ą§ ā§ā ź° grace, 18+, she/her ź±
ā my name is grace, and i will write for any josh hutcherson character requested. my requests are always always always open
all requests that follow those guidelines will be much appreciated, and i promise to try my best to complete each and every one! i love to write and i love josh hutcherson, so it shouldn't be a problem tdļ¾
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āąØą§Ė. Ż yes to heaven ā± virgin!mike x popular!reader
ā± synopsis: mike wheeler ends up wedged in the janitor's closet with the angel of hawkins high. .šŖ½ā Żāļ½”āąØą§Ė
ā± warnings: penetrative sex, foul language, female anatomy depicted reader
ā± wordcount: 5500+
ā± heās got his eye on you. quite frankly, everyone in town has got their eye on youāyouāre 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 doesnāt get it. youāre heaven sent & yet stuck, slumming it here in the wasteland of cornerstores & cornfields that is hawkins indiana. some bored god mustāve 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.Ā
ā± he means it when he describes you as perfectāyouāre 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 mikeāpoor, smitten mikeāmimics 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.
ā± 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 noseās 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 honestāitās the best he has. itās not like youāve ever even spoken to him properly.Ā
ā± heās a loser, and he canāt have something as sacred as you. his body stretched over the summer and he hasnāt 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. theyāve 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. heās got no chance of holding you, having you, knowing you, but sad boys can dream and so he does too.Ā
ā± he mourns you like a soldier mourns his wife from the battlefields; craving the face he knows he wonāt 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. itās a very much look-but-donāt-touch type of crush, he learns. like heās a child with sticky hands blooming against the glass window of a candystore; heās 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.Ā
ā± his friends all tease him relentlesslyāfor pining over a āplastic hallway princessā as according to dustin, and tell him he has more chance of āpassionately tonguing down steve.ā he ignores them all, because why would he let you go? instead he marvels, as you sit. speak. eat. youāll bite an apple and heāll find himself wishing it was the skin of his neck. even the cafeteriaās sickly lighting canāt dim you, in factāeven 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 heās biased.
ā± 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, heās sure youāre 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 wonāt spend another empty day dwelling in his mental movie reruns of fantasies of you. itās a lie, of course. he couldnāt even convince himself.
ā± alas, mike would learn to grow content with his routine of sideline piningāor as close to content as he can with this you-shaped hole knocking around in the rhythm of his heartbeat. he canāt 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. heās caged in the boundaries of his own longing. youāre everywhere he tries to run.Ā
ā± youāre in history class, and youāre laughing your way through a tragic civil war presentation, sunlight in human form, notes half-wrong, grin fully right. heās in the front row, breathing projector dust & vanilla & fabric softener. your eyes catch the light and they gleam like stars. he knows those stars. heās 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 grownāup, 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. thereās enough space in them to swallow planets, to cradle universes, to ruin boys like him. and now heās fallen into your orbit once again. & again. & again.Ā
ā± youāre 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. heās 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 doesnāt believe in school spirit, but he believes in you.Ā
ā± youāre 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. heās been cursed; heart of a yearner, confidence of a cornered mouse. heās spineless. heās hopeless. heāll never have you. heās completely convincedāheāll never have you. so imagine his surprise when he ends up with you in the janitorās closet.Ā
ā± he doesnāt know how he landed himself here. wedged between mopheads & dirty buckets & the gravity of your body tumbling back into him. heās 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. heās the only thing in hawkins thatās strong enough to hold your light. still, itās a place for dirty things, forgotten things, like all the filth & grime thatās accumulating in the stale air, thatās webbed between every mopās 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.Ā
ā± and heās all panicked, hiked breathing & eyes large & wide & so impossibly brown. theyāre coffee colored, cappuccino-lit foamy mornings, caffeine in a chipped mug, warm & slightly burning. theyāre a forkful of mudcake, cravings of cocoa crumb scraped off the roof of a mouth. whatever he is, itās almost edible, itās indulgent, itās all-consuming. maybe thatās why youād set your sights on himāyou wanted to see if you could swallow him whole. heās concerned that heāll combust before you get the chance, though. because heās scared. heās nervous. heās never done this before, heās 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 canāt give you.Ā
ā± 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. āiāve never done anything. like, anything at all.ā 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. itās getting increasingly smaller. heās getting increasingly harder.Ā
ā± ādonāt care, mike. i can show you the ropes,ā you joke. heās more surprised you know his name than your eagerness to have sex with him. he says, āyeah?ā and you go, āyeah,ā and thereās a silence which doesnāt make him want to blast himself out of a canon, which is a welcome change. the quiet isnāt fully quiet because heās breathing so heavy; a little ambience to the scene about to unfold.Ā
