gr★ce

♱ he’s got his eye on you. quite frankly, everyone in town has got their eye on you—you’re perfection personified. a true angel haunting the neighbourhoods of hawkins, a syphus wearing the cinnamon-soft skin of a mortal body, a soft-edged miracle roaming sidewalks & cul-de-sacs & the soulless school hallways. seraphic light stuck into teenage bones, carved from crystal, yet breathing the same tired indiana air as everyone else & mike doesn’t get it. you’re heaven sent & yet stuck, slumming it here in the wasteland of cornerstores & cornfields that is hawkins indiana. some bored god must’ve dropped you here by mistake, to see if anyone would notice. some sort of deity-driven prank. well, mike wheeler he has very much noticed. 

♱ he means it when he describes you as perfect—you’re no more and no less; all sugar-spun soft locks of hair bleeding down your spine, pink ribbons and pinker cheeks, a sugarcoated psalm of a girl leaping from classroom to classroom like lazy sunlight over stained glass. you are draped in the scent of faint frangipani & vanilla & adolescent daydreams, your laughter sounds like weeping piano keys, and everyone adores you for it. even the sun bends to your will, constantly following you around & illuminating your statuette from behind like a lovesick worshipper. and mike—poor, smitten mike—mimics its rays, becomes a second little sun just inches behind the first one, swallowing your footsteps. hot on your heels. soaking up your glory from the shadows.

♱ he yearns for that smile you lend out to others; strawberry-sweet & saccharine, the color of pearl. he yearns for the melody your bangles make upon lithe wrists. he yearns for the flavor of lips glossed peach, yearns for the glow of full cheeks blazed rosy, yearns to memorise the subtle contours of your figure as it arches in cold cobalt levis, yearns to place his fingers across the slope of your nose’s arc, read the braille of your freckles, study the architecture of your face, the structure of the features that have tattoed themselves onto his frontal lobe. the memory of you is not quite as sweet as the real thing, but to be honest—it’s the best he has. it’s not like you’ve ever even spoken to him properly. 

♱ he’s a loser, and he can’t have something as sacred as you. his body stretched over the summer and he hasn’t mastered maneuvering it. he is awkward & gangly & juts out at odd angles. his voice still cracks occasionally, like young fireworks or popping vertebrae. he has strange interests, wizards & warlocks & wiverns. he likes galaxies, and thus there are planets painted on his bedroom wallpaper. they’ve been there for his whole childhood. he has an entire universe to lose himself in, a literal one etched onto the plaster around him, yet every night, without fail, his orbit curls back to you. the center of his gravity is rooted in an all-american bone white smile & baby pink kitten heels. he’s got no chance of holding you, having you, knowing you, but sad boys can dream and so he does too. 

♱ he mourns you like a soldier mourns his wife from the battlefields; craving the face he knows he won’t come home to. he paints perfect little fantasies where you know his name & say it breathily, mould your mouth with his, fold your body into the open alter of his palms, absorb the longing he exudes for you and let it live beneath your ribcage, carving out a little slice of the heaven you carry just for him. it’s a very much look-but-don’t-touch type of crush, he learns. like he’s a child with sticky hands blooming against the glass window of a candystore; he’s forever salivating in front of ripe sugared paradise, yet his teeth will never learn its flavor. in his eternal purgatory he is forced to pretend he can properly recreate it with other girls. with his mind. his memories. his imagination. 

♱ his friends all tease him relentlessly—for pining over a “plastic hallway princess” as according to dustin, and tell him he has more chance of “passionately tonguing down steve.” he ignores them all, because why would he let you go? instead he marvels, as you sit. speak. eat. you’ll bite an apple and he’ll find himself wishing it was the skin of his neck. even the cafeteria’s sickly lighting can’t dim you, in fact—even it seems to work in your favor, cradling your features in a burst of artificial fluorescence that mimics the sheen of heaven itself. but maybe he’s biased.

♱ he watches with unhideable fascination as you cram your dark eyelashes into some medieval looking handheld device and depart from it with them looking even loopier and gravity-defying than before. nancy never desired barbies, but if she had, he’s sure you’re the splitting image. freshly torn out of a plastic box, and gracing the world with your doll-like, delectable presence. he tries to tell himself he won’t spend another empty day dwelling in his mental movie reruns of fantasies of you. it’s a lie, of course. he couldn’t even convince himself.

♱ alas, mike would learn to grow content with his routine of sideline pining—or as close to content as he can with this you-shaped hole knocking around in the rhythm of his heartbeat. he can’t ever truly ignore it; but he can keep it at bay, like a moth concussing itself as it bounces off the walls of a mason jar. he’s caged in the boundaries of his own longing. you’re everywhere he tries to run. 

♱ you’re in history class, and you’re laughing your way through a tragic civil war presentation, sunlight in human form, notes half-wrong, grin fully right. he’s in the front row, breathing projector dust & vanilla & fabric softener. your eyes catch the light and they gleam like stars. he knows those stars. he’s studied those stars. he stuck those stars, glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling in the second grade, stared at them until he memorized every shape. yours are the grown‑up, dangerous version. they are alive & they are moving & they are warm. you scramble through terrible descriptions of the battlefields & the bloodshed, and all he can think is that the galaxies would sell their big solar system souls to match the black-hole pull of your pupils. there’s enough space in them to swallow planets, to cradle universes, to ruin boys like him. and now he’s fallen into your orbit once again. & again. & again. 

♱ you’re in the gymnasium, sneakers squeaking on the lacquered wood floor, manicured fists clutching green tinsel, shaking it at some mandatory pep rally, captain of the cheer team &, (god help him), captain of his heart. he’s brooding on the bleachers, perverse as he admires the curvature of velveteen skin as it peeks from where the uniform rides too high, how it flashes like a dare. you shake your pompoms & try to conjure enthusiasm out of the bored classmates that inhabit the bleachers alongside him. he doesn’t believe in school spirit, but he believes in you. 

