riyuz

♱ mike wheeler is an awkward adolescent teenager, with gangled limbs & garbled words and a licorice-colored tornado of curls which does not conform to cooperation when beaten with a comb. mike wheeler is a friend that harbors a devoted gunmetal heart; he is kind & strong & rooted in loyalty—a service dog, leashed to his friends since all the way back in the first grade. he is a good friend.  he knows this means he is a good person. mike wheeler is a good person. or at least a normal one. mike wheeler is a normal person. but then again, mike wheeler is also a filthy pervert. he is sick & twisted, a mind slick with lust & a mouth full of  teeth that tremble when he dares to trace the mental polaroids he can’t stop conjuring up. and they’re all shaped like you. he is too scared to say half of the things he does when he pictures you. 

♱ he can’t rid himself of you—you’re embedded, you’re fossilised, you’re here to stay. you’ve set in him like calcium & he’s come to terms with it. a tender edged, star-speckled fantasy of a girl who lives under his skin, trapped beneath the bars of his ribcage like his second, illicit heart. his anatomy belongs to you, before its even his. if they cut him open and carved into the wet architecture of his brain, every groove & ridge would be shaped like the syllables that make your name. every piece of cranium meat would be preserving some sick fantasy he’d spun. something lacy & sunny & paradisial. something born of lies. he’s crafted one thousand false heavens shaped like the dip of your waist, the velvet wave of your hair. heavens he’s not allowed to enter. 

♱ and it’s not a crush, because there’s nothing innocent about it; no pastel romance to indulge, no candy-coated confessions, sugared & hazy dreams of hand-holding or fleeting pecks to cheeks, no roller skate dates or milkshakes with two straws. all he has for you is a lust-driven hunger; a gut-deep ache for debauchery. for sex & sin. he hates the word pervert but he wears it anyway. a title he hangs above his head. because he knows that’s what he is. 

♱ pervert because he wakes up & thinks about you. body slick with the drowsy heat of a dream he can reach but not yet hold; something foggy, something dissolving like sugar on the canvas of his tongue. something with lace or saliva-dampened skin. he wakes, almost always, with a halo of sweat crowning him against his pillow. plaid boxers lap at the stiff length of him, straining & creaking with the stretch. he tries to shake the shame off but it’s got claws in both sides and plans to drown him, eventually. pervert because he indulges in a picture—of morning sex. of being woken, mind overcast & body lethargic, to your figure rocking gently against his morning wood as he slowly gains consciousness.

♱ he thinks of spearing his hands across the jut of your hipbones, of easing your dawn-chilled movements with the guidance of his palms, knocking you against him to a slow & satisfying release. he thinks of drinking in your moans like morning coffee. he thinks of holding the angle of your jawline in his mouth. he thinks of how he’d whine, breathy & bewildered. how he’d cry out, regardless of who heard it, “shit, shit, shit, i love you. i love all of you. i wanna be all yours, please, please, please.” he’d tell you, “you’re so pretty in the mornings. my beautiful girl.” and you’d say, “aren’t I always pretty?” but you’d laugh, because you’d already know. if he had you, he’d make sure you knew. 

♱ pervert because he migrates to the shower with a head hung low, shaggy curls melting like shadows down the dip of his cheekbones & the arc of his prominent nose. his mornings begin with blistering hot steam lapping at his neck, searing water cascading around his angled body, a hand around his cock and the other wedged between his teeth. he’s got to bite down, to gnash at his knuckles, to leave raw fang-marks in the divots of his pale & delicate flesh. he’s got to muffle himself. otherwise, the wheeler household would wake to not only the white noise of shower mist, but also the rugged melody of your name, whined over & over & over again as it jumps out of his throat. it wants out, like it always does.

♱ you strip him of his control, just as much as his morals. pervert. he dreams of you beside him; sudsed & soapy with the foam of lavender body wash or citrus shampoo. shower droplets glinting like diamonds across the expanse of bare torso and breast. he’d lap the dirt off your body to keep you clean. he’d suck germs out of the cavity of your collarbone. press his tongue against any sullied skin, if it meant you were rid of all filth—besides his own, of course. his own dirty filth of a mind. filthy & grimy & sick. that’s what he knows he is. 

♱ pervert because sometimes the feeling is so visceral that he physically cannot support the weight of his frame any longer—instead slumping against the glazed tile walling of his shower, to prop his weak self upright. he will always cum all over himself, humiliatingly fast as he wanders various speculations of you. milk-warm ribbons decorating the flex of his stomach. it swirls down the drain, swallowed by silver pipework. pervert because he will wonder why he is so sick in the head. the hot water can erode the physical filth but the stuff inside him runs bone-deep. he’ll never get rid of it. 

♱ pervert because he goes to school via the bus. this is a recent tweak to his typical routine. he used to bike with his other friends, tearing through foggy mornings & letting the air settle like dust in his stomach, converse slamming rubber bike pedals, long outworn & outgrown. but he realised this: you catch the bus. you catch the bus, from your house—juniper avenue, house number 42, a quaint woodland structure straddling hawkins’ outskirts. practically tumbled into the countryside & perpetually distant from the school. it is not a close-by house. it is not a house within walking distance of the school. thus, you catch the bus. mike wheeler lives ten minutes from hawkins high, and that’s on foot. mike wheeler has overslept most of his life & still makes it to school with minutes to spare. the bus is for priority students, such as yourself. mike wheeler is not a priority student. mike wheeler is a pervert & he has started catching the bus. 