ā± 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 doesnāt wanna act on it, so you have to do it for him.Ā
ā± the first kiss is hesitant on his part because there is too much thinking & not enough enjoying. heāll 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 & itās stolen in a janitorās cupboard with the schoolās precious nymphette, a dream of his; day dream, wet dream, surely just a bedtime dreamāhow is this happening? he is going to wake up any moment. youāre all smeared over his mouth. lipgloss will forever taste like you.Ā
ā± he stands utterly still, bewildered to the point of complete rigidity. a wooden plank under your coaxing hands. when he doesnāt 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. ādid i read this wrong? shoot, sorry mike. i thoughtāā 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.Ā
ā± it takes a moment for him to find his voice, cause heās 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. āno.ā he blurts. āno. god. no. thatās notāi didnāt meanāi didnāt not like that. not at all. trust me.ā his breath catches on every second syllable he sputters. a faucet of trembled incomplete sentences. āi like you.ā you raise a brow. āi really like you. i have for ages, its sorta really embarrassing, actually. iāve just, yāknow. never⦠never done any of this stuff before. especially not with someone like you.ā
ā± āsomeone like me?ā you ask. heāll 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. āshit, god, okay that sounded awful. i didnāt meanānot someone like you as in, a bad thing. i meant, yāknow, someone like youāpretty. popular. you should be, like, stuffing me in a locker, or something.ā he laughs, awkwardly, his breathing textured like sandpaper.Ā
ā± youād snort at him. āi donāt think youād fit in locker. youāre tall.ā you mutter, hands spanning along the expanse of his elongated pale limbs. heās 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. ātall.ā he echos. what else can he say? his tongue is ribboned around itself. tied up.Ā
ā± āyouāre pretty,ā he mumbles in the gap between exchanged metallic oxygen, souring softly. afternoon is dying like a star but it doesnāt matter because heās got his own one right here, cradled in his arms. you send him a syrupy smile. āoh yeah? you think?ā and he shakes his head. āno, fuckāi know it. everyone does.ā he mumbles. āyouāre so flustered,ā you giggle. āiām not flustered.ā utter lies. ājust, uh, just sorta tryna process this.ā he mumbles. you frown. āprocess? process what?āĀ
ā± and heād say. āyou. mostly just you.ā thereās 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 longingāyou canāt discern which one it is but right now it doesnāt 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.Ā
ā± now heās more grounded. he kisses like heās 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 donāt 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? heās on the cusp of catharsis, right here. on the edge of a cliff, tasting the smile heās lusted after for months. he doesnāt fall, he floats. heās so fucking dizzy.Ā
ā± youāve still gotta guide him through it. heās 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. heās 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 doesnāt work.Ā
ā± 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. heās considerate like that. and it doesnāt haltāthe further you go. the less you wear. itās 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.Ā
ā± and heād just have to tell you how heās feeling, announce it in case youād 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 itād be all, āholy shit, youāreāmy god. i mean, i thought youād be pretty, but i never thought, like, this was evenāpossibleā¦ā heād traipse off. staring, mentally preserving a polaroid of supple skin cupped in subdued cream lace. itās perverted the way heās banking that vision, folding into the forefront of his mind, for later use.Ā
ā± and because youāre in this cramped claustrophobic closet and thereās minimal time and somebody may enter at any moment, he doesnāt have time to do anything he really wants toāno 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 thighsābut he wants to. maybe next time, he thinks greedily.Ā
ā± itād be a fast endeavor. his hands would scope & seek, searching each slant of skin for something, anything, everythingānothing 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 doesnāt really matter; youāre not here to talk.Ā
ā± you scour his boxers, seizing his cock from the superman patterned fabric cage. itās 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. heās as angelic as you, even if nobodyās told him yet.Ā
ā± admittedlyāheās 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 thatās packed into it; eyes, lips, lashes, supple skin & tender heart. but youāre encouraging. admiring. a thumb pawing the slit of his pinkish tip, the coo of your voice all, āsuch a nice cock, mike. all for me, huh?ā and all he can do is nod. its nod or bust violently all over you, like, right now. so count your blessings.Ā
ā± 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 heās 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.Ā
ā± youād guide his cock right into you hastily, so hastily that your panties wouldnāt even join the rest of your clothes in the polyester graveyard youāve created below youāinstead youād 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 thatās tumbled straight out of his sickest fantasies. and he gets hard all over again. his dadās old playboys are one thing, but this? this is art, this is something he feels sorta guilty for even looking at.Ā
ā± āyouāreā youāre soā¦ā he swallows hard, words molten on his tongue. āwet.ā and you say something corny like, āall for you, mikey,ā and nobodyās called him mikey since second grade and itās such a predictable line but heās 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. itās fumbled and adolescent; the condom and the way he struggles to sheathe it, the way he apologises between gasps.Ā
ā± he slides in with minimal frictionāthe 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 youābut its a sweet gesture all the same. he narrates the entire process, painfully chatty.
