner. he failed every single night. the guilt was a physical thing, a heavy, sinking sensation in his gut that told him he was crossing a line just by wanting you. he looked at his own hands, calloused and scarred from training, and wondered how he dared to think they were fit to touch a royal.

the night it finally happened was quiet, the kind of quiet that you could feel, heavy with impending collapse. you were in the archives, late. you were hunched over a map, your shoulders tight, exhausted from a day of playing the politician. he stood ten paces back, hands on his sword, jaw so clenched he could feel his teeth aching. you looked up, eyes tired, and something just snapped inside him.

he didn't mean to cross the distance, but he did. he stepped into the light, his armor clanking softly, the only sound in the room. you didn't look away. you looked at him like you were waiting for him to do exactly what he’d been terrified to do. he reached out, fingers hovering, then finally, finally, he touched your face. his hands were shaking, adrenaline overwhelming him. you leaned into it, and the dam broke. he pulled you in, not with the grace of a knight, but with the desperate hunger of a boy who had been starving for a lifetime.

after that, the castle became a minefield. he learned to be two people. out there, in the halls, he was the stone faced paladin. silent, stoic, completely indifferent to anything but the mission. but when those oak doors clicked shut? he fell apart. he was impossibly clingy. he didn't know how to turn off his devotion, so it spilled out into every touch. he would stand behind you while you were at your vanity, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding himself in the scent of you.

handling mike’s curls ˎˊ˗

the basement is freezing, but the hum of the hairdryer is the only thing keeping the silence from feeling awkward. mike is sitting on the floor between your knees, his back against the sofa, looking everywhere but at you. he’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his usual annoyed scowl plastered on his face.

"if you keep moving, you're going to look like a poodle," you say, reaching out to tilt his chin up. he huffs, a sharp sound, but he stops moving. he hates that his hair gets all weird and weighed down when it rains, a fact he'd never admit to anyone else, because 'a man doesn't care about his curls.'

but you aren't anyone else.

you run your fingers through the damp, tangled mess, feeling the texture of his hair against your palms. he’s tense at first, but as you start working the dryer, turning the heat to low and aiming it at his roots, his shoulders finally drop.

"you're dramatic, you know that?" you tease, running a comb through a stubborn knot near his temple. he winces, swatting at your hand half heartedly. "stop it. i’m helping you look less like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket."

"i didn't ask for help," he mumbles, though his eyes drift shut, and the sharpness leaves his jaw.

"you didn't have to," you counter, softening your tone. you switch off the dryer, the sudden quiet making the basement feel intimate, like a secret world just for the two of you. you use your fingers to coax the curls into place, careful and delicate. "but you like it."

mike opens one eye, squinting up at you. he looks a little dazed, his hair finally soft and framing his face the way it’s supposed to. he reaches up, catching your wrist and holding your hand against his cheek for a fleeting second, an uncharacteristically soft gesture that makes your heart stutter.

"maybe i do," he mutters, his voice dropping into a quiet, soft register. he ducks his head, hiding his blush behind his messy curls. "but don't make a big deal out of it."

mike is trying to keep his life in new york quiet and small. he isn't looking for anything, and he definitely isn't looking to be found. but working the same shifts as you is starting to make that routine impossible.

⟢┊𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3k ˎˊ˗

‧₊˚ ┊𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭:mike wheeler x reader, post canon, nyc comic book shop era, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, grief, survivor’s guilt, mentions of character death (eleven), angst,eventual kissing, not proofread ˎˊ˗

mike didn’t come to new york for the literature degree, though that’s what he tells his parents on the phone every sunday. he came because hawkins felt like a place where everything had already happened. he was tired of recognizing people and pretending they were still the same. he needed somewhere that didn’t know his name.

the comic book store in the village is the only place that makes sense. selling graphic novels is muscle memory. he knows the canon, knows the arcs, knows how to talk to the nerds who need an escape. working the espresso machine in a white coffee stained apron is newer, a bit messier, something he had to force himself to learn, but the repetitive grind of it? it’s almost relaxing. it keeps his hands busy so they don't shake when the nightmares follow him into the daylight.

he thought he had it figured out. just keep his head down, pass his classes, and disappear into the crowd.

then there’s you.

you’re an nyu student too, majoring in psychology, which mike finds painfully ironic. he keeps waiting for you to analyze him, to figure out why he flinches when a door slams or why he’s always the first to lock up, but you don’t. you gave up on him months ago.

he remembers the first week. you had tried to talk to him, tried to make small talk during a dead hour, and mike, still knee deep in the instinct to push everyone away, had shut you down with one word answers and that cold stare he perfected in high school. he wasn't trying to shut you out, he was just so used to having his guard up that he didn't know how to drop it without accidentally acting like a total weirdo.

you took the hint. you decided he was just an arrogant, standoffish prick and stopped trying.

now, you just exist in the same six hour blocks, passing each other in the narrow aisles, working in a polite, hollow rhythm. you think he’s annoyed by you. you think every time he’s quiet, it’s because he’s wishing you’d go home.

you think he’s staring because you’re a nuisance, but honestly, he just likes having you around because you’re the only person in the shop who doesn’t drive him crazy. he goes quiet when you get close mostly because he’s busy overthinking everything he says, convinced that he’s just one bad joke away from looking like a total idiot.

it’s raining again, that miserable grey nyc drizzle that makes the comic shop feel like a submarine. the front of the store is quiet, just the muffled sound of traffic and the hum of the register. you’re behind the counter, trying to tally the day’s intake on a scrap of receipt paper because you lost your actual notebook, and mike is three aisles over, pretending to shelf graphic novels.

he’s not staring at you. he’s actually working. for once.

he walks over to drop a stack of returns on the counter. he notices the receipt paper, the ink smudge on your palm, and the frustrated way you’re tapping your pen against the wood. he stops.

