Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s an irony in Mom once making him get rid of his Millennium Falcon because of the graffiti on the Hawkins Middle bathroom walls, when the Hawkins High tile now says Mike Wheeler is a cocksucker, and he’s here sucking cock with a Millennium Falcon almost directly in front of him. Where most people would have a headboard Jeff has floor to ceiling wall to wall bookshelves. All of the useless unreachable shelves have memorabilia. On his belly, neck craning up, the Millennium Falcon is like a halo around Gareth’s head.

Transitioning to high school hasn’t been all that difficult, truthfully. Lucas might be having a quarter life crisis about still being bullied but as far as Mike sees it, same old same old. There are mouthbreathers everywhere, from middle school to the corporate office to the seniors home. It’ll never be a shock to meet some.

The real difference is how they’ve adapted to deal with it. In middle school they stuck to themselves. It didn’t matter who was an asshole and who didn’t understand them because they had each other. At fifteen they’ve grown a little, turned to outsiders. The first time around Mike fought so hard for El to not get replaced but with the Byers gone it’s obvious they need to try to patch over the gaping wound, at least a little. Lucas, continuing his rat in a maze desperation to get the cheese of popularity, tries out for basketball, and spends most of his lunches there once he makes the cut. Dustin splits his time between Steve and Robin, and Hellfire, and Suzie over radio. And Mike? Well, Mike’s found Corroded Coffin.

It started simply; Mike getting a ride from Gareth one afternoon when one of Nancy’s hundred extra curriculars ran late. On a random whim that Mike’s since examined a thousand times for did he secretly know, was he intuiting a vibe even then, Mike agreed to hang out at Gareth’s for a bit before going home. He’d gotten high for the first time, that afternoon. And when he’d ended up making out with Gareth, grinding down on him on the couch in the back of the band’s garage turned studio, he’d had a lot of big, life altering feelings about that. Even wondered for a few days, carefully quiet at the Hellfire table in the caf, if they should do it again, if they should be boyfriends. That was about when he went to Grant’s to borrow some sci-fi and found the guy stoned, making out with Gareth in his basement.

Because that’s what Corroded Coffin does. They do drugs and listen to music that has real lyrics and fuck around. They’re the sum total of the gay guys in Hawkins, besides Mr Renner, who’s been a confirmed bachelor since 1962. It’s just another way Hawkins would look down on them, if they knew. And it’s badass, it’s rebellious, Eddie spitting on the head of someone’s dick or down their asscrack is like spitting on the town, and fuck no, Mike’s not going to turn down a single opportunity to hang out.

It’s a toss up who’s house he likes best. Jeff’s got the coolest bedroom Mike’s ever seen, bright green walls and the biggest collection of action figures and other designer toys in Indiana. At Eddie’s they don’t have to exhale their rips into a perfumed static sheet stuffed toilet paper tube, because no one cares. The guys like hanging out at Gareth’s so they can work on their songs and Mike tries to go with the flow. And Grant has the best snacks, and also a wrought iron headboard Eddie can click his handcuffs to. Wherever he is, it’s better than at home. And it’s not like anyone asks where he’s going, besides possibly a name with no follow up questions. They’ve never asked and cared about the answer.

Tonight they’re at Jeff’s. Twenty minutes ago they were reclining against various surfaces, the bed and the beanbag chairs and the ottoman always stacked with clothing that always gets shoved off, reading comics. Now they’re all naked, and Mike is chest down on the bed, bobbing up and down on Gareth’s cock while Gareth makes out with Jeff sitting beside him, and standing beside the bed Eddie and Grant jerk each other off. Mike’s body is warm and floaty with the weed, and his face is hot and heavy with Gareth stretching his jaw wide. There’s no way Lucas or Dustin are getting this from their chosen friends.

As these things always go, no one stays in one position for too long. Mike’s not sure if switching things around mid sex is a normal thing, or if it’s just because they’re distractible stoners. Who’s he supposed to ask? Approach Coach Murdoch from Health and Phys Ed? Get a redux of the birds and the bees from Mom and Dad? Interrogate his sister about her sex life? Beg Steve to be his big brother the way Dustin has? Fuck all of that. Better to just go with it. Who cares if he’s mid blowjob when Jeff stands up to make out with Grant, and Eddie uses the opportunity to pull Mike stage left, entirely off Gareth’s dick. Gareth will find something to do, and Mike can focus on the way Eddie’s massaging his cheeks and spitting continuously on his cleft so the warm liquid drips down his hole to his taint. They have lube here, they have it in all four of their houses and Eddie even bought Mike his own bottle for getting himself off at home, but Eddie always does the spitting thing. He’s got a kink for it, Mike’s pretty sure.