ā± āokay, okay. iām just gonna go in, i guess, right? thatās okay? right? youāre okay with this, with me, with⦠everything? you totally wannaāā and you just have to cut him off. āmike.ā and he blinks. āyeah?āĀ
ā± ābreathe. i want this, cāmon. donāt leave me waiting.ā 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 heās struggling to tamp down the desire that is stacking up fast. youāre tight. youāre tight and youāre warm. youāre here with him. in his arms. under his hands. his fingerprints live upon you now. in the cavern of your cunt, heās 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. āohmygod. shit. shitshitshit. oh jesus christ. i canāt do this, oh shit. holy crap.ā
ā± 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. heās 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 heās 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? youāre here, half-naked, all-his. even if its just for this severed moment. you droop dreamily towards him. mike wheeler, youāve officially peaked, he thinks for a second.Ā
ā± you moan into his skin & it blooms there. āis it okay? iām not hurting you or anythāanything? tell me if i do, yeah? tell me if iām too much, or, i dunno. not enough. i justāi just wanna make it g-good. for you. so good. mm.ā his eyes roll back and white creamy sclera greets you. āshoot, you feel insane.ā he croaks. aw, bless his heart. he has no idea what heās in for.Ā
ā± youāve 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. āis it okay like this? i canāi mean, i can move if you want, orāi donāt know. guide me. tell me what to do, i wanna get it right fāyou.ā he slurs. cuntdrunk & cross-eyed before youāve so much as slid up and down, yet.Ā
ā± when he does move? yeah. itās a little proddy. he needs a few scattered minutes to get his rhythm going, exploring the walls of your chamber with an expression like heās been struck across the face. he looks teary, he looks as though heās rooted in a visceral, aching agony. in a wayāthatās you. you are his agony, his undoing. his first time & his only timeāthe only one thatāll matter, in his opinion. it feels like heās 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.Ā
ā± he sullies the slot between your neck and your shoulder with ripe indigo bruises. he doesnāt really know how to do it right the first time, the second, the third. theyāre not proper hickies; itās 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.Ā
ā± because heās all, āmmngghh, am i doing it right? shitshit, its so good, youāre so good,ā and āi canāt even think,ā and āyouāre, ffffā, ungh, youāre so fucking warm.ā his words are more scrambled with each thrust, sentences dissolving to salt & soft sobbing right against your skin. thereās something sacred about the way youāve managed to rewire him. his smears another messy kiss against the canvas of flesh he can reach. whispers, desperately, āyouāre perfect, youāre perfect, youāre perfect.ā
ā± you snicker at him. heās stupidly endearing; a slowburn disaster with a heartbeat in his throat. his skill is questionable but his cock, oh, itās 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 itās all the positivity he needs to keep his act up. āfeels good, mikey. youāre a natural,ā you inform him. āyeah? sāgood for you too? iām not totally humiliating myself?ā he jokes, panting. you promise that he isnāt. one praise-soaked murmur is all he needs to believe you. thatās the sin of it.Ā
ā± and so he speeds up. glassy & glossy eyed, lashes damp with tears heāll die before admitting to. puncturing you from the inside out with shallow, shaky efforts. āare you okay? are you close? māgetting close, i think, thats okay, right?ā 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.Ā
ā± āyeah, mike. māclose.ā and you take his hand, press it onto your clit. āis thiāthat the spot? whaddo i do? tell me what to do.ā 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 doesnāt happen. itās just so much, so much for him. heās choked around from all angles, suffocating inside you, all air robbed, all smoldered heat heās absorbing straight out of your skin. your curves hit off his angles, your cunt gulps him in further. youāre completely joined. and heās completely fucked. he sobs as he comes, embarrassingly riskily loud. youāre sure his whimpering bleeds out from under the slot of the door.Ā