"you're gonna get a cramp," he bluntly warns.

you don't look up. "my notebook is in my bag, which is in the back, and if i leave the counter now, the owner is gonna have a fit about 'unattended inventory.'"

mike shifts his weight. he looks at the register, then at the mess of papers. he reaches into his own pocket, pulls out a black, slightly battered notebook with a chewed up pen. he pushes them toward you.

"use this," he says. "it’s just full of scribbles and half finished lecture notes anyway."

you blink, finally looking at him. he’s not looking at you with that creepy gaze from last week. he’s just waiting for you to take the pen. he looks tired, actually. like he hasn't slept much.

"i can't take your notes, mike."

"they're not 'notes' if they’re just thoughts on why watchmen is still better than half the stuff coming out this month," he says, and for the first time, there’s a real dry smirk on his face. "take it. you look like you’re about to.. fight that calculator, or something.”

you take the notebook. it’s warm from his pocket. when your fingers brush his, he doesn't flinch. he just pulls his hand back slowly.

"thanks," you say, opening it to a random page. it’s full of dense, messy handwriting. some of it is class stuff, sure, but a lot of it is just random observations about the shop. 'espresso machine needs a new gasket, leaking again.' 'why do people treat the manga section like a library?’ 'customer in the red hat is back again..needs to stop bending the covers.'

"you write a lot," you murmur, squinting at a line about the guy in the red hat.

he shrugs, then turns back to the counter. facing the window instead of you.

" helps me remember stuff. don’t like relying on my own head for it."

you pause your math. "the guy in the red hat is bullshit?"

"he's annoying," mike says, matter of fact. "wants to talk about the price of every single issue. if i write it down, i'm ready for him next time. it's just logistics."

"i get that," you say, pushing the receipt paper away to write on his page. "i do the same thing with my class schedules, or i'd lose my mind."

mike turns back, leaning against the counter. he looks at you, then at the notebook in your hand. he doesn't look offended that you're reading it, just relieved you're not making a bigger deal out of it.

"yeah," he mutters, finally relaxing his grip on the edge of the counter. "it's just easier than dealing with it in the moment."

mike watches you write for a second, then looks back at the street.

"the coffee is getting cold," he says, nodding toward your cup.

"it was cold twenty minutes ago."

"fair," he mutters.

he stays at the counter. he doesn't go back to the shelves. he stays right there, close enough that you can hear him breathing, and for the first time, he doesn't look like he’s trying to be anywhere else.

by the four month mark, you’d stopped trying to figure out why he was the way he was, and he’d stopped acting like you were an inconvenience. it wasn’t some big change. the shop was just quiet, and you two were usually the only ones in it.

he still hovered by the register, and he still organized the shelves like the world was ending if a book was slanted, but the atmosphere had changed. he didn’t flinch when you walked behind the counter to grab a pen. he didn’t change the subject the second you brought up your life outside work. he just stood there, leaning on his elbows, reading or watching the street, and you were just... there too.

it was a habit by now. he’d buy an extra coffee on his way in because he knew you didn’t have time to go get one, and he’d leave it on the counter without saying anything. you guys just existed in the same space. it was just work, but it felt like you were actually working together instead of just occupying the same building.

you were currently crouched behind the new arrivals rack, trying to fix a leaning stack of graphic novels, when mike decided to play god with the radio again. he switched it from your lofi playlist to some obscure, high energy 80s track that he swore was "culturally superior."

"mike, i swear to god, if you play this one more time i’m going to hide your car keys," you called out from behind the shelf.

you heard the distinct sound of him leaning his elbows onto the counter, probably smirking. "they’re not keys, they’re subway passes. and it’s a classic, you’re just uncultured."

"i’m uncultured? you’re the one who spent ten minutes earlier trying to explain the plot of a comic to a guy who clearly just wanted to find the bathroom."

"he needed to know," mike shot back, completely unbothered. "it’s a crime to walk past that specific run without knowing the context. i was doing him a favor."

you rolled your eyes like you meant it, but didn’t bother hiding the smile.

you stood up from the shelf, dusting off your jeans. mike was at the counter, eyes locked on the street outside.

"staring at the door again?" you asked.

he didn't look away immediately. he just shrugged, one shoulder shifting under his sweater. "it's busy out there."

"it's a tuesday afternoon, mike. it’s dead."

he finally looked over at you, leaning back against the register. "people are unpredictable. better to see who's coming in before they actually walk through the door."

you didn't point out how weird that was. four months ago, it would have bugged you, but now it was just part of working with him. he liked knowing who was coming and going. that was just his thing.