♱ he sits one seat beside & two seats back from your claim-staked spot. his knees knock together & the vinyl whines gently every time he shifts. the air is tinny; metal walls & reheated morning breath & the faint sweet rot of overchewed bubblegum hidden beneath the seats. his elbow is too angular to fold into the windowsill & lean on, he’s discovered. the freshmen are caffeinated & alive & insufferably noisy. laughter melts off the chamber of the vehicle & he sits alone & broods into his crumpled figure. it’s not worth it. it’s never worth it. why does he do this? and then you shuffle in, and it’s worth it. it’s his one wise decision in his short seventeen years of living. hawkins fog gently creasing it’s cold into the crannies of your brittle bones, soft torso enveloped in whatever color you’ve decided to don for the day, and it doesn’t matter to him. he’s only ever thinking of how it’d look sprawled across his bedroom floor. 

♱ it is purely for admiration purposes. he absorbs you in fragments; the way one may hoard contraband. you arrive in pieces—a sleeve, a shoulder, a bag-strap shrugged off & abandoned beside you on the seat. he never sees your face properly in these moments, almost as if he hasn’t earned it, yet. it’s too early in the day. he thieves quietly, from his peripheral vision. the fog that doesn’t let you go, the chill soaked over your figure, in the divot of your collarbone & the dip of your shoulders & the length of your bunched up spine. he wonders what melody you’ve wired into your walkman, wonders if he could ever buy the vinyl for you, spin it through your record player as he eats you out between floral printed bedding. pervert. sunlight cuts through the bus windows in thin, trembling blades, and its favoritism is plainly stated as it soaks you up, inside & out. dust motes orbit your hair. mike thinks if the world crumbled, even decay would treat you well. every moment frames itself to fit you. 

♱ pervert. he is a pervert. because he sees you, absorbs every delicate feature & undresses it accordingly. he will see the back of your head, the curtain of your hair, and imagine tugging it to elicit soft cries. he mentally reworks the convex dip of your two shoulders to become the perfect place for him to anchor his hands as he ploughs you. the notches of vertebrae along your spine are something he would count & then push against, to press you deeper into the pillowed embrace of your mattress. he likes to think he’d take control, but realistically he knows he’d crumble into salt the moment you touched him; yours for the keeping. he’d take whatever scraps you tossed him. any sliver of skin is deemed worthy by him, simply because its yours. 

♱ and because his perversions know no bounds, he pictures taking you right here. in the cramped enclosure between bus seats. lifting up that pleated skirt subtly, sitting against him, easing his length between the dulcet bracket of your goose-bumped thighs, your back to his chest. he pictures the way he’d rut upwards, the way he’d meet each bounce of your ass like an undomesticated animal. the way he’d whine loud enough for everyone to know what was going on. the way his breath, so heavy & so abundant, would ghost across the glass of the windowsill and block the idle scenery as it traipses past the bus in a blur. his head would rock back, against the seat. he’d say, “oh shit. oh jesus christ, honey, i can’t even—shit!” and he’d choke on anything else before it’d come out. drooling like a teething baby. he’d probably cum inside you. because you know, by now, what he is. pervert. 

♱ pervert. pervert. the anthem of mike wheeler is seven letters & two syllables. p-e-r-v-e-r-t. his heart pounds the letters; blood-soaked & in morse code. he has algebra one every morning. by default, it means he has you, every morning. he sits beside you, as decided by the seating chart drafted at the beginning of the year. he hates seating charts & yet he can’t seem to be mad about this one. your nearness is a pressure system; this is as close as he will ever get to you. he observes with quiet reverence & hopes you never notice. it’s safest as a one-sided religion, anyway. mike wheeler is not a bad person—just a hungry one.

♱ the classroom dusts his throat with the scent of chalk & pencil shavings. there is graphite all over his hands & you all over his mind. every equation equals you, the solutions impossible without your presence. x doesn’t matter, and you are his y. his why. why? because of the tilt of your head, when you think, the flesh of rosed lip curvature bleached white as your teeth sink into it, the loop in your cursive handwriting, the purple-ink that spews across your grid-lined pages. he presses his pencil hard, harder than himself in his jeans, traces black-lead lines into his page until it turns translucent. he reckons he could press hard enough to carve through his book, his desk, the floor, the centre of the earth. and he’d still circle back to you. 

♱ he’d fuck you here, too. he’d fuck you anywhere. but he’d fuck you here. he’d bend to the axis of your spine rocking against his. he’d acknowledge the parenthesis of your eyelashes, encasing each eyeball. the addition of each moan to the soft, chalk-mottled atmosphere. the division of your legs, to fit his lanky torso inside of it. carefully calculating the surface area of the desk so he can angle you against it, if pressed there. aware of weight distribution, of the fractions you form when fused, together. it’s improper. he’s improper. you’re the dominator & he’s the denominator, always bending under the weight of you. one hand to the side of your cheek, the other star-splayed against the desk’s width. knock-knock-knocking his pelvis with yours. he might be on top in a literal sense—but in truth, he’ll always be below you, lapping at your feet. 

