3 Works by jbeans68
Listing Works
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a soul that’s born in cold and rain (knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight) by jbeans68
Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
06 Feb 2026
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Summary
Later, as Mike stares at his ceiling, coloured only by the warmth of a nightlight and one forgotten glow-in-the-dark star, he speaks a reassurance. “We’re going to win, Will. For real, this time.”
Will’s hands twitch where they rest on his pillow.
Mike lolls his head to the side. “We’ve been preparing for this.”
Will doesn’t look appeased. “I don’t know, Mike,” he breathes. “I really don’t know.”
Mike tells himself that he knows, so Will doesn’t have to. They’re going to win.
Deeper into the night, when Will wakes screaming, Mike hesitates for only a second before he cradles him tight to his chest. He doesn’t push when Will won’t speak of what he saw; he only whispers words of comfort, soft and sweet and completely unfounded.
My ST5 rewrite, because it hurts to think about, and I want to overwrite my memory.
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In the quiet of some disaster, you will turn and face yourself again by jbeans68
Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
21 Dec 2025
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Summary
Vecna didn't need to pry to figure out Mike Wheeler's biggest fear. He didn't have to search through memories, didn't have to conjure up falsities or manufacture horrifying circumstances; Mike had crafted his own worst nightmare already.
When Vecna sets his sights on him, Mike doesn't tell anybody about the nightmares or the visions, because then he would have to tell them what it is he's seeing: himself.
OR
Mike Wheeler and how he confronts his queerness
Covers some of episode one and then post-episode four -
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Summary
When Will can feel ordinary things again – things grounded in his own body, like sight and sound – he notes the trickle of something, inching toward his lip. He lifts a hand, bones leaden, swipes the back of it beneath his nose. Red, familiar and human.
His eyes are open, he knows. Yes. It is taking every ounce of his energy to keep them that way. Bones now welded together, still throbbing, waiting for the fog to clear. Eyelids like paperweights, jaw wound tight, gaze fixed on a blurred outline in the distance.
Finally, Will can see him. Alive. Fuzzy-edged, the image, but him no less. Lips parted, teeth flashing, the only reassurance he needs. Alive, he wants to whisper, but can’t.
The fiery ache, the torturous realignment of atoms, stronger somehow. Gravity calling out. Lay down, it says. It is done. You cannot tear yourself apart and walk on.
OR
Will Byers wakes up at the Squawk. Mike Wheeler is asleep beside him.