"fine," you said, picking up the duster. "you keep an eye on the street. i'll finish the shelves."

he turned back to the window, but his shoulders weren't as tight as they usually were. he didn't say anything else, but he didn't rush you, either. he just stood there, waiting for the bell to ring, and for once, the silence between you felt pretty normal.

it started as a headache. a dull, persistent throb behind his eyes that only seemed to flare up when you walked into the shop.

for a while, it was easy to file you under “coworker.” functional. safe.

then it shifted.

he started noticing small things, how you laughed at bad takes, how you were the first person he looked for when he walked in. and that feeling didn’t sit right. it felt like something he wasn’t supposed to have.

every time it got too easy, his brain snapped back to hawkins. to leaving. to the fact that he got out and she didn’t.

he’d catch himself, on the subway, in line for coffee, turning to say something to someone who wasn’t there anymore.

after that, it was easier to keep his hands busy.

one afternoon, you were explaining a psych theory about attachment styles, and he was staring at you. he wasn't listening to the words; he was just listening to the way your voice sounded, steady, warm, entirely unlike the frantic, screaming noise that defined the most important moments of his life.

"are you even listening?" you asked, tilting your head.

mike blinked, his face flushing. he looked like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. "yeah. attachment. right."

" you know, you’re terrible at lying," you said, crossing your arms. "are you feeling alright?"

"i'm fine," he snapped, his voice sharp . he walked past you to the espresso machine, his movements stiff and practiced. he wasn't fine. he was terrified. he was terrified that if he admitted how much he liked you, he’d stop being the person who was ready for everything. he’d start being the person who had something to lose.

he didn't know how to be a person who could just enjoy liking someone.

later that shift, you were shelving returns. mike stood at the counter, watching the reflection of the store in the window. he could see you working. he could see your patience, your kindness, the way you handled the books with care. he hated how much he wanted to turn around and help you. he hated how much he wanted to walk over, take the stack of books from your hands, and just stand in the silence with you.

he clenched his fists in his pockets. he had to keep it together. he had to keep this job, keep this life, and keep his distance.

"you're hovering," you said, your voice drifting over from the manga section.

mike didn't turn around. he just stared at his own reflection, looking for the kid he used to be, the leader who knew exactly what to do. he didn't recognize himself.

"just.. looking at the street," he muttered, his voice strained.

he wasn't looking at the street. he was looking at himself and not seeing anything that made sense anymore. he wanted to let you in. god, he wanted to. but every part of his history was screaming at him that letting people in was how you got hurt, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to survive the heartbreak of losing you.

the fluorescent light over the back aisle is flickering, humming at a frequency that’s making mike’s head ache. he’s on his knees, pulling graphic novels off the bottom shelf and sliding them back into place. he’s not doing it because he’s a perfectionist.. well, he is, but he’s also doing it because he’s annoyed. some guy in a windbreaker spent an hour shuffling through the x-men run and put half of them back out of order.

it’s 7:30pm. he just wants to go home.

you walk over, carrying a stack of returns, and stop when you see him on the floor.

"you're still doing that?" you ask. "it’s basically closing, mike. nobody is going to care if volume four is next to volume six."

"i care," he mutters, not looking up. he slams a book back into the slot, a little too hard. "it’s not that hard to follow the spine numbers."

you sigh, set your stack down on the nearby table, and crouch down next to him. "just let me take the top half. we’ll be out of here in two minutes."

he opens his mouth to tell you it’s fine, that he can do it, but you’re already reaching for the books. he pulls back to give you space, and the aisle feels suddenly very small.

you’re working in silence, just the sliding of cardboard against metal shelves. you reach for a trade, and he reaches for the same one at the same time. your hands brush, just a split second, skin on skin, and this time he jerks his hand back like he touched a live wire.

he doesn't move away, though. he stays exactly where he is, hunched over on the floor.

you turn to look at him, maybe to apologize for the bump, or maybe just to see if he’s still in one of his moods. but he’s already looking at you. he’s stopped working. his hand is still hovering in the air between you, suspended there.

he’s not looking at your eyes, his gaze drifts to your mouth, then back to your eyes, his expression is completely blank. he looks like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for. his breathing is shallow, audible in the quiet of the shop.

it’s uncomfortable. just two people sitting on a dirty comic shop floor, staring at each other because the silence has become heavy enough to basically lean on. he looks like he wants to say something, but he’s too locked up. his jaw is tight. his shoulders are hunched up toward his ears.

he shifts, his knee bumping against yours. he doesn't pull away. instead, he leans forward. it’s an impulsive, slightly jerky movement,

like he’s already committed and doesn’t know how to stop. he closes the space. he stops a few inches away, hesitates, and then presses his mouth to yours. he doesn't know what to do with his hands, so they just kind of bunch up into the fabric of your hoodie. he’s not kissing you like a hero in a movie, he’s kissing you like he needs to know this is actually happening.

it lasts for three seconds before he pulls back, his face flushing dark red. he looks genuinely rattled, like he’s just realized he’s in the middle of an aisle in a public place.