♱ you’re there when he tries to walk home. his sneakers scuffing along cracking concrete curbside, just to give his lanky limbs something to do. head low & heart lower. he watches as you and your flock of brain-dead aquaintances pile into an offensively magenta camaro and zoom off into the mottled gray hawkins horizon, exhaust pipe spitting ash like halos in your wake. sigh. sigh. sigh. he’s been cursed; heart of a yearner, confidence of a cornered mouse. he’s spineless. he’s hopeless. he’ll never have you. he’s completely convinced—he’ll never have you. so imagine his surprise when he ends up with you in the janitor’s closet. 

♱ he doesn’t know how he landed himself here. wedged between mopheads & dirty buckets & the gravity of your body tumbling back into him. he’s drowning in daylight, in the faint reek of lemon disinfectant and subtle mildew & yet this tiny ugly little room becomes a cathedral when you step inside of it. he’s the only thing in hawkins that’s strong enough to hold your light. still, it’s a place for dirty things, forgotten things, like all the filth & grime that’s accumulating in the stale air, that’s webbed between every mop’s bristle. he supposes that whatever happens between the pair of you here will soon too become dirty & forgotten in quick succession. the bulb above you sputters to life in a single golden gasp and traces the slope of your cheek, the arc of your mouth, the sugared gleam in your eyes; you are a comet skimming low, roaming the bleach-tainted surroundings, scattering impossible miracles. you are his impossible miracle. how is he in here right now? with you? his luck needs to be studied by scholars. 

♱ and he’s all panicked, hiked breathing & eyes large & wide & so impossibly brown. they’re coffee colored, cappuccino-lit foamy mornings, caffeine in a chipped mug, warm & slightly burning. they’re a forkful of mudcake, cravings of cocoa crumb scraped off the roof of a mouth. whatever he is, it’s almost edible, it’s indulgent, it’s all-consuming. maybe that’s why you’d set your sights on him—you wanted to see if you could swallow him whole. he’s concerned that he’ll combust before you get the chance, though. because he’s scared. he’s nervous. he’s never done this before, he’s never done this before. he is a panicked little virgin with a tight throat & tighter jeans, sandwiched been rusted shelving and an angel with a flirty gaze & a goal, a goal which involves a performance that he maybe can’t give you. 

♱ the air carries the scent of your perfume & the stuttered gulps of his nervous breath. the dust flickers welcomingly around your face in a soft bokeh, glinting in the severed beams of wilting afternoon that creep in through the slats of the blinds. once again, the sun answers to illuminate you. “i’ve never done anything. like, anything at all.” he mumbles. you nod, not minding, of course. he is still struggling to comprehend the gravity of this situation. you are an inch from his face, at best. he could fashion a home in the space between your steady inhales & exhales. the rise and fall of your chest beneath the lilac cardigan embracing your body. the distance that journeys between your mouth and his own. it’s getting increasingly smaller. he’s getting increasingly harder. 

♱ “don’t care, mike. i can show you the ropes,” you joke. he’s more surprised you know his name than your eagerness to have sex with him. he says, “yeah?” and you go, “yeah,” and there’s a silence which doesn’t make him want to blast himself out of a canon, which is a welcome change. the quiet isn’t fully quiet because he’s breathing so heavy; a little ambience to the scene about to unfold. 

♱ he catches a recirculating inhale of your fragrant aroma beneath the notes of stale, recycled atmosphere in the room; some nectar-sweet whisper that reminds him of summer, of fresh berries, of vivid indigo juice staining fingers at the corner of mouths. he wants to stain his skin with you, also, but he doesn’t wanna act on it, so you have to do it for him. 

♱ the first kiss is hesitant on his part because there is too much thinking & not enough enjoying. he’ll register everything & nothing all at once; the burn of lips under his mouth, the flavor of spearmint & honey, the fingers which thread in his hair and his own which stay awkwardly stiff barring either side of his equally as rigid torso. his first kiss & it’s stolen in a janitor’s cupboard with the school’s precious nymphette, a dream of his; day dream, wet dream, surely just a bedtime dream—how is this happening? he is going to wake up any moment. you’re all smeared over his mouth. lipgloss will forever taste like you. 

♱ he stands utterly still, bewildered to the point of complete rigidity. a wooden plank under your coaxing hands. when he doesn’t reciprocate, you pause, and tear your lips away from the warm sanctity of his own chapped pair. you blink with feathered eyelashes and cheeks pink like strawberry syrup & bubblegum & anything sugared. cavities already line his gums and he welcomes them with pride. “did i read this wrong? shoot, sorry mike. i thought—” and he cuts you off. he scrambles at the idea of messing this up. he will not lose this miracle due to a failure to act upon it. 

♱ it takes a moment for him to find his voice, cause he’s got to actively detach himself from your eyes. when he does manage to find it, its fragile and not quite solidified, tense around the edges like shattered glass. “no.” he blurts. “no. god. no. that’s not—i didn’t mean—i didn’t not like that. not at all. trust me.” his breath catches on every second syllable he sputters. a faucet of trembled incomplete sentences. “i like you.” you raise a brow. “i really like you. i have for ages, its sorta really embarrassing, actually. i’ve just, y’know. never… never done any of this stuff before. especially not with someone like you.”

♱ “someone like me?” you ask. he’ll become perpetually more stammered, expressive brows colliding with each other, pinching the skin above his forehead, creating ripples that crease all the way up to his scalp. “shit, god, okay that sounded awful. i didn’t mean—not someone like you as in, a bad thing. i meant, y’know, someone like you—pretty. popular. you should be, like, stuffing me in a locker, or something.” he laughs, awkwardly, his breathing textured like sandpaper. 