ā± āmāgonna cum, shit, iām sorry, i canāt stop, shit, iāi canātāā he trembles like electricity is frying him from the inside out. youāre 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. itās strong. itās so strong; if he was in his rational state of mind heād fear heād 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. āsāso good. sosogood, youāre perfect, my angel holy shit, thankyouthankyouthankyou, youāre perfect, ahāā seismic quaking wracks his spine. he bends over you, bows in half. twitches like a beetle on itās back. reduced to whining & white-noise, mouth falling apart around thank yous.Ā
ā± he doesnāt have enough time to be mortified before youāre 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. heās too sensitive to ferment in you for any longer; once heās sure itās 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 heād assume youāve sweated all that off.Ā
ā± he inhales a wavering breath. āuh. wow.ā he croaks. āwas⦠that okay? for you, and not just me?ā heās so earnest itās sickening. tooth-rottingly sweet. you reassure him. āi liked it mike.ā he blinks. āyeah? i, uh, wow. youāreāshit. look at you.ā 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. āno wonder everyone canāt shut up about you.ā he sighs, dreamily.Ā
ā± heās more in control of the after than the duringāhelping you back into your abandoned outfit, peeling sweat-curled locks off where theyāve fused to your temples. hesitantly offering pecks to cheeks, to forehead, to lips. stumbling over what he reckons aftercare should be. āuh. water, right? we should get you some water. reckon the canteenās 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 wonātā¦shit. iām tryna be helpful but i think iām just making noise.ā he rambles. and he shuts himself up with a groan, dipping his head onto your shoulder. āthanks for everything,ā he mumbles.
ā± 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 doesnāt know what this means, now. if youāll forget about him, if his short time in your attention has expired. but he wonāt ever lose this memory. he frames it mentally, hangs it on the plaster of his mindās wall. evening swallows the day, you head home on wobbled legs.
; hcās about getting high with best friend! thanos āĖā¹ą±Øą§ āĖā¹
(no squid game in these hcās)
song to listen to: h20 by chris travis <3
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ smoking with thanos means laying on his bed, in his silly room with bunch of posters and random plushies, you just lay there prettily, looking at him as he rolls the bluntāafterall he wouldnāt want his angel (totally platonically..) to do the work, right?
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ smoking with thanos means him making sure youāre alrightāyeah heās an asshole, but he doesnāt want you fainting or something
āhey, heyāeasy with that shit, dumbass, itās strong.ā heād say and youād just giggle ārelax! nothingās going to happen, promise.ā
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ smoking with thanos means watching eachother as both of your eyes get low and glassy, he canāt help stare at you when you get even more beautiful when you smoke (if thatās even possible), and he especially canāt help but stare when you get all giggly and bashfulāto him, itās the most adorable shitābut platonically, rightā¦?
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ smoking with thanos means getting extra clingy, you canāt help it, youāre feeling all tingly and slowāand he lays there with you on his lap, what can a girl do?
as you sit on his lap, while heās laying, he softly brushes his thumb on your bottom lips āopen your mouthā he says, and you look at himāall confused ājust do it dumbassā
and you do, because why would you say no to your best friend, right? he gets closer, his mouth dangerously close as he passes the smoke from his lips to yours ābreathe inā¦there you go, pretty girlā
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ smoking with thanos meansāhim teasing you for being so shy, when he knows what he does to you, heās so mean!!! but you like it..