he stares at you, his eyes wide and panicked, mouth slightly open. he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, already bracing for you to completely pull away. his chest heaving as he tries to regulate his own breathing.

you don't blink. the silence is loud, filled only by the hum of the overhead light. mike is holding his breath, his hands still bunched in your fabric.

you look at the red creeping up his neck into his ears, the way his eyes stay locked on yours, searching for a rejection he’s already convinced is coming.

you don’t think. you shift your weight and lean back in.

mike lets out a short, sharp breath, like you knocked the wind out of him. he doesn't pull away. instead, he shifts, his knees pressing into the carpet. he grabs the back of your neck with one hand, his fingers hot against your skin.

he kisses back with a sudden, jerky intensity, like he’s trying to catch up to the decision you just made. your teeth click against his. he makes a muffled, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and adjusts his angle.

his other hand leaves your hoodie and finds your waist, pulling you so close there’s no gap left. you can feel the sharp edges of his keys in his pocket pressing into your thigh. he’s breathing hard, the air hitting your cheek in rapid bursts.

there’s no grace to it. he presses you back against the shelf behind you. a book shifts, falling off the stack and hitting the floor with a loud thud, but he doesn't stop. he just grips you tighter, his breathing syncing with yours. pulling you closer as if he’s trying to anchor himself. then, he freezes. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands dropping from your waist as if he’s been burned. he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyebrows pulled up in the middle, making his eyes look huge and lost in the dim light. he’s staring at you like he’s trying to solve a problem he doesn't have the answer to.

"is this okay?" he murmured.

the carnival is loud, a mix of screeching calliope music, shouting barkers, and the smell of deep fried grease is sweetly overwhelming.

mike is standing at your booth. he’s been there for forty minutes. he’s sweating through his tshirt, his hair is a mess, and his pockets are turned inside out, emptied of every last dime.

you’re leaning against the back counter, watching him with an amused, half lidded expression. you know the game is rigged. the bottles are weighted with lead at the bottom, and the wooden shelf is tilted slightly forward. you aren't trying to scam him, really, but the math is stacked against him.

"one more," mike says, his voice cracked. he’s holding his last five dollar bill like it’s a lifeline. "i’ve got the angle right this time. i just… the trajectory was off before."

"mike," you say, your voice teasing, dragging out the syllables. "you’re gonna be broke by the time you leave. maybe just take the consolation prize? i’ll give you the goldfish."

he looks at you, eyes blown wide, completely oblivious to how attractive he looks when he’s this intensely focused.

"i don't want the goldfish," he says, dead serious. he leans over the counter, invading your space just enough to make your heart skip. "i want the big teddy bear. the blue one."

"the blue one is worth, like, twenty dollars, mike. you’ve spent forty."

"it’s not about the money," he says, flushing a deep red. he realizes how that sounds and trips over his words. "i mean.. it is about the money, obviously, i’m broke, but it’s more about the… the principle of the thing. and the bear. i just really think you’d look nice holding it."

he stops, horrified by what he just said. he looks like he wants to jump into the nearest trash can.

"did i just say that out loud?" he whispers, gripping the counter.

you just smile, that slow, dangerous smile you reserve for the guys who are too nervous to be smooth. you reach over, your fingers brushing his as you take his last five dollars, letting your hand linger there for a second longer than necessary.

"you’re a disaster," you murmur.

"i know," he admits, his breath hitching as your skin touches his. "but if i win this, are you gonna let me buy you dinner? because i really don't have any money left, but i’m pretty sure i can find a vending machine that takes credit cards."

mike’s never been with anyone and he’s terrified of messing up, so his roommate offers to help him out. It’s just practice… right?

‧₊˚ ┊𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5k ˎˊ˗

♡ྀི ┊𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: college au, first kisses, awkward nerd mike🤤, crumbs of vulnerability, not proofread.ᐟ

the dorm was quiet, except for the hum of the minifridge and the scratch of mike’s mechanical pencil against a notebook. it was late, well past the hour where most people were out doing things that they were supposed to do. for a year, this had been their routine. silence, study, the occasional shared takeout, and the polite, careful distance they maintained to keep from tripping over each other’s lives.

mike was hunched over his desk, his posture tight, shoulders pulled up toward his ears. "you’re grinding your teeth again," you said, not looking up from your own book.

mike’s pencil froze. he let out a short, sharp breath, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "i’m not. i’m just… thinking."

"you’ve been thinking for three hours," you said, closing your book and turning your chair to face his back. he didn't turn around, but he shifted, a clear sign that he was retreating. "it’s friday night, mike. do you ever actually go out? i feel like if i looked for you in the dictionary under 'hermit,' i’d find a picture of your laptop."

mike let out a dry, humorless laugh. "very funny. i have things to do. school is hard, in case you hadn't noticed."

"school is hard for everyone," you said, your voice softening because you saw the way he was gripping his pencil, hard enough that the lead snapped. "everyone else seems to balance it. they go out, they meet people, they… i don't know, they date. you’ve been here for a year, mike. i’ve never seen you go on a single date. i’ve never seen you bring anyone back. you’re like a ghost in this room."

mike finally spun his chair around, but he didn't look at you. he looked at the floor, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the leg of his desk. "well, i don’t see why that’s your concern."