♱ he’s a pervert, in the cafeteria. straight backed on the laminate table. ignoring whatever white-noise conversation the rest of the party is captured in. salivating over rubber mac n cheese & also the subtle swell of your breasts through your cardigan. he has an appetite that extends past food. mike wheeler is starving & it isn’t for lunch. you laugh; mouth-filled with half-masticated meal, slurp strawberry milk, breath warm with the sickly sweet artificial twang of it. he is jealous of foolish things. the bend of the fork’s tine as you drag it over your tongue, seeking flavor long faded. the plastic cheese & pasta noodles, as they gnash to paste beneath your teeth—at least they get to realise what the inside of your mouth tastes like. lord knows he never will. 

♱ and finally. he is a pervert every single darkened nightfall. his sick & comfortable routine. sliding his door close, letting it sing out with a soft click. twisting the lock & checking that the door is indeed, closed. checking that he is indeed secluded, protected, hidden. he does his best work when he is hidden. he will draw the blinds. flick his overheads down, until they are only at a soft dim, their lowest setting. and he will tuck himself into the navy embrace of his cool sheets, & he will reflect on whatever stolen moments of you that he’s managed to capture throughout the day, unspool these moments in the ridges of his mind. feel your figure wallow around his skull, reverberating soft laughter & sweet nothings. he will drink up these soft little memories he preserves, he will put a hand on himself, he will whine & rock & rut into this enclosed fist and wish to fallen angels & deities above that it was yours instead. he will finish with a breath-heavy vacuous call of your name, empty of consonants and covered in the warmth of his throat. he’ll wonder if somehow, telepathically, you hear it. or the outline of it. in your own little house, your own little world, outside of him. he dares to dream & fears to wonder. he is sick and he knows it. but you are all he has. 

♱ and these perverse actions bleed in & out of every day. they follow him around like a rotting animal. classrooms to classroom to locker to hallway to his home. curling at the foot of his bed & waiting for the lights to go out. he tells himself he will change, and it is a lie every single time. says he’ll outgrow you, like a child outgrows baby teeth & instead settles into molars. he says this and he never does it. he returns to his predictable patterns the way one continues to pick at the scab of a healing wound. he knows he’ll never heal & so he’s knuckle deep in his own flesh, and he picks & picks & picks. the reopened wound remembers his name, & yours, too. it gapes on command, like it always does & suddenly he’s bleeding again. he’ll always be bleeding. forever split open by the idea of you. 

♱ due to his ever-returning perversions (and he is getting tired of that word but there’s really nothing else to describe it as), it is no surprise how he reacts to stumbling upon your gym bag in the changing rooms, at around 5:43 on a school evening. your gym bag is here because you are here because you are in the gymnasium because you are participating in some after-school dodge-ball related fundraiser. for some cause that’s probably admirable; sick children or injured kittens or more science equipment. he’s a little fuzzy on the details, because when the class presidents were explaining said fundraiser, during the morning announcements, he was too busy admiring the slope of your velveteen thighbone & the soft satin fabric of the skirt that barely covered it. pink & checkered & impossibly too short. it was like a performance; the way the textile traced your skin, illuminated it. 

♱ it is very important to him, to note he did not intend to be here. the school, the changing rooms, your orbit. he didn’t seek this out. however morbid his mind may be, he wouldn’t, y’know. stalk you. or anything. he merely entered the changing rooms under the intent of retrieving the sweater he left behind earlier, during phys-ed class. a simple mistake. an in-and-out encounter. he would find it, grab it, and then head home & rot away under his covers, like usual. nothing notable should’ve come out of this visitation. except before he finds his sweater, there it is. there it is. half-zipped & awaiting him, like it was purposefully placed there. your gym bag. 

♱ it seems like nothing but it’s everything just because its yours. zipper teeth half parted & nike logo scuffed with age. slumped against the bench. waiting for him. he hopes whatever god above his mom tells him to believe in is shielding its eyes. this is the nail in his self-made coffin. he crafted his own grave & it is shaped like your body. & now he will die in it. you are the death of him. he debates with himself—for a good, hot minute. does he go through it? does he take it? does he run? just leave? a bag is a bag is a bag. theres nothing special about it, michael wheeler. he should leave. be respectful to your property & your privacy & holyshitholyshitholyshit who knows what he could find? discover? your deodorant & your sweaty clothes. okay. yeah. he never stood a chance. 

♱ he thinks of how objects remember people; how chairs keep the shape of thighs. how bedsheets preserve morning warmth, and that’s what gets to him; he knows that you will be inside of the seams of this unsuspecting duffel. you’re not in the room & yet you will be smeared all over it. the stretches of fabric, the objects inside, the handles which remember the tight clench of your fists from where you’ve held them. and it’s all he needs, to push him over the edge. he hates how his thoughts kneel to things that don’t even realise they’re being worshipped, but its how he is & its how he’ll always be. 

♱ he approaches timidly. double-triple-quadruple checking over his shoulder that there’s nobody’s shadowing him, and there isn’t. right now, he will indulge himself. and he does. fists clenching just so that they have something to do. heart doing that stupid thing where it tries to claw its way out of his chest. he dips into the pockets, and analyses the contents with the attentiveness of a forensics officer. deodorant, summer berry scented with a faded label & he takes it, untwists the cap, sniffs it gently. puts it back where it belongs. spare socks all bundled up & they invoke imagery of feet hitting gym floors & grassbanks & pavements. all the distance you travel. he tosses them from hand to hand a few times. and he puts them back where they belong.