What Mike’s learned since September, while Lucas was learning point throws and Dustin was educating himself cinematically, watching full movies on Family Video’s overhead tvs, is how good it is to get fucked. He can hear Dad saying ‘if you have to be a faggot at least be a man’, but nah, nope. Eddie says it doesn’t work that way, that there is no male and female role because they’re all gay, or queer. Mike gets what he’s saying, but he likes it better thinking he’s actively choosing to be an embarrassing mockery of his gender. It’s another thing to give Dad the middle finger over. Call the ability to sit at the dinner table and silently chant ‘guys fuck me, I fuck guys’ to their stupid faces an additional pleasure, the cherry on top.

By the time Eddie is in him, they’ve scooted into Gareth’s place on the bed. Mike kneels on shaky legs, kept up by Eddie’s arms wrapped around his body. Eddie always fucks him fast, at a pace that could shuffle him across the bed, only the hug is always so firm Mike never feels like he’s going anywhere. He feels safe, in Eddie’s embrace, with Gareth jerking Grant and Jeff off beside them. He only ever feels safe in groups these days. Three people gets two of you knocked out while the third is kidnapped and nearly murdered, but five makes for more of a force.

When Grant starts playing with Gareth’s balls and Jeff steps away to give them their moment, there’s only one thing that makes sense. Mike reaches out and grabs Jeff’s hand. The dude’s nice enough to kiss Eddie over his shoulder, and crouch down to give Mike his own tongue swipe before letting Mike take him into his mouth. Mike had already been planning to blow him, back when Gareth and Jeff were hip to hip. He was gonna go back and forth, back and forth, until he had two loads down his throat. It’s just concluding a quest thread to put half his weight on one palm and the other on Jeff’s ass to tug him in and get his dick weighing on his tongue. Mike doesn’t have the best core strength, he’s no athlete, but Eddie only shifted his grip lower on his waist as Mike broke free to bend over. He fully expects Eddie to keep him in place, where he needs to be.

Things get a little kinky then. Besides the copious spit and excessive lube thing, they’ve been as vanilla as it’s possible for five guys to be. But all of them have kinks, something it’s easier to talk about when you’re stoned and contemplative. Mike would bet a thousand dollars that Dustin and Suzie have never once talked about kinks. Lucas and Max, possibly, but she’s not with him these days. Not so much of a break up as slow fade away. It’s sad, and if it drives Lucas into the arms of a cheerleader he may puke. Mike’s open to nearly all of the shit the band’s into, because his kink is mostly spiteful exhibitionism. If it would horrify a normie to see it, Mike wants to try it. It’s no more fuckin’ Gap shirts, it’s spiked collars and his knees up on his chest.

Mike’s not sure, at first, what Gareth wants, sitting to his left on the bottom of the bed. He grabbed something from Jeff’s shelving, but Mike wasn’t playing too close attention, seeing as his eyes squeeze shut every time Eddie hits his prostate. Because yeah, there’s a gland that make gay sex feel good. You can sure the fuck bet no one told him that before. There’s any number of things Gareth could have planted on a shelf at any time, they basically have free run of the Copeland house. Like the Munsons, but a little less working night shifts a little more constant rotation of book clubs and dinner parties. For all Mike knows, Gareth has a spatula, and he’s about to spank the shit out of him. He won’t do it to Eddie, that’s for sure. Eddie’s never the receiver of anything kinky or sexual, always the giver.

The funny thing is, it’s still cutlery. Not truly, it’d be a shame to cut bread with a knife that probably cost fifty bucks at a trade show. But it’s enough of an association that it makes Mike giggle when Gareth reveals it. He thinks he can blame that on the weed. Sober, Mike has to put up with a lot of miserable shit. Stoned, things can be humorous.

They can also be hot. Mike’s entire body flushes glowing red when Gareth slickly holds the knife to his throat. He goes still for the safety of his carotid. At first he’s just motionless, and then it becomes a concentrated effort not to move. Eddie is still fucking his ass, rabbiting into him in a way that could make anyone gay, just purely for the sensation. And now that Mike doesn’t dare bob his head to suck Jeff, Jeff’s got his large bassist hands on the sides of Mike’s cheekbones as he facefucks him.