āwhat, canāt handle your best friend getting a little closer than usual, hm?ā heād sayāall cocky and full of himself, even though you have the same effect on him just sitting on his lap, though heād rather die than admit
ācanāt handle when you do it like that.. :(ā youād pout and that just makes him more cocky
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ getting high with thanos means listening to cloud rap, you two canāt help itāespecially when h20 by chris travis is onāand what can he do when you look at him all pretty with red rimmed eyes through your long lashesā
ā¹āā.ĖąØą§ā.Ėā ā¹ getting high with thanos means him losing it, finally cupping your face and kissing you, what can the boy do?!?! >:( especially when you whine so prettily into the kiss
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author's note: my christmas gift to my lovely followers and viewers <3 yes i am aware i've been M.I.A for the entirety of the second half of the year. forgive me! when the jhutch nation died a piece of me died with it. pls enjoy this apology fic, made it nice and sweet for my mike lovers (cough cough for me). enjoy!! ps. this is my personal favourite that ive written, boyfriend mike just hits different so expect a lot more of him coming soon wink wink! i mean it this time
Early mornings make for soft kisses. Outside, the streets are licked with hazes of morning fog, sprinkled with droplets of dew and not even ghosts wander the empty streets. In here, in Mikeās house, thereās no need to worry about the world beyond his peeling windowsill. Youāre cradled into his chest, his arms which encircle your torso and his legs which tangle into a web with yours. The mornings are just for you.Ā
And Mike always wakes up before you. Itās not something he does intentionally, but rather the blessing of his eternal clock, stirring his soul before the sun has so much as nipped at the horizon ā and yet he reckons this is the best part of his day. Itās the part where he gets to see you at your most vulnerable, your most unaware. Your lips are parted, carrying an imprint of yesterdayās smile, and your hair is sprawled around you too deliberatelyā like you were made to be perfect, even in your imperfection.Ā
He likes to trace each fault and flaw that may linger in unsuspecting places with the plush pad of his calloused thumb, to explore the way your body dips at its own will, to memorise each pathway of skin that leads to your heart, a map thatās solely his. He might pluck an eyelash oh so carefully of your cheek, heāll watch as your chest greets his with each soundless inhale, only to part momentarily when you breathe out again. He likes it best when youāre slotted right between his heartbeat. Youāre a dream heās afraid to wake up from.Ā
Of course, these moments are only beautiful because of their status as moments. They arenāt eternal, they were made to be preserved. They fade when you wake up; when your big eyes blink up at him like a heedless doe. Like now. When you start to stir, your face scrunching up in a sleepy frown, Mike immediately closes his eyes. He rolls onto his back, one arm draped over his face like heās shielding himself from the non-existent sunlight, like he hasnāt been watching you for the last ten minutes.
You crack an eyelid, admiring his figure as it soaks up the beginnings of a sunrise. āMorning bedhead,ā you tease, grogginess and all. He grunts in acknowledgement, not shifting from his position of comfort.Ā
āMorning,ā he grumbles back, not appreciating the teasing but not having the energy to send anything worthy of offense back at you. Your eyes trace over his messy hair, wild unruly ringlets of chestnut licking at his temples.Ā
You shuffle over to him, wading through the sea of tangled bedsheets, and ruffle those curls, making his face bunch up like crumpled fabric, in mild irritation. āYou look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower,ā you snort. He catches your wrist with a solid grip; sturdy as a tree is, down to the root. āDonāt even start. Pretty sure youāve got me beat.ā His voice is a baritone grumble as he references to your own head of locks, knowing full well that the cascading waves of pure velvet that are sewn into your head arenāt even close to looking messy. He teases anyway.Ā
āI dunno about that,ā you murmur. Cocking a hesitant brow, watching his body flex into the sheets as each limb slowly begins to arise from slumber at itās own snail pace. Itās then you pad out of bed, to go attempt to start the morningā and he stops you. A dull grunt sounds from his lips and he tugs at your arm.Ā
āNo,ā he mumblesā broken by a dull yawn. āCāmon. You can⦠you can stay. Sāstill dark. Nothinā to do yet.ā The sort of puppy-ish pleading that swallows his irises is too strong not to resist to. So you let him have his little ritual; he tucks you into his shoulder, thumb circling supple skin. You let him smell behind your neck and nip at the junction where your collarbone becomes your shoulder becomes your arm. Suddenly itās turned into lazy tastings of your body. Heās drinking you in in the morning light, rolling you down and deep onto your back to make sure youāre imprinted on his fabric for later, lonelier nights.Ā
āMikeāā He cuts you off. He has a habit of doing that, when he gets like this. All agitated and croaking, like you are his eternal life source.Ā
āShh, no, let meā let me have this.ā
And heās trekking lower, still. Warm hands planted on your knees, heās opening your thighs for himself with that look in his eyes. Heās a paradox, greed and yet utter selflessness as he buries his body right where you want him, idly tugging at the waistband of your cotton pajama pants.Ā Ā
āGonna make that bedhead worse.ā He mumbles almost comically to himself. āGonna, gonna give you some bed head.ā
You roll your eyes, heat of the moment evaporating as you erupt in stupid giggles. āYouāre such a dickhead,ā you tell him, admiring the smug expression that spreads across his features. He looks like heās where he belongs, nestled comfortably in that gap heās made just for him, cradled by your legs.Ā