♱ spare hair ties which he stretches out with his fingers, testing the elasticity. and then he puts them back where they belong. a pen with bite marks all over the cap; he is cosmically jealous that it knows the inside of your throat. he puts it back where it belongs. cherry cola chapstick which he almost gives in to, almost smears all over his mouth like some sort of far-fetched, indirect metaphor of a kiss. but he instead puts it back where it belongs. he is proud of his self-control, in a way. he hasn’t shoved anything in his pocket, hasn’t violated your privacy completely. he’s only looking; amazed by the artifacts in the museum of you. all of this stuff would be junk to him if it hadn’t belonged to you first. proof of your existence, personality crammed into the walls of the stupid pink girlish bag. 

♱ he finds your clothes, gently folded & placed in the bag’s corners, waiting patiently until you come back, change outta your exercise gear & back into them. it’s harder to control himself here; seeing the skirt you wore just this morning, the warmth still etched across the interior of your little pink blouse. the scent of linen & lavender bodywash is tender as it falls off the fabric & drowns him. but he manages to put it back where it belongs. it is the discovery of one garment; baby blue, lace-lined & dripping in the semi-sweet mellow of the forbidden space between your two legs that ultimately shackles him to the spot. your panties. “nope. nope.” he mumbles, to himself. he has a habit of self-speaking whenever he’s flustered. this is one of those times. 

your panties are in his hand. he doesn’t even know why you’re not wearing them. did you swap into fresh ones, for when you were exercising? prevent sweating into them? dampening this pair? are you not wearing any altogether? “okay. okayokayokay.” it doesn’t matter to him. he can’t think past the sky-colored ball of fabric that tangles into itself on his fist. he should put it back where it belongs. he does not put it back where it belongs. “you’re being gross mike. this isn’t good. shit.” he mutters. flummoxed. but ultimately he is out of control. 

♱ he tries to calm himself down. the fabric is just fabric. the lace is just lace. the little bow that is at the front of them; satin & sitting comfortably, insinuating your cunt is all wrapped up like a gift—its just a bow, just a fucking bow. the soft sugared whisper of scent that is just barely lingering in the pouch where your theoretical pussy would theoretically sit, is just—is a scent. a forgettable, typical scent. but he knows he’s lying to himself. 

♱ he doesn’t have a choice. he’s face deep in fabric before he can even think twice. inhaling heavily, audibly, pressing the sloped crescent of his nose deep into material, submerging himself in an ocean of youyouyou. he’s drowning & he’s never been happier. pervert. all roads lead to it. & to you. he realises, now, once and for all, that this is what he is. pervert, pervert, pervert. michael pervert wheeler. alive & breathing in the fragrance you exude.  “fuck,” he whispers into it. his spine bows & his shoulders cave; he must look ridiculous right now. dark eyes fluttering shut, getting completely lost in every sense he can extract from his lace covered sin. 

♱ his cock, inside his jeans, it’s rubbing & fucking aching. the denim is corroding like asphalt & he needs to do something about it. he really does try not to. he really does. mumbling to himself, “okay. c’mon. stop it.” he croaks, bargaining with the empty room. “fuck—don’t be weird, mike, don’t—jesus.” but the moment has already claimed him. it starts with the cotton balled under his nose & ends with the ache in his pelvis. he holds the lace close; you’ve always been part of him, some of him, half of him, now you’re all of him. he’s completely consumed. 

♱ the rest transpires accordingly. it’s scrambled. desperate. the way he paws at the jaws of his zipper, the way he haphazardly captures the flushed & swollen length of himself in his eager fist, the one that isn’t holding onto the closest thing to your body he’ll ever have—the garment that confines it. every thread pulls him closer, a lullaby he cannot stop singing—pervertpervertpervert wheeler. but he’s really given up caring & morals & any shred of dignity, otherwise he’d have abandoned his post here, minutes ago. he only has two hands; one for your panties & one for his cock, so there’s nothing he can use to hold onto his sanity. his palms are full. no fingers left to cling with. & he doesn’t care anymore. 

♱ he grips himself at the base; teasing as he drapes the gentle blue hush of your cotton over himself. it looks so comically out of place; something so feminine against the awkward jutting of his body, angles & hipbones & wiry fingers. but god, if it doesn’t do the trick. he lets himself rut, swaying hypnotically into the fabric with these soft little sounds like he’s begging for mercy. a mouse underneath someone’s shoe. spleen crunching with the effort. “fuck. m’so sorry. m’so sorry, baby, m’sorry, i can’t help it,” he whispers into the cold & careless expanse of the empty changing rooms. his head lolls back & his throat rocks outwards. dark locks of hair are pressed backwards by the gravity of the movement. he shuts his eyes & lets you consume his field of vision. lets himself picture a perfect world where you stumble into the room & join him.