♱ you’d snort at him. “i don’t think you’d fit in locker. you’re tall.” you mutter, hands spanning along the expanse of his elongated pale limbs. he’s wiry but not emaciated; enough meat on him to portray his masculinity without looking stiff & muscular & inflated. you like it. and he blushes, red hot & melting. “tall.” he echos. what else can he say? his tongue is ribboned around itself. tied up. 

♱ “you’re pretty,” he mumbles in the gap between exchanged metallic oxygen, souring softly. afternoon is dying like a star but it doesn’t matter because he’s got his own one right here, cradled in his arms. you send him a syrupy smile. “oh yeah? you think?” and he shakes his head. “no, fuck—i know it. everyone does.” he mumbles. “you’re so flustered,” you giggle. “i’m not flustered.” utter lies. “just, uh, just sorta tryna process this.” he mumbles. you frown. “process? process what?” 

♱ and he’d say. “you. mostly just you.” there’s shrinking distance wedged between your two faces; like magnetized metal drags you right back to him, right onto him. his eyes get browner, darker, more swollen with lust or longing—you can’t discern which one it is but right now it doesn’t really matter. you act on the imprint of desire moulded in his irises, you pull him in again for a better kiss. a real one. 

♱ now he’s more grounded. he kisses like he’s trying to suck you into his lungs, trap you in his ribcage under where his heart stumbles over the rhythm of its beating, thumpthumpthumpthump is the melody that grows in him. his tongue wedges under your own, you have no choice to swallow every breath that he spills into your throat. he hopes you don’t pick up on the whiny little wounded noises he emits, like some animal down the barrel of a rifle, like something pleading for mercy. can you blame him? he’s on the cusp of catharsis, right here. on the edge of a cliff, tasting the smile he’s lusted after for months. he doesn’t fall, he floats. he’s so fucking dizzy. 

♱ you’ve still gotta guide him through it. he’s sloppy, and each tactful glide of your tongue puts his own slobbered efforts to shame. you thread manicured fingers into the spiral of his chestnut curls, you tug a little, and he whimpers. not a debatable matter, sorry. he’s already panting into you, sacrificing all oxygen for serotonin instead, canines gnashing with your own. one yank really rips the sounds out of him, head craning to try and conceal it within your own mouth. it doesn’t work. 

♱ every action of his would seem like question; the gentle hand that braces your hip, or the other one which cradles the satin waterfall of hair that leaks down your shoulders, protecting your skull from the metal of the shelf that looms behind you, the one your pressed into. he’s considerate like that. and it doesn’t halt—the further you go. the less you wear. it’s dizzying; the breadth of his palms carefully prying fabric off your respective figures, clothes shedding like wilted rose petals and collapsing with a mellow sag on the floor. you appreciate the pale & freckled plains of his boyish torso just as he marvels the sight of not just any pair of breasts, but yours. 

♱ and he’d just have to tell you how he’s feeling, announce it in case you’d read it on his face before he had the chance. a sort of make-the-joke-before-someone-else-does mindset he never really shook since childhood. so it’d be all, “holy shit, you’re—my god. i mean, i thought you’d be pretty, but i never thought, like, this was even—possible…” he’d traipse off. staring, mentally preserving a polaroid of supple skin cupped in subdued cream lace. it’s perverted the way he’s banking that vision, folding into the forefront of his mind, for later use. 

♱ you’d tell him “you can touch, mike,” because you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t dare without your permission. you know he puts you on a popularity-provoked-pedastal. he doesn’t know how he got here, or if he even really is here at all—for all he knows, something sick has twisted itself into his mind and he’s still dreaming back at the wheeler house, rutting & sweating into his navy comforter, face suffocated into a pillow, whining your name. lord knows it’s happened before. but you tell him to touch you, voice floating effortlessly around the confined space and seeping into four walls of thin stretched linoleum—and he does. his hands are huge, we’ve been knowing that, all exaggeratedly stretched and almost feminine, and they latch onto your tits and dwarf them most likely; his jaw ticks right down to the bone, eyes unwavering from the swell of skin that he has the privilege of cradling. and he’d worship any part of your body gladly but something about the curve of your tits has mike’s knees crumbling beneath him like damp sand. “holy shit. pretty. hot. wow. holy shit.” he’d mumble. such a loser but he’s your loser >⩊<

♱ and because you’re in this cramped claustrophobic closet and there’s minimal time and somebody may enter at any moment, he doesn’t have time to do anything he really wants to—no time to work you open on those fingers that seem to go for miles, no time for you to train his mouth to trace the nectar that is smudging between the bracket of your honeyed thighs—but he wants to. maybe next time, he thinks greedily. 

♱ it’d be a fast endeavor. his hands would scope & seek, searching each slant of skin for something, anything, everything—nothing at all. he looks perfect; sweat pricked from the temple down, bony angles and broken breath, his collarbone stretched like wings out before you, his sentences failing to fall out of the confines of his tight throat. it doesn’t really matter; you’re not here to talk. 

♱ you scour his boxers, seizing his cock from the superman patterned fabric cage. it’s impressively long, pale and flushed at his tip, all rufescent & dribbly & the second your gentle fingers make contact everything tenses, and his puppy-gaze only further congeals into every feature. his brows, which kiss animatedly and draw upwards, folding lines into his forehead, and his big eyes which struggle to stay trained upon you as they flutter. his dark eyelashes feather & frolick, the weak bulb-light overhead melts through them, drips into the concave dip of his pronounced cheekbones, glistens over his pale skin, accentuates a freckled galaxy that settles across the bridge of his nose. he’s as angelic as you, even if nobody’s told him yet. 