āMaybe.ā He mumbles with a stupidly self-satisfied grin, delving into you like he knows best. He rolls the cotton comfort of your legs and exposes you to the chilly bedroom air, and knowing it must be unpleasant to be so cold when itās so early, heās latching onto you as quick as he can to try and maintain heat pumping through your system.Ā
And heās a cocky motherfucker who knows that it works; molten fever rushes through every aching crevice of your figure and pushes to the surface as he flicks his tongue with expertise. He knows every spot, every stroke, every single way that makes you tick. Heās spent a lot of time practicing, exploring, just so he can be perfect.Ā
Every. Single. Time.Ā
Youāre writhing already, with each motion. Calling his name out to nothing and nobody, the silence of the morning suddenly so obnoxious when itās broken by the cracking chorus of your moans. Mike. You cry. Mike, Mike, Mike.Ā
And heās all entranced by you, you, you, as you quake right into his palms, just how he wants. The perfect way to start the morning is by breaking you apart and dealing with the mess. He admires, awfully, every tremor, every sob, every time your eyes lock with his and you watch him worship you, even if just for a fragile second before they roll back into your skull.Ā
He plugs you up with one thick finger, reeling in the wet squelching suction of your cunt around his digit. Another follows, curling beside the first, resting snugly inside you. A few testing movements as he tries to find that place, and then finally you double over into yourself mewling like a lamb for slaughter.Ā
āOh, thatās it? Thatās the spot?ā He mutters, baritone voice just so sexy when itās the only melody spilling into your ears, your brain, you soul. You answer with a little hum, and he coos as your hips buck to meet his palm; catching your weight as you grind your clit into the heel of it. You need moreā you need so much more.Ā
So he mutters a brief apology as he severs your orgasm; saving it for later, the upcoming future. And leaves you for just a moment, carefully maneuvering himself free from his sodden boxers and pumping his angry length a few times, convulsing as he does so. Heās more sensitive in the mornings, every single goose-pebbled part of him. You bite your lip in anticipation, pink flesh billowing white under the force of your teeth.Ā
His eyes glance up to you; coffee and caramel stirred with a copper spoon, awaiting your command. āYou... you want me, right?ā He breathes gently. Shuffling himself closer, hoping to meld a piece of his soul into yours. To secure you to him, through and through. And of course you nod, with ego-inflating eagerness.Ā
āCourse I do. And how aboutāā
It throws him off when your tender hands grip onto his shoulders; like a turning tide your body steers him of course, pummeled over so he can drown under your current as you position yourself ontop. āLet me,ā you whisper, holding his cock so gently in your hands, a contrast of efforts in the way you stroke so slowly, so patiently. In all honesty, he hasnāt got much of that left.Ā
A salacious groan slips free from his throat. āShit, can you just, uh, can you please put it in, I canātā Iām gonna blow right now.āĀ Ā
He expects another mocking comment but all he gets is compliance. A gentle kiss, fanning across his freckled cheeks that glow so red in the heat of the moment, a slow and calculated sink of your pelvis against his, and a juggled handful of shared rugged breaths as the feeling of fullness branches across the pair of you. Heāll never get over your fit, itās too hand-crafted, too cunningly created. His hands shakily struggle to make their way onto your hips, not so much for control as it is to keep himself grounded. Skin to skin to skin, as though to prove you arenāt just a fabrication from his desperate, delusional morning mind.Ā
When your hips begin to roll, itās lazy. Grogginess permeates every part of you and there isnāt enough strength for anything more than gentle juts; back and forth, back and forth, a seesaw of sorts, but he appreciates the movement anyway. Mikeās head falls back into the pillow, framed by a halo of his own sweat and drool as he lets you do the work. Itās his own hazy heaven, the morning he wishes he could preserve.Ā
You suck his cock up deeper into your hole, clamping down on him in a vain attempt to try and keep him there, tucked away inside you forever like a pocketed memory of sorts. He begins to meet your thrusts, sending sparks through each wild thrust of his flying hips.Ā
āWant this every day,ā he whines, deep through his throat like he canāt even contain his words as they bleed all over you in a wash of near orgasmic bliss.Ā
āYeah? You do, Mikey? Wannaā wanna just wake me up to fuck me like this? Right here on your bed?ā
His eyelids flutter and unfocus, blunt nails severing the skin of your hipbones as he begins to forcefully drag you across his cock, faster faster faster until the headboard squeaks along with you and heās completely wordless and wounded. āWanna fuck you. Wannā needa fuck you every day, yeah, jus' like that, shit, you were made for me,ā he whines, pummelling into you with purpose. Force and purpose.Ā
Heās spearing you open on his eager cock, nudging your cervix, coaxing an orgasm out of itās grave, the one he ended from earlier. You can feel it brewing and bubbling inside you, erupting itās carnal desire like acid wash across your narrow cunt as you drink him in tighter, willing him to come with you. āMikey, mmm, come with me, cāmon, pleaseāā
And itās your begging that sends him over. A saccharine flush melts across his entire body, bottom to top, and heās moaning as he tugs his length from beneath your folds and showers your sweaty torso in a creamy wash of white ribbons, spraying buckets from your belly button right up to your chin.
