Themidnightiris
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Summary
Mike Wheeler, twenty-three, is chilling on the couch with an armful of cozy boyfriend when, all of a sudden, three extra men make their appearance in their living room.
Three extra men who look exactly like him.
Except that one looks older.
And another one has long hair tied up in a loose bun, a scar on his face, and is dressed like he’s about to hit a ren faire.
And the last one has—
“Are those dog ears?”
That is, indeed, the first thing that Mike Wheeler says to his other self—one of his three other selves, anyway.
or: the Mikes orgy fic.
Series
- Part 5 of ☆ susan's byler variants extravaganza ☆
- Part 1 of byler+selfcest orgies 💦
Bookmarked by Themidnightiris
07 Oct 2026
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Ambitious executive chef Will Byers wants a Michelin star. When he discovers that his best friend, Mike, is a Michelin inspector, Will does what any rational, up-and-coming restaurateur would do: seduce the inspector, of course.
Bookmarked by Themidnightiris
06 Oct 2026
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After Will gets a second job to try and get ahead financially, Mike takes it upon himself to do the same.
Turns out this new position is not at all what Will expected.
Bookmarked by Themidnightiris
04 Oct 2026
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Summary
In the summer of 2008, a new YouTube format strives to reunite people who have long since gone their separate ways. Two of these people happen to be MIKE and WILL, who have been out of touch since October 1993.
The catch? Neither of them knows that the other is sitting down at the same time, in the same building, answering the same questions.
Neither of them knows that, at the end of the interviews, they will meet again.
Bookmarked by Themidnightiris
30 Sep 2026
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it is the east, and william is the sun by camelliabuds (camelliagardens)
Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
07 Sep 2026
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Summary
From the lake’s belly rises the red-and-yellow nylon vest, heavy with silt, clinging to a frail, small chest. The boy’s head lolls back as two troopers haul him over the gunwale by the shoulders—the hair cut in an uneven, familiar bowl, matted in dark ribbons across a waxen forehead, the pale lips parted in a silent, eternal yawn.
Mike's universe does not merely stall; it fractures at the root. The thrumming engines, the barking officers, the splash of oars, the sharp sting of drizzle—all of it is sucked into a deafening, airless vacuum. The entire world drains of colour, bleaching out until it holds only the chalky grey of an open tomb. The warm amber lamp above the basement campaign table, the soft, luminous hazel eyes glancing up from a sketchbook—all of it is snuffed out by a single, crushing weight.
O my love, my wife, the ancient verse laments; death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. But in Mike’s chest, the thought is stripped of all ornament, carved in cold limestone: The sun is dead, and the morning is a lie.
Bookmarked by Themidnightiris
28 Sep 2026