♱ admittedly—he’s sickeningly nervous. the first person seeing his cock is human artwork; from the brushstroke outline of your celestial figure, to the watercolor smears of everything that’s packed into it; eyes, lips, lashes, supple skin & tender heart. but you’re encouraging. admiring. a thumb pawing the slit of his pinkish tip, the coo of your voice all, “such a nice cock, mike. all for me, huh?” and all he can do is nod. its nod or bust violently all over you, like, right now. so count your blessings. 

♱ without anything to do with himself, he resorts to another kiss which is very him heavy. hiccuping & stuttering like a roadside dying creature, little animal noises spewing out of him and into your throat, your lungs. its slower than before because he’s indulging, extracting any flavor he can from the arch of your lips, the roll of your tongue. he kisses you because he has nowhere else to put this shaking. 

♱ you’d guide his cock right into you hastily, so hastily that your panties wouldn’t even join the rest of your clothes in the polyester graveyard you’ve created below you—instead you’d haphazardly glide them to the side, lacy thong out of the way to reveal the slickened-honey spew of wet & warmth that sheens between your thighs. the lush scent of you is killer; melted amber drooling right before him. a filthy alcove that’s tumbled straight out of his sickest fantasies. and he gets hard all over again. his dad’s old playboys are one thing, but this? this is art, this is something he feels sorta guilty for even looking at. 

♱ “you’re— you’re so…” he swallows hard, words molten on his tongue. “wet.” and you say something corny like, “all for you, mikey,” and nobody’s called him mikey since second grade and it’s such a predictable line but he’s falling for it all anyway, throat creaking with the effort as he tries to grip himself at his base to prevent anything from erupting out of him too soon. it’s fumbled and adolescent; the condom and the way he struggles to sheathe it, the way he apologises between gasps. 

♱ he slides in with minimal friction—the shared concoction of his own pearlescent precum and your slick aids in an easy entrance. he grips the shelf behind you. clamps it so hard his knuckles bleach white to the bone with the strain, and his other splays across your exposed hipbone, kneading little circles into the dough of your flesh, which stabilises himself maybe more than you—but its a sweet gesture all the same. he narrates the entire process, painfully chatty.

♱ “okay, okay. i’m just gonna go in, i guess, right? that’s okay? right? you’re okay with this, with me, with… everything? you totally wanna—” and you just have to cut him off. “mike.” and he blinks. “yeah?” 

♱ “breathe. i want this, c’mon. don’t leave me waiting.” he flounders a bit. lips covered in the residue of peach kisses, swollen and syrupy. he stutters his breathing and pushes in, bit by bit by bit because he’s struggling to tamp down the desire that is stacking up fast. you’re tight. you’re tight and you’re warm. you’re here with him. in his arms. under his hands. his fingerprints live upon you now. in the cavern of your cunt, he’s now nestled. your body welcomes him with a clutch that makes his entire structure shudder. his breath knotting. his spine arching. his sanity thinning to a sweet, fragile thread. and he is very loud about it. “ohmygod. shit. shitshitshit. oh jesus christ. i can’t do this, oh shit. holy crap.”

♱ you laugh at him as his moon-pale cheeks warm. his fingers carve into the flesh of your waist, the dip and crest of it. he’s really trying to swallow all these embarrassing cries but they are slipping through the gaps in his teeth. he needs a hot hot minute. his forehead bows to you, he rests it, sweat-salted on the top of your head like he’s praying into your skin. damp curls & heavy panting heat your scalp up as he tries and fails to maintain a shred of his masculinity. but he never really had a shot at that, did he? you’re here, half-naked, all-his. even if its just for this severed moment. you droop dreamily towards him. mike wheeler, you’ve officially peaked, he thinks for a second. 

♱ you moan into his skin & it blooms there. “is it okay? i’m not hurting you or anyth—anything? tell me if i do, yeah? tell me if i’m too much, or, i dunno. not enough. i just—i just wanna make it g-good. for you. so good. mm.” his eyes roll back and white creamy sclera greets you. “shoot, you feel insane.” he croaks. aw, bless his heart. he has no idea what he’s in for. 

♱ you’ve gotta ground him. you press a hand between sweat-slick shoulderblades, that flex like wings beneath your feathered contact. you stroke the vague divot between them in circular motions. “is it okay like this? i can—i mean, i can move if you want, or—i don’t know. guide me. tell me what to do, i wanna get it right f’you.” he slurs. cuntdrunk & cross-eyed before you’ve so much as slid up and down, yet. 

♱ when he does move? yeah. it’s a little proddy. he needs a few scattered minutes to get his rhythm going, exploring the walls of your chamber with an expression like he’s been struck across the face. he looks teary, he looks as though he’s rooted in a visceral, aching agony. in a way—that’s you. you are his agony, his undoing. his first time & his only time—the only one that’ll matter, in his opinion. it feels like he’s flying. soaring. you rake nails down his vertebrae as he stumbles upon the good places all deep up inside of you; g-spot, cervix, any little clusters of nerve his fat cockhead manages to stab. his flesh gets beneath your french tips as you dig at his back; but the pain makes everything more raw. he laps at your neck, drinking your pulse, shackled to you, in you, around you. fused. 

♱ he sullies the slot between your neck and your shoulder with ripe indigo bruises. he doesn’t really know how to do it right the first time, the second, the third. they’re not proper hickies; it’s more consumption than claiming; his teeth whittling away at any exposed skin just to give his mouth something to do. a terrible attempt at muffling his cries, or getting himself to stop fucking talking. 

♱ because he’s all, “mmngghh, am i doing it right? shitshit, its so good, you’re so good,” and “i can’t even think,” and “you’re, ffff—, ungh, you’re so fucking warm.” his words are more scrambled with each thrust, sentences dissolving to salt & soft sobbing right against your skin. there’s something sacred about the way you’ve managed to rewire him. his smears another messy kiss against the canvas of flesh he can reach. whispers, desperately, “you’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re perfect.”