There is calm after the storm. A tranquil quiet falls back over his modest bedroom, accompanied by heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets. The aftertaste of the morning is careful sponge-washing and coffee. He clears you off with a damp washcloth, love ebbs from every action from him to you, like an endless chain. A circle has no end because it has no beginning; Mike thinks heās always been drawn to you, even before you both knew itāĀ because heās always been looking for this. For the gentle fleeting kisses that heās showered in before the morning, for the bed he returns to which smells like sex and sodden promises. He canāt wait for you to get home so that he can come back to his bed-headed girl.Ā
oneshot - mike has missed you after a long shift, so much so that he can't even wait to get you to the bedroom. he needs you, now. (1.3k words)
pairing - mike schmidt (five night's at freddy's) + gn!reader
tags: established relationship, doggy style, against a kitchen counter, dirty talking mike, he kind of talks you through it, mike wears his hoodie while he fucks you, semi rough at the end, semi dom mike, creampie
you're on your tiptoes, chest flush against the counter before you. your cheek rests against the cool material as you feel mike's firm grip on your hips, fingertips digging into your skin.
his bulge presses against you, hard and wanting and he hisses at the contact. he gyrates his hips, feeling as his leaking tip presses urgently against the material of his boxers and your skin, aching to delve into you.
and fuck, you want it. he'd practically pounced on you from the moment he came home, trailing kisses along the column of your neck, not bothering to completely undress either of you.
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.
"michael schmidt. . ." you grin, giving him a chastising look as you glance over your shoulder at him, ". . . when's your next shift?"
oneshot - mike has missed you after a long shift, so much so that he can't even wait to get you to the bedroom. he needs you, now. (1.3k words)
pairing - mike schmidt (five night's at freddy's) + gn!reader
tags: established relationship, doggy style, against a kitchen counter, dirty talking mike, he kind of talks you through it, mike wears his hoodie while he fucks you, semi rough at the end, semi dom mike, creampie
you're on your tiptoes, chest flush against the counter before you. your cheek rests against the cool material as you feel mike's firm grip on your hips, fingertips digging into your skin.
his bulge presses against you, hard and wanting and he hisses at the contact. he gyrates his hips, feeling as his leaking tip presses urgently against the material of his boxers and your skin, aching to delve into you.
and fuck, you want it. he'd practically pounced on you from the moment he came home, trailing kisses along the column of your neck, not bothering to completely undress either of you.
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.
"michael schmidt. . ." you grin, giving him a chastising look as you glance over your shoulder at him, ". . . when's your next shift?"
Ėāŗ ā¹ąØ Welcome! Thanks for coming to my masterlist. Likes, reblogs and comments are much appreciated! | Warning this contains nsfw content. Minors do not interact.
ā Other links: Ėāąæą» About me Ėāąæą» Tag-list
ā Ėļ½”āąØą§Ė šššš ššš š ššššš ššš ā ā¹.š„ Ż Ė Fnaf movie (Mike, William Afton, Vanessa Shelly) āĖā¹ ŹÉ Any adult jhutch character ā ā¹.š„ Ż Ė
ā Ėļ½”āąØą§Ė š¢ š°šØš§āš š°š«š¢šš: ā¹.š„ Ż Ė Immoral content ā¹.š„ Ż Ė rape ā¹.š„ Ż Ė any form of incest ā¹.š„ Ż Ė age play ā¹.š„ Ż Ė cnc ā¹.š„ Ż Ė violent sex ā¹.š„ Ż Ė beating up (slapping will only be permitted from time to time depending on the context of the story) ā¹.š„ Ż Ė feet,piss, etc kinks.
Iām probably forgetting other stuff but if itās not mentioned then⦠feel free to drop wild requests! iām open to write anything.