♱ his fist continues its assault as he sees it materialize in a warm, honey-sweet harmony, in front of his mind’s eye. gym shoes squeaking as you approach him. as you press a kiss to his sweat-warm nape & tell him he’s pretty. replace his hand and do the work for him, creamy vanilla fists & velvet palms. gentle voice traipsing earthquakes down the bumps of his spine. it’d be impossibly easy to fall into you. every action & word. anything would spur him on. he speeds up. catching himself with each buck, tip prodding his palm & your lace with blunt force. honestly the friction burn is a little unbearable, but it heightens the experience, rubs his shaft all achey & raw. it feels visceral. real. like your hands could really be on his body, like your voice is really melting against his hot breath. mike. you’d say. i’m all yours, mike. you’d say. is someone in here—oh my god. you’d say. wait. why would you say that? wait—

♱ his eyelids separate with a snap & his swollen black eyes settle forwards. on you. no. no. no. no. nope. nuh-uh. this is a bad dream & he will wake up covered in sweat & semen and he can return to his usual routine. he blinks twelve times but nothing changes. he is going to kill himself. he is going to tie bricks around his ankles and jump off the quarry like he tried to in seventh grade. no. this is not happening. there you are. you look as otherworldly as always; even with the sheen of sweat accumulated over your forehead, curling stray hairs at your temples that have straggled free of the high ponytail you’ve fashioned upon your scalp. your gym shorts are offensively tiny & high-risen, your knee socks are cute & your bare thighs & shoulderblades are cuter. your face, curled up in a semi-repulsed frown, certainly not cute. his hand, floundering to tuck himself back into his boxers despite the damage being clearly done is not cute. the ruined orgasm isn’t even the worst pain of the moment but it certainly doesn’t help; weeping cockhead pressed uncomfortably back into his soggy boxers, shaky & overexerted hands balling up your panties to try and hide them. but its too late. it really is. this is the end of michael the pervert wheeler. 

♱ “holy shit. michael wheeler?” you sputter. disbelieving of the scene before you; eyes big & bewildered. don’t look at me like that, he thinks. he pleads. the first time you’re properly looking at him & it’s with repulsion & horror. he lets out a jerky little sound of mortification, a whimper of sorts. face white-hot and sticky, freckles smudging with a red flush, ears ringing and heartbeat tasting metallic as it crawls into his throat & settles there like a dying carcass of an animal. he can’t look at you. he looks anywhere but you. “the—the room was empty. this—shit. the room was empty, wh–why are you—”

♱ “i’m grabbing my waterbottle.” you say. bluntly. his gaze flicks to where you point. purple plastic bottle rests near your bag. the bottle in question. if he pussies out of suicide he is going to have to flee the country. how are flights for spain, costwise? how long does it take to learn the language? he will sit on his ass with a spanish for dummies textbook open for the rest of his life, if it means escaping the horror that is this moment. “right. yes, of course. shit i am so unbelievably—-” you don’t move. still hovering in the doorway. halfway between bolting & staring him down. “mike,” you say. slow & careful. “why do you have my panties. are—why are you jerking off with my panties.” he flinches like you struck him. he’s lost. nobody taught him how to have this conversation. “i didn’t steal them,” he blurts, then immediately, desperately, “—not like, intentionally—god, that sounds worse—i mean, i noticed them in your bag, and i shouldn’t have noticed them and then i shouldn’t have touched them and then i really shouldn’t have—” he cuts himself off. breathing hard through his nose. “i crossed a line. i crossed, like, ten lines.”

♱ “what’s wrong with you?” you mumble. “nothing!” he exclaims. hopelessly. “well, no, something, clearly—i mean—i—i’m sorry. this looks so pervy, i swear i don’t have pervy intentions, y’know—i don’t, like, follow you around, or anything. shoot, i’m totally making this worse. uh. this…i’m not—i didn’t mean to, to do this. to you. i didn’t—i just came in here to get my sweater & then i saw your stuff & i swear to god i was just looking, and then, like, i don’t know. god. it sounds so bad. it—it is. so bad. i shouldn’t have done this. i know. okay? i know that. fuck. okay. this is where i shut up.” he stammers. completely floundering; eyes sticky & glassy & glued to the floor beside your sneakers. 

♱ you don’t answer his little explosion of half-sentences. but he feels the need to fill the silence. “i just—you’re fucking beautiful, okay? that’s the reason i’m even, fuck. even doing this, i guess. you’re really pretty.” he blurts. band-aid officially ripped off his ever-festering scab. “and i think about you all the time, which i hate, but i can’t stop. and i just saw your bag. and then i just, i thought—i didn’t think you’d come in here. i never thought you’d, like, see me. ohmygod.” he croaks. 

♱ “doesn’t make it okay,” you mutter with soft bitterness. honestly—you’re not as mad as you’d think you’d be. he’s a little endearing, circumstances aside. trampled, doglike expression knitted tight. brows intertwining & big eyes teary. he knows he’s in the wrong. he does. that makes it better, right? surely it’s gotta count for something. “i know! i know i know, i know. i don’t—i’m not tryna excuse anything, jesus. this is all so fucked up, i’m—you should be disgusted, i’m—i violated your, uh, privacy. s’not okay. totally.” he mumbles. all self-pitiful. 

♱ almost cute. he’s almost cute, you reckon. standing here, floundering. sporting a terribly blatant erection & a blush so rosed and rufescent it looks like a sunburn. he’s mortified beyond words, no matter how many he tries to spit out of swollen, nibbled lips. “i didn’t take ‘em to be gross. i mean—obviously it is gross, but i wasn’t thinking about that. i was just thinking about you, really. i know that’s probably worse. way worse.” he swallows really really hard. his throat constricts with the action. he is suffocating. “i didn’t even realise what i was doing until i was already—” he cuts himself off, eyes going animatedly bigger. a cartoon. “nope. nope. not going there, sorry. i’m so sorry. i’m so disgusting.” 