♱ you snicker at him. he’s stupidly endearing; a slowburn disaster with a heartbeat in his throat. his skill is questionable but his cock, oh, it’s big enough to mask any lack of coordination on his part. you feel good. you tell him, in a drooled murmur into his face and it’s all the positivity he needs to keep his act up. “feels good, mikey. you’re a natural,” you inform him. “yeah? s’good for you too? i’m not totally humiliating myself?” he jokes, panting. you promise that he isn’t. one praise-soaked murmur is all he needs to believe you. that’s the sin of it. 

♱ and so he speeds up. glassy & glossy eyed, lashes damp with tears he’ll die before admitting to. puncturing you from the inside out with shallow, shaky efforts. “are you okay? are you close? m’getting close, i think, thats okay, right?” he stammers. thrust. thrust. thrust. the metal framework behind you is shuddering & trembling. a bottle of clorox has fallen to its death, joined by a roll of duct tape and one ripped rubber glove. he pushes a little further into you, his pelvis knocking against yours. skeleton on skeleton. 

♱ “yeah, mike. m’close.” and you take his hand, press it onto your clit. “is thi–that the spot? whaddo i do? tell me what to do.” he quivers. fingers clumsy for it, stroking & teasing, coaxing your orgasm to its inevitable debut. he pouts at you, pleading for your summit so he can at least say he held out until you did. unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. it’s just so much, so much for him. he’s choked around from all angles, suffocating inside you, all air robbed, all smoldered heat he’s absorbing straight out of your skin. your curves hit off his angles, your cunt gulps him in further. you’re completely joined. and he’s completely fucked. he sobs as he comes, embarrassingly riskily loud. you’re sure his whimpering bleeds out from under the slot of the door. 

♱ “m’gonna cum, shit, i’m sorry, i can’t stop, shit, i–i can’t—” he trembles like electricity is frying him from the inside out. you’re lost in the eclipse of his dark eyes, growing impossibly wide as the wave hits him like a knock to the teeth. fist to the chest. kick to the sternum. it’s strong. it’s so strong; if he was in his rational state of mind he’d fear he’d snap the condom with the strength of his own spunk, spilling into the rubber cage, hands scrambling for purchase on your shoulders as he keeps you locked in place. the tears that had been dwelling but not yet shed, the ones pricked in his corneas begin to dribble down his freckled cheeks, licking at his features which are all screwed up as he comes & comes & comes. “s—so good. sosogood, you’re perfect, my angel holy shit, thankyouthankyouthankyou, you’re perfect, ah—” seismic quaking wracks his spine. he bends over you, bows in half. twitches like a beetle on it’s back. reduced to whining & white-noise, mouth falling apart around thank yous. 

♱ he doesn’t have enough time to be mortified before you’re tumbling down in a heap of fragility right with him. you come softer, gentler. he holds you as it happens, captures the moment, cups the light you emit in his palms, preserves it in the lines there. admires you, shamelessly, as you moan; lips swollen and eyes fluttering backwards. eyelashes blinking like moth wings, aftershocks jolting you in sparks. he’s too sensitive to ferment in you for any longer; once he’s sure it’s over, he tugs himself out of you. comfortably flaccid, completely ruined for anyone other than you. hesitantly, he scatters stray kisses onto your briny skin like dandelion spores. breathes in the sour-sweet scent of sex, of seduction, and still the remaining vestiges of amber-vanilla & natural musk that cloaks your body even now, even though he’d assume you’ve sweated all that off. 

♱ he inhales a wavering breath. “uh. wow.” he croaks. “was… that okay? for you, and not just me?” he’s so earnest it’s sickening. tooth-rottingly sweet. you reassure him. “i liked it mike.” he blinks. “yeah? i, uh, wow. you’re—shit. look at you.” his brain is gooey. his stare sticks to the crevices of your face, melded to you. especially now. the afternoon continues to bleed across you, showering you in heaven-yellow gold. you wear a mantle of sweat, a halo of light. draped in a post-ecstasy glow. “no wonder everyone can’t shut up about you.” he sighs, dreamily. 

♱ he’s more in control of the after than the during—helping you back into your abandoned outfit, peeling sweat-curled locks off where they’ve fused to your temples. hesitantly offering pecks to cheeks, to forehead, to lips. stumbling over what he reckons aftercare should be. “uh. water, right? we should get you some water. reckon the canteen’s still open? probably not. oh, i could get you some gatorade from the vending machine. shit. wait, i have no coins. maybe like, a few quarters in my bag, but that probably won’t…shit. i’m tryna be helpful but i think i’m just making noise.” he rambles. and he shuts himself up with a groan, dipping his head onto your shoulder. “thanks for everything,” he mumbles.

♱ he lets himself rest there. his own little hollow home, sanctuary in the sliver of skin between collarbone and jaw. a hand to yours, mellow skin on skin. he doesn’t know what this means, now. if you’ll forget about him, if his short time in your attention has expired. but he won’t ever lose this memory. he frames it mentally, hangs it on the plaster of his mind’s wall. evening swallows the day, you head home on wobbled legs.

♱ he dreams about you once again. 