"it’s not a concern. i’m just… curious," you lied, feeling the heat rise in your own cheeks. the truth was, you’d been wondering since the second month. you’d been watching him, the way he looked when he was stressed, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren't looking, the way you’d both fallen into this comfortable rhythm that felt like more than friendship to you, even if you were too terrified to name it. "is it… is there someone?"

mike’s head snapped up. he looked startled, his eyes wide and dark, searching your face for a joke you weren't making. "what? no. no, there’s no one."

"so, what? you just don’t like people?"

"it’s not that," he muttered, his voice dropping, turning raspy and defensive. he started picking at the thread on his sleeve, his movements clumsy. "it’s just… it’s a lot, okay? putting yourself out there. it’s not really my thing."

"you’re twenty, mike."

"i know how old i am," he snapped, then immediately softened, his shoulders slumping. "look, i just… i haven't really done any of that. ever. it’s not exactly something you advertise."

the room felt like it had suddenly lost all its oxygen. you sat there, blinking, trying to process the vulnerability he’d just handed you. you’d spent the last year thinking he was just busy, or maybe guarded, but hearing him admit he’d never… it felt like the floor had dropped out from under you. it matched the ache you’d been carrying for him, the secret you’d been keeping under a lock and key because you were too scared of ruining the only space where you felt like you belonged.

"you’ve never…?" you started, then stopped, feeling like an idiot. "oh. i didn’t… i’m sorry. i wasn't trying to pry."

"it’s fine," he said, though it clearly wasn't. he looked miserable. "it’s just… if i started now, i wouldn’t have any idea what i was doing. i’d probably just… be weird. make it awkward. ruin it for whoever it was. i’m not good at the… the stuff people do. the flirting, or the reading the room, or whatever. i’d just be that guy who fumbles through it and makes everything uncomfortable."

he looked at his hands, his knuckles white. he didn't say the rest, he didn't have to. he didn't say that he’d spent the whole year wanting someone, but being too afraid of acting on it because you two shared a dorm, because he didn't want to be the guy who crossed a line, because he didn't want to lose the one person who actually got him.

"mike," you said, your voice shaking just a little. you stood up, moving slowly, cautiously. you didn't want to scare him off. you stopped just a few feet from him, giving him every chance to turn away. "you’re not going to ruin anything. and you’re not weird. you’re just… you’re you."

he looked at you, his gaze searching yours, looking for a way out, but finding none. "you-you don’t know that. you’ve never seen me try."

"maybe," you whispered. the room felt very small, the silence thick with the things you hadn't said for twelve months. you were terrified, too. you were scared that if you did this, you’d change everything, that you’d break the fragile balance of your lives. but looking at him, seeing the raw, quiet desperation in his eyes, you knew you couldn't just walk away. "but… if you’re worried about being bad at it… why don't you practice?"

mike blinked, his breath hitching. "practice? ..like, what do you mean?”

"with me," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. it was the most vulnerable thing you’d ever said. "it doesn’t… it doesn't have to be anything. we can just… help you get over the hump. if you’re worried about being clumsy, we can just… see. right now."

mike stared at you, his mouth slightly parted. he looked like he was trying to solve an equation that had no solution, his brows furrowed, his eyes darting to your face and then back to your lips. "you’re..being serious?"

"i’m just… trying to help a friend," you said, not able to even believe yourself.

he stood up, but he was shaky. he didn't have any of the confidence he’d seen other guys in the dorm hallway have. he just looked like himself, earnest, anxious, and deeply, painfully careful. he took one step toward you, then another, until he was standing right in your space. he didn't touch you yet. he hovered, his hands coming up and then dropping back to his sides, like he wasn't sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

"if i’m… if i’m not good at this," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the room, "you have to tell me. don’t just be nice. tell me."

"i won't be nice," you promised, your heart hammering against your ribs. "i’ll be honest."

he took a deep breath, and he finally reached out. his hands landed on your waist, his grip delicate, like he was afraid he might bruise you. his palms were warm, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers. he looked down at your face, his dark eyes searching yours, and for a second, he looked terrified.

"okay," he breathed.

he leaned in, slow and agonizingly hesitant. he was overthinking it, you could see it in the way he squinted, in the way he tilted his head too far, in the way he hesitated when he was inches away. you couldn't take it anymore. you reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his hoodie, and you gently tugged him the rest of the way.

the contact was electric. it was messy, he bumped his nose against yours, and he held his breath, and for a heartbeat, it was exactly as awkward as he’d feared. but then, he let out a sharp exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and his grip on your waist tightened. he wasn't thinking about the mechanics anymore. he was just feeling.

he wasn't experienced, and you weren't either, but the desperation was there, a year’s worth of unspoken longing pouring into the touch. he moved his hands, pulling you closer, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. he kissed you like he was trying to learn the shape of your soul, his mouth searching, then slowly finding a rhythm that was just yours.

he made a small, frustrated sound in his throat, pulling back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. he was flushed, his hair a disaster, his eyes dazed and wide.