♱ however you’re supposed to react is completely lost on you. he’s caving into himself; like a locked jaw, like nail marks in the meat of a palm; moon-shaped and raw. he’s taut & tight. completely panicked. doubling over like he’s been kicked rough in the sternum. like maybe he expects you to—and you totally could. it’d be warranted. but you don’t think you want to. he’s sorta really cute. his cheekbones corrode the fractured sunlight, warmth pooling across the canvases of flesh they provide. his eyes are thick & dark & endless, smooth as riverstones, refracting like water. glassy & rippling. freckles melt lazily from feature to feature; idle across his nose and his cheeks and whatever pale shreds of him are available. and his throat is strained & drawn tight like a clenched fist as he chokes down what you assume to be soundless little cries. he’s mortified in a way words will never do justice. pervert. but you think it’s sweet. it’s flattering. “disgusting?” you mutter. “right. sure. maybe. i dunno. i mean—i see you looking at me all the time. you’re not exactly subtly. i probably shouldn’t be surprised.” you mutter. & he deflates right into it. “sorry,” he whispers. yet again. “you’re sorry.” you deadpan. 

♱ he jumps at that. an opportunity of redemption, however miniscule. “i am. i am. i’m so sorry.” hopeful. despite all this, he’s foolishly hopeful. maybe you’ll forgive him. “i should be more grossed out, right?,” you huff, slightly disappointed in yourself. “but you’re—hmm.” you pause. analyzing him. “your hand’s still wet.” you murmur. your eyes look different; darker. more unforgiving. expanding with an expression he’s unable to completely read. he blinks before he really understands what the fuck you’re even saying, too lost in the ash black graphite void of your pupils. they widen around him; like a bear trap ensnaring his twig ankles. body & soul, he’s shackled to you. “yeah.” he murmurs. not listening. before those brows of his twitch, involuntarily skywards. “wait, what?” his voice is dry, creaking like old staircases. 

♱ “your hand. it’s still wet. from before.” before. his face significantly ripens, completely incandescent; redder & redder. are you trying to humiliate him? the constraint of a denim prison only gets more throbbing as his length makes crueler contact. harder & harder. you make him harder. you make everything harder. “um. i’m sorry.” he stumbles. “you’ve mentioned.” you’re stalking closer; so much so that the semi-sour reek of salt & sweat & summer-berry deodorant is asphyxiating him. he'd happily choke to death on the scent of you; let it breed in his lungs & overpopulate his system. his body’s always been yours, anyway. he is completely overwhelmed; sensory overload of you severing distance from him. inch by inch by inch. “you didn’t even get to come, huh?” he might die. maybe he already has. “wh–what? why’re you asking me?” you shrug. he cannot read you. are all girls like this? just you? his head is a convection current; you’re rising & plummeting. again and again and again. 

♱ “what’re you doing? why—” he stammers & you sigh. “i’m considering something.” you mutter. pressing a velvet palm against the side of his face, thumb skimming low against the angled boneline that strains through his skin. the contact floors him. his knees threaten mutiny. his eyelashes tremble around the image of you that is plain & before him. and it’s real this time. “don—don’t.” he pleads. don’t tease me. don’t stop. don’t leave me. don’t hurt me. don’t do anything because i won’t survive it & i don’t want to traumatise you with my empty shell of a body. 

♱ “don’t what?” you say. tilting his wandering eyeline right back onto you. “don’t—i don’t know. shit. i can’t tell what you’re thinking. are you gonna yell? you should probably yell. hit me or, i dunno. something. whatever you want.” he whispers. he swallows & you feel it all happen beneath your thumb. “you think i’m beautiful, right? you said that?” you whisper. he nods. weakly. “huh?” particularly dense. “oh! yes. yes. so beautiful. seriously. honestly, i don’t care if that makes you mad, actually. i’ll stand by it.” he croaks. “all the other stuff, yeah. very sorry for that. but i do mean it. i look at you all the time, i can’t even stop looking. i think about you. like. all the time, too.” he admits. sheepishly. the admission hangs between you two like foggy breath stains on glass; plumes ghosting up windowpanes. fading & ephemeral. so he breathes again. 

♱ you step. even closer. knees knock down to the bone, foreheads kissing, shadow swallowing his shoes. you are his wildfire; charring his skeleton, his heartbeat, his entire being. you aren’t saying anything and it makes him even more nervous. but what has he got to lose? he thinks whatever mechanism in his brain that allows him to feel shame has completely dried up, given how much he’s exploited it in the past ten minutes. you’re too close. 