⊹ .🪽₊ ݁₊｡⋆୨୧˚. ݁₊🕯️ ݁˖ 🦢

TAKING REQUESTS FOR ALL!CHARACTERS !! ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ ♱♱ ask me something heavenly!

so here he is, in all of his glory. oversized dark hoodie with the sleeves just a little too long, jeans pooled around his ankles accompanying yours and your underwear on the floor. you found yourself obediently bent over in this position before you knew it. you'd always let mike take you however he wanted.

you could tell he'd been thinking about it for a while too, cravings evident from the tent in his jeans and the way it greeted you during your 'welcome home' kiss. just the thought of him aching, throbbing for you on that car ride home had you panting heavier in anticipation.

and he was, that whole drive he had one hand on the steering wheel, the other palming at his jeans to find some relief. he bit his lip, trying not to speed, but with you on his mind. . . well, let's just say he was definitely going faster than he should have been.

he's huffing softly behind you, continuing to grind teasingly against your entrance, seemingly happy to get off just like this. "the whole drive home. . ." he suddenly pipes up, mouth feeling dry as he runs his tongue over his lips, "thought about you, thought about taking you just like this. . ."

you moan in response, feeling that familiar ache between your legs. but your sound of pleasure melts into a whine when you finally feel his cock spring free and hit your backside.

mike grips it, slapping the hard, girthy length against your ass before beginning to ease into you. you can't help but gasp, palms splayed across the counter as you brace yourself for his thrusts. the stretch feels so good, too good as he bottoms out.

"that's it. . ." he coos, rubbing a calloused thumb against your hip as he begins to move, "takin' me so well, aren't you? missed me?"

you moan, arching your back slightly, "mike. . ." calling out his name almost without meaning to, moaning his name alone an answer to his question. of course you'd missed him.

he smiles, biting his lip as he admires all of the little noises you make while you take his cock so well, so deep, each slow thrust filling you completely. turning your head, you look up at him.

his eyes are closed, eyelashes resting gently against his cheeks, brows arched as he pushes into you. he's focused, relishing the feeling of you so tightly wrapped around him. you can tell how much he wants this, how much he needs this. long day, or rather night, at the office for sure.

and his hoodie. . . god he's too fucking cute. your eyes drift down to his hands gripping your hips, the sleeves almost swallowing his hands whole. he's probably sweating under there, but he doesn't care. mike's too focused on making you both cum to care about how much he's burning up beneath his layers.

you watch as his mouth opens, a soft moan slipping from his lips and you feel him twitch inside of you, your body instinctively clenching in response. this causes him to moan more, picking up speed as his eyes flicker open, meeting with yours.

"f-fuck!" you gasp, feeling his dick glide in and out, heart rate picking up. you were gonna cum too soon.

he knows it, mike can feel it, the way you tense up - and he slows a little. "baby, you close?" he asks, knowing the answer.

nodding, you rest your cheek back on the counter, trying to steady yourself and your thoughts, as if the coolness of the counter will do anything to ease the throbbing between your legs.

"just a little longer, okay? can you hold out?" mike whispers one hand sliding from your hip to drift up along your spine under your shirt. he finds a firm grip on the back of your neck as he pumps you full of his cock. "feels so fuckin' good. . ."

with his strong hold on the back of your neck, you're having to do twice as much inner work to not cum around his dick too early. how can you not? when he's fucking into you so perfectly, cock twitching as you feel him getting closer and closer with all of those little whimpers of his. . . he'd be crazy to think you'd be able to hold out for long. but it's okay, because you soon realise that he doesn't have much restraint left either.

when he's close, mike gets loud. his mouth starts running and he can't stop it, begging and pleading and whispering sweet nothings into the air. it's so cute, how quiet he is normally compared to what a little mess he becomes while fucking you.

"just like that. . . oh fuck, baby, fuck-" he huffs, thighs tensing as his dick aches to release deep inside you, "you're gonna make me cum. . . m'gonna cum. . . i'm-"

"please!" you whine, nodding quickly as you attempt to push back against his thrusts, a desperate attempt to get him impossibly deeper. you can't hold on much longer.

with his firm grip on your neck, he pushes you harder against the counter, pushing you back into place, his hips connecting with your body in a harsh rhythm. he feels it pooling in his lower belly, the warmth spreading, the need to cum.

"cum, mike, god please - i need it. . ."

those words dripping from your lips between moans has him seeing stars, "gonna give it to you baby, you want it- want it nice and deep?" he falters, cheeks flushing intensely.

the whine that leaves your lips is so high-pitched that it surprises you, but those dirty, nasty words leaving his lips are almost enough to send you over the edge alone. he really was pent-up today.

"asked you a question baby," he whispers, leaning down so his chest is pressed against your back as he ruts into you, "d'you want it?"

you hiss, "mike, yes. . ." knowing he's asking just to tease, just to make a point.

and that's all he needs, his thrusts picking up to an almost painful speed as he paints your insides with his white, hot cum. his length continues to pump in and out, pumping his cum deeper and deeper. and you take it, all of it, gladly.

the sensation has you cumming, desperately gripping the counter as you clench and spasm around his thick cock. the moans that fill the room are loud, echoing in his kitchen as you both scream in ecstasy. you're calling his name, he's calling yours. the room, a cacophony of filthy whispered words.

his thrusts slow, a shiver running down his spine as he feels his cum leak out of you. he gives your waist a gentle tap, leaning in to pepper kisses along behind your ear. "you good?"

"yes. . ." you whisper back in a harsh gasp, trying to regain your sense of self after that orgasm threatened to tear you apart. it was intense, to say the least, your legs still shaking.

mike smiles, his kisses turning even softer, longer against your neck now. "maybe next time," he speaks between slow, languid kisses, "you can join me at work so i don't need to wait till i get home. . ." his gentle smile curls to a cheeky smirk.

so here he is, in all of his glory. oversized dark hoodie with the sleeves just a little too long, jeans pooled around his ankles accompanying yours and your underwear on the floor. you found yourself obediently bent over in this position before you knew it. you'd always let mike take you however he wanted.

you could tell he'd been thinking about it for a while too, cravings evident from the tent in his jeans and the way it greeted you during your 'welcome home' kiss. just the thought of him aching, throbbing for you on that car ride home had you panting heavier in anticipation.

and he was, that whole drive he had one hand on the steering wheel, the other palming at his jeans to find some relief. he bit his lip, trying not to speed, but with you on his mind. . . well, let's just say he was definitely going faster than he should have been.

he's huffing softly behind you, continuing to grind teasingly against your entrance, seemingly happy to get off just like this. "the whole drive home. . ." he suddenly pipes up, mouth feeling dry as he runs his tongue over his lips, "thought about you, thought about taking you just like this. . ."

you moan in response, feeling that familiar ache between your legs. but your sound of pleasure melts into a whine when you finally feel his cock spring free and hit your backside.

mike grips it, slapping the hard, girthy length against your ass before beginning to ease into you. you can't help but gasp, palms splayed across the counter as you brace yourself for his thrusts. the stretch feels so good, too good as he bottoms out.