"is that…?" he started, his voice thick. "was that… okay?"

you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands still clutching the front of his hoodie. you could feel his heartbeat through his chest, fast and irregular, matching your own. "y-yeah," you whispered, "that was.. pretty good, i think.”

he let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders finally draining away, replaced by a soft, incredulous look of wonder. he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, in the circle of your arms, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"okay," he murmured, his voice stronger now, more certain. "i think i might need to practice a little more."

he didn't wait for an answer. he leaned in again, and this time, there was no hesitation.

mike is a pathetic little thing, and he finally got the attention he was craving ^ྀི

┊: creep!mike,dubcon, dryhumping, mdni ﹕﹕

the argument wasn’t even a conversation. it was just you losing your shit over the notebook. every date, every time you left, every fucking second accounted for. you called him a freak, you threw the book at him, and you slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. you stayed out for six hours, just killing time because the thought of going back was making you sick, but the silence in your head was worse.

when you finally unlocked the apartment at midnight, the place was pitch black. mike was sitting on the floor right inside the entryway, back against the wall, staring at the door. he hadn’t moved. he looked completely unraveled, shirt untucked, hair matted, eyes fixed on your shoes like they were a lifeline.

he didn’t even stand up. he just scrambled toward you on his knees, his hands shooting out to grab your ankles. his grip was bruisingly tight. he didn’t say anything at first, just dragged you forward until you were standing between his knees. then he shoved his face into your stomach and started shaking.

"i thought you left," he whispered, voice ruined. "i thought you fucking left."

he stood up into you. he wasn’t looking at your face. he was just breathing you in, his hands sliding up under your shirt, nails digging into your waist.

he ripped his zipper open, his movements sloppy and shaking. he shoved his pants down to his thighs but kept his boxers on, bunching the fabric up so he could press his cock right against your crotch. he didn't wait for you to touch him, he grabbed your waist and hauled you up against him, pinning you to the door.

he started driving his hips into you, slamming his pelvis against yours hard enough to leave bruises. he was grinding his cock against your crotch, the friction through your jeans and his underwear heavy and wet. he was relentless, rocking his hips in a violent, uneven rhythm, every thrust catching you off guard. he was panting against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, muttering obscenities every time he slammed into you.

he reached down, hooking his hand under your thigh to hike your leg up, making the connection even tighter. he used his free hand to shove your shirt up and grip your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he shoved his cock harder against your pelvis. he wasn't trying to make it feel good for you; he was trying to break the friction, trying to cum from the sheer force of rubbing himself raw against you.

he jerked faster, his hips bucking uncontrollably, his cock straining against his underwear until he let out a choked, wet noise. he bucked into you one last, brutal time, his body seizing up against yours. he finished right there, shuddering and groaning, the friction so intense you could feel him vibrating against you.

when he was spent, he didn't pull away. he just sagged, his dead weight still pinning you to the door, his face still pressed into your neck, his hands white knuckled on your hips. he stayed there, panting, his whole body shaking with the aftershocks, waiting for you to move, waiting for you to tell him you were still here.

⟢ content: mike wheeler x reader, college au, roommate!lucas(mybaby), slow burn, mike staring at the back of reader’s head for 4 months(he’s a bit of a perv tbh), drunk confessions at a frat party, both are d&d nerds, makeout sesh on a boat but idk how boats work, pov changes throughout, not proofread

college was supposed to be the big reset button. that’s what mike told himself when he was packing up his room back in hawkins, staring at the empty shelves. a new city, new classes, no upside down, no crumbling mental state. just grades and hopefully, a degree.

the best part was that lucas was coming too. finding out they were rooming together was a relief that actually made his chest feel lighter for once. having someone there who knew exactly why mike sometimes panicked when he did was a safety net he didn't deserve.

then the spring semester started, and with it, the transfer student who sat right in front of him in intro to creative writing.

mike tried to ignore them. he really did. the professor was droning on about post modern narrative structure, something mike usually loved, but all he could focus on was the way the back of the student's neck looked, the slight slouch of their shoulders, the way they sighed every time the professor tried to be funny.

stop it ,mike told himself, gripping his pen so hard his knuckles turned white. look at the board. listen to the lecture. you are here to get a degree, not to stare at strangers.

"it's just a person," he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the scratching of pens around the room. "just another student. stop looking at their hair."

but he couldn't help it. it was like a magnetic pull. he was obsessed with why they seemed so bored, so completely unbothered by the academic posturing around them. everyone else in the class was nodding, taking notes, desperate to prove they were smart. they just sat there, chin in hand, staring out the window or doodling in the margins of their notebook. to mike, it was infuriating.

his own notes were garbage. he looked down at his page and saw he’d written 'why are they even here?' like ten times in the margin. he scribbled it out, his chest tightening with anxiety. he was losing it. he was becoming the weird guy in class. you are losing your mind, mike, he thought, feeling a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. get a grip.

one tuesday, the new student turned around to grab a pencil from their bag, and their notebook shifted on the desk, the cover flapping open.

mike’s eyes were glued to it before he could even register what he was doing.

there it was. a fading, slightly peeling sticker of a d20 die, right next to a 'dungeon master' decal.