♱ you’re far too close. your face is one pitiful inch from his. your noses are colliding. breath mixing & exchanging. your hand is drifting closer to his own balled up one. “what, uh, what’re you doing?” his voice cracks like gravel underfoot. you ignore him. you reach into the pallor of his palm, his closed fist. tug out the same ice-blue panties that began the end of him. then you carefully extract his cock from where he’d hastily buried it to die, choked in a chamber of denim & checkerprint boxer short. the headrush he gets could cause addiction problems. “woah, seriously, what—”

♱ you shush him. he obeys. he thinks he’d answer willingly to any command you’d give, right about now. what has he got left to lose? nothing. and he’s got everything to gain, everything to live out; this image of you permeates every soft-edged dream he’s ever dared to visualise; glitter pink smudges of pastel nail polish, cherry-ripened lips blooming in arches, smacking softly as they part ways. love-heart locket sitting upon your neck’s hollow. he wonders what secrets you’re keeping in the jaws of it’s sterling silver clasp, if he could ever shrink himself small enough & crawl inside it & live there, pressed into the metal & against the spot just above your heartbeat. the biggest secret of them all. he’d happily bury himself inside your jewelry, seal himself into the silver reliquary, if it meant being that close to any part of you. every part of you. his undoing. he’s dreaming he’s gotta be fucking dreaming. his cock hurts but his head aches more, twisting around the idea that you aren’t fleeing & quite frankly repulsed at the sight of him. when your lanky digits press deeper against his hot flesh, trace tenderly along the chafed expanse, he lets out a puppylike little plea. “what’re you doing, baby. i can’t.” baby. you’re not his baby. if anything—he’s yours. 

♱ everything about you is painfully, viscerally female; sight & scent & smile. and he doesn’t know where to put his eyes, so he leaves them on you. soaking up anything he might be able to keep when this is inevitably all over. with careful maneuvering, you cradle your own panties into the concave arc of your tender hand & owlishly blink at him. you wrap the panty-clad palm around his shaft & enjoy the way his pelvis uncontrollably snaps forward; seeking you out, chasing any illusion to more contact. it’s cute. whines leak out of the slot where his lips touch; he can’t keep himself on a leash anymore. “holy shit, seriously? you’re gonna—”

♱ “shut up. or i’ll stop.” you mumble. a flick of the brittle wrist & suddenly there’s motion on him. the unity of your flesh & your dampened panty fabric on him is numbing; wet with his own foul excretions, drooling outta his indigo tip. it’s sinful & it’s gonna make him cum really stupidely boyishly fast. he nods ridiculously; eyes never once separating their settlement on the entirety of your figure. displayed shamelessly before him like every night in his bed. “th—thank you. thankyou. jesus. this isn’t even—ah—”

♱ he needs something to tether to. when you stroke over his tip with your thumb, he simultaneously bucks back into the action & also slams his own hand on your forearm, gripping the bare skin of the limb with a force so strong the tendons straining beneath his knuckles flex. a simple handy has him seeing stars, all ‘cause you’re the one who’s pulling the strings. “you’re so pretty, prettiest girl ever, y’know? like—you’ve gotta know. guh—shit—gotta know it. my perfect girl. f’me. shit.” 

♱ you cradle the wilted droop of his balls in one hand, push the lace further into him with the other. he throws his head back at the action, punching a sob out of the cavity of his chest. “oh fuck. oh my god.” his throat is exposed; he swallows around dry air involuntarily, the canted twitch of his throat right there, before you. you latch onto it, leaving cruel bitemarks,, mottling & staining their harsh purple bruises against his flesh. his skin. he is warm & soft underneath your teeth. “tell me what you do.” you tell him. “tell me what you do, when you picture me.” & he winces because he knows whatever he tells you will drive you away. the sleepless nights imagining the sweat-crowned shape of you pressed into the mattress beside him. the sideline marvelling from his bus seat, praying nobody asks him why the hell he’s even there in the first place. every single class. every single hallway. seeking you out for a quick-fix, an addict chasing it’s next crumbling high, his drug of choice, his only choice. over & over & over. you pollute him. he’s intoxicated. & he’s happy in his decay. he answers you, tells you, because he’s always been a pervert first & a boy second. he’ll answer to you. he always will.

♱ his hands paw at you, hopelessly, as you continue your assault upon him, slick & lacy, your fist pumps with a speed almost painful because you want it to hurt. you want him to suffer. just a little bit. & he does too. the pain will make him feel like maybe he’s worth all of this. the raw ache is sort of enjoyable, in a masochistic devilish sort of way. he moans too loud for the little space, carves white teeth into the jut of his lip in a fool’s attempt to try & keep those stupid moans trapped there under the blade of his tongue. “answer me. c’mon,” you mumble, a little confused at yourself. you don’t know why your hand is ‘round his cock instead of his neck, don’t know why you’re giving mercy instead of malevolence. he’s disgusting! he’s a thief! but he ruts into your panties like maybe the rest of you will replace them, if he snaps his hips hard enough. you erase the fabric, replace the meshwork entirely. & he’s so cute.

♱ “mmngh—shit. okay. yeah. sure, uh, when i—when i picture you? uh, i see you. you’re—it doesn’t matter what you’re doing. anything, i’ll picture anything. i like, i think of what you wear underneath your clothes, like, if you have a favorite color, or—or if you, i dunno, wear lace, or—or, jesus. anything! anythinganythinganything. it doesn’t matter as long as its you who’s doing it. and you’re smiling, and—and it’s always sunny, i dunno, sounds so fuckkkk. sounds so fucking dumb, but i just—its the only thing that can, like, yknow. make me, uh, make me h—hard, or come at all, or—-shit you’re actually gonna—kill me, i can’t.”

♱ he lets out a shaky windpipe breath, hot air fanning all over your face. he’s taller than you, way taller, but he folds at the neck & presses his face hesitantly into your hair. he waits for you to stop him, but the moment doesn’t come, so he seizes the fleeting opportunity. inhales, shamelessly, the scent of leftover shampoo lathered up to the roots of soft silken hair; lingering suds of blossomy oranges, fresh juice & velvet petals, right all up in his features, embedded. he moans into it with a heaved exhale, like he’s snorting you & getting high off the fumes—straight from the source.