"that's it. . ." he coos, rubbing a calloused thumb against your hip as he begins to move, "takin' me so well, aren't you? missed me?"

you moan, arching your back slightly, "mike. . ." calling out his name almost without meaning to, moaning his name alone an answer to his question. of course you'd missed him.

he smiles, biting his lip as he admires all of the little noises you make while you take his cock so well, so deep, each slow thrust filling you completely. turning your head, you look up at him.

his eyes are closed, eyelashes resting gently against his cheeks, brows arched as he pushes into you. he's focused, relishing the feeling of you so tightly wrapped around him. you can tell how much he wants this, how much he needs this. long day, or rather night, at the office for sure.

and his hoodie. . . god he's too fucking cute. your eyes drift down to his hands gripping your hips, the sleeves almost swallowing his hands whole. he's probably sweating under there, but he doesn't care. mike's too focused on making you both cum to care about how much he's burning up beneath his layers.

you watch as his mouth opens, a soft moan slipping from his lips and you feel him twitch inside of you, your body instinctively clenching in response. this causes him to moan more, picking up speed as his eyes flicker open, meeting with yours.

"f-fuck!" you gasp, feeling his dick glide in and out, heart rate picking up. you were gonna cum too soon.

he knows it, mike can feel it, the way you tense up - and he slows a little. "baby, you close?" he asks, knowing the answer.

nodding, you rest your cheek back on the counter, trying to steady yourself and your thoughts, as if the coolness of the counter will do anything to ease the throbbing between your legs.

"just a little longer, okay? can you hold out?" mike whispers one hand sliding from your hip to drift up along your spine under your shirt. he finds a firm grip on the back of your neck as he pumps you full of his cock. "feels so fuckin' good. . ."

with his strong hold on the back of your neck, you're having to do twice as much inner work to not cum around his dick too early. how can you not? when he's fucking into you so perfectly, cock twitching as you feel him getting closer and closer with all of those little whimpers of his. . . he'd be crazy to think you'd be able to hold out for long. but it's okay, because you soon realise that he doesn't have much restraint left either.

when he's close, mike gets loud. his mouth starts running and he can't stop it, begging and pleading and whispering sweet nothings into the air. it's so cute, how quiet he is normally compared to what a little mess he becomes while fucking you.

"just like that. . . oh fuck, baby, fuck-" he huffs, thighs tensing as his dick aches to release deep inside you, "you're gonna make me cum. . . m'gonna cum. . . i'm-"

"please!" you whine, nodding quickly as you attempt to push back against his thrusts, a desperate attempt to get him impossibly deeper. you can't hold on much longer.

with his firm grip on your neck, he pushes you harder against the counter, pushing you back into place, his hips connecting with your body in a harsh rhythm. he feels it pooling in his lower belly, the warmth spreading, the need to cum.

"cum, mike, god please - i need it. . ."

those words dripping from your lips between moans has him seeing stars, "gonna give it to you baby, you want it- want it nice and deep?" he falters, cheeks flushing intensely.

the whine that leaves your lips is so high-pitched that it surprises you, but those dirty, nasty words leaving his lips are almost enough to send you over the edge alone. he really was pent-up today.

"asked you a question baby," he whispers, leaning down so his chest is pressed against your back as he ruts into you, "d'you want it?"

you hiss, "mike, yes. . ." knowing he's asking just to tease, just to make a point.

and that's all he needs, his thrusts picking up to an almost painful speed as he paints your insides with his white, hot cum. his length continues to pump in and out, pumping his cum deeper and deeper. and you take it, all of it, gladly.

the sensation has you cumming, desperately gripping the counter as you clench and spasm around his thick cock. the moans that fill the room are loud, echoing in his kitchen as you both scream in ecstasy. you're calling his name, he's calling yours. the room, a cacophony of filthy whispered words.

his thrusts slow, a shiver running down his spine as he feels his cum leak out of you. he gives your waist a gentle tap, leaning in to pepper kisses along behind your ear. "you good?"

"yes. . ." you whisper back in a harsh gasp, trying to regain your sense of self after that orgasm threatened to tear you apart. it was intense, to say the least, your legs still shaking.

mike smiles, his kisses turning even softer, longer against your neck now. "maybe next time," he speaks between slow, languid kisses, "you can join me at work so i don't need to wait till i get home. . ." his gentle smile curls to a cheeky smirk.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐭 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

A Helping Hand ୧⊹ ⁺˖ (smut, angst) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ When Mike broke his leg, it left him feeling helpless and dependent on you for basic tasks like showering. This dependence has taken a toll on his self-esteem and sense of purpose, and he's now struggling with an existential crisis. As you help him shower, you notice the deep pain and vulnerability in his eyes as he pleads for connection and physical affection. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: touch-starved Mike x gn!reader published: April 14 word count: 2.4 ୨୧

Chocolate kisses ୧⊹ ⁺˖ (smut, angst, fluff) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Feeling dejected and hopeless about love after yet another failed date, you find yourself seeking comfort with your best friend, Mike. Instead of just lending a shoulder to cry on, Mike surprises you by showing you the love and care you've been longing for over a steaming cup of hot chocolate. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: soft!dom Mike x gn!reader published: March 15 word count: 2.3k ୨୧

Roommates conflict first fic ୧⊹ ⁺˖⁺(smut, fluff) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ After weeks of tension and arguments with your roommate, you decide to spill your troubles to him. However, your plans take an unexpected turn. Suddenly, you find yourself stuck on the couch, and Mike rushes to your aid. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: soft!dom Mike x afab fem!reader. published: February 19 word count: 3.9k ୨୧

Strange fascination (mini series) ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆: After noticing your absence at school during your usual pick-up time for your brother, Mike couldn't help but worry about your well-being. In an attempt to satisfy his concern and his desire to see you, he drove near your house and parked near a nearby cafe. Peering through the cafe window, he watched your every move, secretly relishing the opportunity to catch a glimpse of you. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: stalker!Mike x gn!reader. published: March 26 finished: ?