mike’s brain basically shortcircuited. he stopped breathing. he felt like the air in the lecture hall had been sucked out, leaving him in a vacuum. he almost dropped his pen, it clattered loudly on his desk, and he jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs.

no way, he thought, his pulse roaring in his ears. there’s no fucking way.

he spent the rest of the hour trying to convince himself that it was a coincidence, or maybe they just liked the aesthetic.but he knew better. he knew the specific wear of those stickers. he knew the 'dungeon master' decal wasn't just a fun piece of stationary, it was a badge. it was a signal. his own accessories wearing the same stickers.

he wanted to reach out and tap their shoulder. he wanted to ask them about their campaign, about what edition they played, about who they played with. the words were right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue. but they died in his throat every time they made eye contact.

he was a coward. he knew it.

why are you such a loser? he berated himself, staring blankly at his own paper.

he tried to look away. he tried to focus on his own story drafts, trying to force himself to write something that wasn't just a thinly veiled retelling of his own nightmares. but his eyes kept drifting back to that d20. it was a beacon in the dark. it was a tether to a life he was desperately trying to leave behind, but also the only thing that made him feel like he wasn't completely alone in this crowded, bright, terrifyingly normal university.

he didn't know their name. he didn't know their voice. but he knew, with a sinking, terrifying certainty, that he was already in too deep.

"we are going," lucas said, throwing a shirt at mike’s head on a friday night. "it’s a boat party, mike. it’s not a rave. just get dressed."

"it’s a boat," mike argued, pulling the shirt off his face. "i don't like boats. why do we have to be on water?"

"it’s docked at the marina. it’s not moving, it’s basically just a floating frat house. come on, don't be a hermit."

mike caved, mostly because lucas looked disappointed. he regretted it the second they stepped onto the deck. the boat was swaying, just a little, but his inner ear didn't like it. he felt seasick despite the fact that they weren't even off the dock.

he followed lucas down the small, wooden stairs, away from the loud music on the deck and into the cabin.

the interior was almost offensively nice. it looked like an expensive yacht magazine spread, led lighting glowing under the cabinets, wood paneling everywhere, and brown leather bench seats that looked way too clean for a bunch of college guys to be drinking beer near.

"dude, check the windows down here," lucas shouted over the noise, clapping mike on the shoulder.

mike didn't hear him. he was too busy trying to ignore the plastic, tacky looking speaker shaped like a dolphin that was perched on the countertop. it was blasting some pop song with a bassline so aggressive it rattled the ice in mike’s empty cup. he didn't even recognize it, sounding like a dying robot trying to harmonize.

leaning against the counter were three guys from lucas's frat. mike recognized two of them immediately: brandon and jace. he’d spent 2 hours on tuesday sitting in the library trying to explain the difference between 'they're,' 'their,' and 'there' to brandon. watching brandon now, holding a beer and slurring something about his midterms, mike rolled his eyes so hard it physically hurt. he’d corrected brandon's usage of 'there' three times in one paragraph, and here he was, likely failing to even spell his own name right on a scantron sheet. fucking miraculous, mike thought, turning away before he had to listen to another slurred sentence.

he hovered near the kitchenette, trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone, gripping his red plastic cup like a lifeline.

then he looked up to see who was sitting in the booth across from the galley, and the air left his lungs.

she was there. tucked away from the noise, looking entirely out of place in the best way possible. she was nursing her own drink, staring at the table with that same bored expression you wore in class.

you were wearing a short white summer dress, paired with clean white sneakers and a hollow, white knit cardigan that hung loosely off your shoulders. it was a stark contrast to the dark serious mahogany of the cabin. mike felt his palms go instantly clammy, the heat from his cheeks flushing all the way down his neck.

he stared, unable to look away, as you shifted in the booth. the low light of the cabin caught the reflection on your mouth. a thick, glossy coat of red that made your lips look wet and entrancing. it was.. completely distracting.

mike felt his pulse jump, a jolt that settled low and heavy in his stomach. his breath hitching as the realization hit him. he was currently painfully attracted to you, and he was trapped in this cabin with the one person who made him feel like he was constantly losing his footing.

he was sweating through his shirt, his heart was drumming a wild beat against his ribs, and he had no idea how to hide the fact that he was staring like a total freak.

great. this was going to be a disaster.

the boat wasn't helping. the constant rocking was messing with his sense of stability, and the liquid courage he’d downed in about thirty minutes was making his head spin in a way that had nothing to do with the sea. he leaned against the walls of the kitchenette, watching you. you hadn't looked at him again, but he could feel your presence like a localized gravity.

then, you stood up. you didn't look back, just turned and walked down the short narrow hallway toward the back of the boat.

mike didn't think. his brain to mouth filter had been dissolved by the cheap frat house tequila. he pushed off the wall, stumbling slightly as the floor tilted beneath his sneakers, and followed you. the hallway was tight. he caught up just as you ducked into one of the staterooms, the door left cracked open.

he pushed it open a little wider. you were sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at your phone, and you looked up, eyes narrowing.