♱ “i think m’gonna—-like—come.” he breathes all heavy, whispering the confession like he’s done something wrong. something worse than everything else he’s got to his name, so far. every dirty sin you now know about. “i really—mngh. you’re gonna make me come. m’gonna come, t—tell me i can come, god, please, please, i need it,” he cries. his words are planted straight to the crown of your head, blooming tiny gardens of desire right into your hairline. 

♱ the sloppy echo of his cock repeatedly cramming into your tight fist only rings clearer & faster & louder as he desperately chases what he’s waiting for you to give–he’s pushing his entire torso into each thrust into the chamber of your palm & the panties that you are making him fuck into. all six-foot-something of his gangled frame, slamming into the little cavern you create with five fingers all curled & tangled up. he’s spewing a faucet of stupidly sobby moans. his trembling hands have migrated to either respective shoulder, as if gripping tight enough will tether him on the spot, keep from drifting out of this room, out of this experience. if this is a dream, he is trying to latch onto it with all he has; remain in the safe sanctuary he has created, strewn inside the hawkins high changing rooms. who knew heaven was four sweat-simmered walls? who knew heaven was duffel bags & stale deodorant? who knew heaven was even attainable, for people like him? never wake up mike. never wake up. never wake up. he won’t let himself do it. another morning recovering within his comforters & his own outline of moist perspiration may actually be his final straw. “please, lemme come, c—can’t do it till you tell me to.” he sniffles. how pitiful. 

♱ “look at me.” is your firm ultimatum & it is cartoonish the way he snaps his head up to do just that. dragging his eyeline out of the field of your tresses and directly smushing it close right against you. if he was a romantic, he’d steal a kiss off your lips, catch one & smash it against his own, swallow it down and let it breed its sugared toxins in the cavity of his chest. lord knows he wants to. but he doesn’t because he doesn’t know what the hell this even is. you should be slapping him for his audacity, for the theft of your belongings & the subsequent soiling of them with his own filthy desire, but you haven’t. you shouldn’t be offering him pleasure right out of the palm of your hand, but here you are. he won’t risk losing it, whatever ‘it’ even stands for. its nothing more than a filler word. 

♱ his pupils are engorged and reflective. people sometimes talk about their lovers, people sometimes say, i wish i could see myself through his eyes—and now you are. dark & mirrored, you see yourself through his eyes; the glossy stare of them shows your figure blinking right back at you. his lens makes you seem softer, prettier, forgiving. curved edges & sweet angles. you’re not sure what prompts you, but before he can sever completely, you stretch the panties out as best you can with one hand, still handling his cock in the other. you cup the fabric & curve it into somewhat of a net. you stroke him once, twice, thrice—and mumble. “cum in them. right in ‘em f’me, mike. that’s it.” 

♱ and he’s gone. “hngghhh—-yeah, yeah, yeah, ohmygod, yesyesyes. shit.” he breaks out into a rising scale of whines, up & up & up the octaves until he might shatter the glass of the small window above him. creamy alabaster ribbons spew out of his rosy tip, completely red like the warmth that his entire face soon becomes. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck. ohmygod.” he is whining like a dog put down. your name creases as it tumbles free from the binds of his teeth, over & over & over. he comes hard. he comes lots. he comes all over the delicate frills of diaphanous fabric, pale pastel blue smothered in ivory spills of himself. it doesn’t seem to end, he’s been pent up & waiting for a while. waiting for you. “oh jesus, s’too much, i—i can’t.” he needs to cast a mould of this moment, slip it into the waistband of his jeans, capture it forever. 

♱ his flaccid length sags into the eager mouth of the fabric & you mop up the sensitive flesh with a few final strokes. he weeps overstimulated mewls. he gazes dreamily at you. stiffly; he stands, like a wooden board, taut in every limb. “so….” 

♱ without word, you cram the droopy, damp pair of panties into his jean pocket. the sodden material rubs against his denim, already leaving off-white blooming stains & he will cherish them until the day he dies. you go ahead & give him the liberty of tucking his cock back away into his boxers. you reach for that waterbottle you originally sought out; admire the shade resemblance, from the purple plastic of it, to the billowing marks of teeth & tongue you’ve etched into his neck. you press a cherry-chapstick peck against the gaunt dip of his cheekbone. he is starstruck & frozen solid. if his chest wasn’t expanding, rapidly swelling up & down with each heavy pant, you’d assume him to be dead. “not a word of this, wheeler.” you mutter. as if he’d dare humiliate himself. “yeah—yeah—i won’t say—” but you’re already gone. sneakers whining your departure as they thud with grace across the floor. out the door. you’re already a fading fantasy. “—a thing.” he finishes. dumbly. 

♱ pervert. pervert. pervert. michael pervert wheeler. he will never live this down. he will never let this go. he catches his own vacant expression, spat back from the mirror above the communal tap & sink, fixed on the opposite side of the room. “get a grip.” he mutters, blinking away the accumulation of teary briny moisture, that has settled like dusk in the curve of his lashline. he has been completely & utterly undone by the predicament that is you. he needs you around. do you picture him like he pictures you? he swore that you wouldn’t. 

♱ but maybe you do. 

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