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐉𝐨𝐬𝐡 𝐅𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

A Call Away (Help, i’m still hard) ୧⊹ ⁺˖ (smut) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Josh took some pills to have some fun by himself, the harness doesn’t seem to go away so, he calls his beloved partner for help. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: sub!josh x dom gn!reader published: March 12 word count: 1.6k ୨୧

New memories ୧⊹ ⁺˖ (smut, fluff) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Sleep over with your friend, Josh, turns sexual as he plays with your chest by accident in his sleep. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: josh x afab!reader published: April 18 word count: 2k ୨୧

Love Across Time ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut, fluff) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Josh, a time traveler and savior of the world, has found himself stuck in the early 2000s and has become a teacher's assistant. Despite his best efforts to keep his distance from you, the teacher he is assisting, Josh finds himself irresistibly drawn to you. leading Josh on a journey of self-discovery and romance as he tries to navigate this new timeline. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: softdom!Josh x gn teacher!reader. published: April 21 word count: 4k ୨୧

Spilled drinks ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut, fluff) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ After many failed attempts, Josh, Tiger, and Wolf decided to change their perspective and get after the co-owner of the Kronish experiment, hoping it would finally prevent the super-cure from ever happening. Unlucky for Josh, to get after the co-owner, he needed to wear an out-of-the-comfort-zone attire in an unusual bar, where you happen to be. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: sub!Josh x gn!reader. published: April 21 word count: 4k ୨୧

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐃𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

Double the fall, triple the pleasure ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ As you work your shift as a casino host Derek Danforth, the son of the co-owner, decides to begin a round of baccarat with a stranger named Billy. Somehow you end up participating in the game and emerge victorious, causing the two players to owe you financial compensation but, they end up repaying you in another way. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing:Derek x reader x Billy. published: March 22 word count: 3.6k ୨୧

On your knees ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Derek, a person of high social standing, found himself in a troubling situation when confidential information was leaked to the public, revealing his involvement in unethical acts to advance his mother's presidential campaign. In a desperate bid to salvage his reputation and divert attention from the truth, Derek agreed to enter a Pr relationship with you. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing:Derek x gn! reader published: February 25 word count: 3.2k ୨୧

Sugar Rush ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Since the day you were introduced to Derek by his friends as a dealer, he developed an intense fascination with you. Despite his attraction, Derek had never acted on his feelings until one evening when, under the influence of a "magic powder" (cough cough), you inadvertently gave him a sign of hope. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing:Derek x afab fem!reader published: March 5 word count: 3.3k ୨୧

A Kiss On the Lips ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ As you were working your usual shift as a bartender, you couldn't help but be surprised when the well-known and wealthy Derek Danforth approached you with a charming smile. Rather than being just another patron, he seemed to be intentionally flirting with you.˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing:Derek x chubby gn!reader published: April 26 word count: 3.1k ୨୧

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

Attraction is Out of Our Controller ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ As filmmakers, you and your partner have planned to shoot an adult film in rural Texas. While working on the set, one of the actors, Billy, catches your eye and begins to have a profound effect on you. His presence triggers a range of feelings and thoughts that you didn't expect, clouding your mind and stirring up a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: Billy x gn! reader published: May 24 word count: 3.8k ୨୧

Double the fall, triple the pleasure ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ As you work your shift as a casino host Derek Danforth, the son of the co-owner, decides to begin a round of baccarat with a stranger named Billy. Somehow you end up participating in the game and emerge victorious, causing the two players to owe you financial compensation but, they end up repaying you in another way. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing:Derek x reader x Billy. published: March 22 word count: 3.6k ୨୧

Intoxicating Admiration ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ With the police hot on his trail, Billy finds himself hiding out in a grungy bar, uncertain of his next move. Deciding to lay low for a while longer, he takes a seat and starts watching as your band takes the stage. Immediately, he is captivated by your presence, drawn to you in a way he can't explain. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: Billy x gn!reader published: April 6th word count: 2.7k ୨୧

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐬 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

Forgotten Bond(age)୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ At a freshman college party, you find yourself in the same room as Clapton, the person you used to torment in high school. Despite your attempts to avoid an encounter, Clapton seems to be on the hunt for you. However, instead of seeking answers or explanations for your past actions, Clapton seems to desire something else entirely. It soon becomes clear that he's hoping to explore something else. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: Clapton x gn!reader published: March 29th word count: 3.7k ୨୧

This is a really short clapton x amab reader story

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

Uncover (My Pretty Boy) ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( smut ) ━━ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ One night, after inviting your friends over to the house you share with your boyfriend Marv, you were shocked when they began speaking negatively about him. Feeling protective of Marv, you yelled at your friends to leave. Unfortunately, Marv witnessed the entire confrontation and began to feel insecure. Determined to address his insecurities, you quickly rushed to his side to provide comfort and reassurance, wanting to make him feel loved and valued. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: Marv x gn!reader published: May 9th word count: 1.9k ୨୧

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you’re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

masterlist

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you’re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

masterlist

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you’re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

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