"uh, hi—hic—i’m-i’m mike," he stammered, swaying a little. he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. "i’m in your creative writing class. we’re... partners? i think? i saw you."

you stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly unimpressed by his state of inebriation.

mike didn't stop. he couldn't stop. his tongue felt thick, but the words were rushing out like a dam breaking. he stumbled further into the room, pointing vaguely at your bag which was sitting on the floor.

"i saw the sticker," he blurted out, gesturing wildly. "the d20. the dungeon master one. i have that same one on my laptop. i mean, not the same one, but the design. and it’s-it’s actually crazy because like, most people just think it’s a game, right? just dice and paper. but i’ve... i’ve lived it. i’ve actually had to play the game, you know? like the real stakes, the monsters, the... everything."

he was rambling now, waving his hands around, his eyes wide and unfocused. "and i thought i was the only one who still cared about it, or thought it meant something, and i’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks but i’m a fucking idiot and i can’t talk to people and-“

he stopped, breathless, his face burning hot. the alcohol taste suddenly becoming too bitter in his mouth to be ignored. he realized how loud he was being, how pathetic he probably looked, swaying in front of a stranger in a bedroom on a boat he didn't even want to be on.

you stood up slowly. at least you didn't look annoyed anymore, mike thought. you took one step toward him, then another, closing the distance until he was backed up against the doorframe.

"you're.. loud," you said, your voice low and flat, cutting right through his spinning thoughts.

"i... i know," mike whispered. "i’m sorry, i’m just-“

you didn't let him finish. you reached out and grabbed his jaw, your hand firm, tilting his head down until he was looking right at you. you didn't say anything, just pulled him down.

the kiss hit him like a physical impact. it was hard and immediate, teeth clicking against each other for a split second before his brain caught up. mike made a choked, pathetic sound in his throat, his hands flying up to grab the edge of your cardigan, bunching the fabric in his fists.

the boat gave a violent, sudden lurch, the wood frame of the room groaning as it shifted on the water. the motion knocked you off balance, and you stumbled, forced hard into him. mike’s arms went around your waist instinctively, bracing you against his chest, but the momentum carried you both forward, until rocking back the opposite way. mike’s shoulder blades again slammed into the doorframe.

"damn boat," you muttered against his lips. you didn't pull away, though. instead, you shoved him harder into the frame, pinning him there with your body weight.

mike didn't care about the swaying or the nausea or the fact that he was probably going to throw up later. he shoved his leg between your knees to steady himself, and he felt the friction of your dress against his jeans. it was a stupid, clumsy adjustment, but it brought you flush against him, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis.

you let out a huff, one hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers tangling deep into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him wince. he liked it. he didn't mind that he was drunk or that he barely knew you. he leaned into the hand, opening his mouth against yours, desperate to get closer.

the air in the room was hot. you weren't kissing him like you were strangers. your tongue was aggressive, demanding space, and he just scrambled to keep up, his hands roaming over your back, pulling you in until there wasn't a single inch of space left between you. he wasn't the kid in the front row of class anymore; he was just someone who couldn't stop touching you, trying to ground himself in the only thing that felt real.

the world is just the friction of her sweater against his knuckles and the pressure of her mouth, until a loud metallic click cuts through the haze.

the stateroom door swings open, the wood scraping against the floor, and the heavy bass from the deck floods into the small, quiet space like a physical blow. mike jumps back, stumbling, his shoulder slamming into the closet door behind him.

lucas is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. he’s holding his car keys, jingling them against his palm.

"dude, we gotta go," lucas says, not even looking at the other person in the room, just staring at mike with a look of mild amusement that immediately turns to confusion when he takes in mike’s messy hair and the fact that he looks like he’s just been dragged through a hurricane. "my car’s started outside. you good? you look like you’re about to throw up."

mike blinks. he has no idea what time it is. ten minutes ago? two hours ago? his head feels disconnected from his body. the adrenaline from the kiss is warring with the tequila in his stomach, making his gut turn over.

"yeah," mike croaks, his voice sounding like gravel. he wipes a hand across his mouth, his lips still feeling numb, still feeling like they’re burning from yours. "yeah. sorry. going."

he stumbles toward the door, his sneakers feeling too big for his feet. he pushes past lucas, who gives him a weird look, but mike can’t focus on his roommate right now. his brain is buzzing, trying to process what just happened. he feels like he’s walking on a tightrope, terrified that if he looks back, this whole night will vanish like a fever dream.

he reaches the hallway, the cool air from the deck hitting his face, but he stops dead. he can’t leave. he can’t just walk away and go back to his dorm and pretend he didn't just kiss the person he’s been obsessing over for half a semester.

he spins around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and finds you still standing by the bed, leaning against the headboard. the adrenaline hits him so hard he almost gasps.

"wait!"

the word comes out too loud, desperate. lucas pauses in the doorway, raising an eyebrow, but mike ignores him. he’s only looking at you, his chest heaving, his hands balled into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.

"wait," he repeats, softer this time, his face flushing deep red. "would you... would you be interested in joining my campaign sometime?”

the silence in the room is deafening. lucas looks back and forth between the two of you, totally lost, but mike doesn't care. he just needs to know if he’s crazy, or if this is actually real.