It feels powerful, being still enough to be safe, despite the onslaught of lust. It’s powerful and powerless at the same time, because Jeff or Eddie could stop at any time, and he wouldn’t be able to dive forward to get Jeff’s cock back down his throat, or thrust back to get Eddie balls deep. All Mike can do is withstand, erection smearing precome across his stomach.

Somewhere, in the midst of this, the thick milquetoast beige blur that is his Dad is voicing its disapproval in the back of his head, blandly droning “would you let just any friend hold a knife on you? Or are these delinquents special?”

Yes. The fucking answer is yes, he would, to hell with Dad. He’s friends with so many dangerous people. Dustin killed a Russian guard to save Steve and Robin. El’s killed probably dozens, between the showdown at the middle school, and opening the gate. Steve rammed his stolen car into a possessed psycho, the whiplash of which should have killed him if his body wasn’t already ninety percent black ooze. Max attempted to castrate her brother in a powerplay. And he would trust every single one of them to hold a knife to his throat. Hell, Jonathan did literally stab El once, and they’re siblings now. If you can’t trust someone when your head is under the guillotine, are they truly friends?

The specialness with Corroded Coffin isn’t that Mike is turned on enough to let them do this. It’s that they’re important enough to have earned something he’d naively thought only Party members could have. It’s a distinction that Mom and Dad could never fathom. But just like Dustin trusted Mike to keep him safe with a knife in his mouth, Mike trusts Gareth to keep him safe with one at his neck.

Jeff comes first. Unwilling to move Mike’s head, he arches his hips forwards to get Mike nose to pubes. Mike barely tastes the jizz rocketing down his throat, Jeff is buried so deep. Jeff likes when people swallow, so that’s hardly a surprise. What is, is that he takes the knife from Gareth. Mike almost criticizes Jeff for preventing Gareth from fulfilling however the fantasy ends in his mind, but Eddie clues in about the removal of the hazard at the same time, and uses the chance to shove Mike’s shoulders into the bed and really jackhammer in, and Mike loses his voice. He’s going to be climbing the stairs to his room funny, he knows it now. He’s excited about it, the subtle proof of degradation in Mom’s supposedly perfect suburban home.

Jeff doesn’t do Gareth dirty, in the end. He beckons Grant over from where he’s been sitting bare assed on the ottoman, cranking it out. Only when he walks over to stand beside Jeff, does Jeff makes his move. The bassist lightly, so very lightly, cuts two X’s in the smooth plane of Mike’s back. It’s barely a cut, Mike doubts he’s even bleeding more than a pinprick or two. He’d get worse from a paper cut playing DnD. But it’s enough to have him shuddering, coming all over himself and the bedspread. The way Mike clamps down on Eddie’s rocking cock is enough to set him off too, Eddie blasting wet heat up his ass. Condoms are important, Mike’s been coffee table lectured, when you’re fucking people who aren’t them, but how’s that relevant for him? The band, his new best friends, are the only gay guys in Hawkins, and his one time girlfriend has left him as surely as Jonathan’s left Nancy. Nance should really find someone to gangbang her on the weekly. She’d be a little less prickly, probably.

“X marks the spot,” Grant says out loud, like a nerd who definitely didn’t have a pirate phase. Mike can’t heckle too hard though, because Eddie’s fondling his oversensitive balls, massaging and giving little pinches like make Mike want to scream. He’s still stretched wide around Eddie, who’s softening inside him, but the cock and ball torture’s making Mike want to work himself up and down on Eddie until he gets hard again. It’s such an intense sensation that he doesn’t really care what Grant and Gareth are doing. Good for them, splattering their come directly on top of the x’s Jeff cut. He hopes they’re happy. Satisfied. Mike’s not. He wants to get fucked again. In ten minutes, and in two hours when he’s in the van squeaking onto Maple Street just before curfew, and every day this week.

When they bang in Gareth’s garage they call him a groupie. They’re not right. Mike’s not fucking them for the fame of their music. Six drunks at the Hideout isn’t Madison Square Garden. But they’re not totally wrong either. He’s attracted to the group of metalheads because fuck society. He follows the words that pour out of their mouths, and sings along when he can, and enjoys every time a solo makes someone drop to their knees. And Mom and Dad will never know, because they could, if they listened, but they never do. So fuck it.