Last smut: Ėāŗ ā¹ąØ Love Across Time ą§ā¹ āŗĖ (smut, fluff) āā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: softdom!Josh x teacher!reader. published: July 12 edited: no ąØą§
A Helping Hand ą§ā¹ āŗĖ (smut, angst) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: touch-starved Mike x gn!reader published: April 14 word count: 2.4 ąØą§
Chocolate kisses ą§ā¹ āŗĖ (smut, angst, fluff) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: soft!dom Mike x gn!reader published: March 15 word count: 2.3k ąØą§
Roommates conflict first fic ą§ā¹ āŗĖāŗ(smut, fluff) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: soft!dom Mike x afab fem!reader. published: February 19 word count: 3.9k ąØą§
Strange fascination (mini series) ą§ā¹ āŗĖ āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā: 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: stalker!Mike x gn!reader. published: March 26 finished: ?
A Call Away (Help, iām still hard) ą§ā¹ āŗĖ (smut) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā Josh took some pills to have some fun by himself, the harness doesnāt seem to go away so, he calls his beloved partner for help. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: sub!josh x dom gn!reader published: March 12 word count: 1.6k ąØą§
New memories ą§ā¹ āŗĖ (smut, fluff) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā Sleep over with your friend, Josh, turns sexual as he plays with your chest by accident in his sleep. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: josh x afab!reader published: April 18 word count: 2k ąØą§
Love Across Time ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut, fluff) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: softdom!Josh x gn teacher!reader. published: April 21 word count: 4k ąØą§
Spilled drinks ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut, fluff) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: sub!Josh x gn!reader. published: April 21 word count: 4k ąØą§
Double the fall, triple the pleasure ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing:Derek x reader x Billy. published: March 22 word count: 3.6k ąØą§
On your knees ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing:Derek x gn! reader published: February 25 word count: 3.2k ąØą§
Sugar Rush ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing:Derek x afab fem!reader published: March 5 word count: 3.3k ąØą§
A Kiss On the Lips ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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.ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing:Derek x chubby gn!reader published: April 26 word count: 3.1k ąØą§
Attraction is Out of Our Controller ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: Billy x gn! reader published: May 24 word count: 3.8k ąØą§
Double the fall, triple the pleasure ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing:Derek x reader x Billy. published: March 22 word count: 3.6k ąØą§
Intoxicating Admiration ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: Billy x gn!reader published: April 6th word count: 2.7k ąØą§
Forgotten Bond(age)ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: Clapton x gn!reader published: March 29th word count: 3.7k ąØą§
This is a really short clapton x amab reader story
Uncover (My Pretty Boy) ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā 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. ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: Marv x gn!reader published: May 9th word count: 1.9k ąØą§
What You Deserve ą§ā¹ āŗĖ ( smut ) āā ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā You and Mike shared a situationship, but despite your connection, you couldn't shake off the feeling of insecurity. Doubt crept in, leading you to believe that Mike might have feelings for another person, Vanessa. However, Vanessa noticed your insecurity and decided to clear the air. She approached you and reassured you that there was nothing between her and Mike, proving you wrong and alleviating your doubts.ĖąØą§āļ½”Ė ā pairing: Vanessa x gn!reader published: March 20th word count: 1.7k ąØą§
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A LIST OF WRITERS YOU SHOULD/COULD BE SUPPORTING INSTEAD OF JOSHSBIMBO!
if you want more information about what happened read @stop-talking ās post where they break it down! itās really important that you take the time to read this and STOP supporting her (block/report her account)!
@xcherryerim a latina writer who has the most amazing fics and you should definitely check out her work and support her <3 @stop-talking another great writer! make sure to check out their work! their writing is AMAZING. @freak-accident419 another amazing and talented writer on here who is currently writing a multiple part derek miniseries! check out their work!! @joshfutturman if you havenāt read her stuff youāre missing out! check out her work instead and support her!! sheās so talented š¤š¤ @g0ry0re0 again, their work is incredible and her fics are always so good cmon guys check them out too!! @joshhutchersonsgf another great person on here who is an amazing writer as well! support their work instead come on!!
This is not only an appreciation post BUT also a post for you to be aware of the situation! Make sure to read THIS post by Two and instead of supporting joshsbimbo SUPPORT THESE INCREDIBLE WRITERS! there are so many more amazing writers on here that I forgot so if you want comment and Iāll add them to list!
author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH
Mikeās expression always glooms when you bring up the next date youāve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men youāve matched with on whatever sketchy website youāve wasted your time on. Theyāve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead youāve set your poor, precious heart on.
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 āyou were right Mikeā leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesnāt bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones.Ā
Itās no different today.Ā
Mark or Matt or Mitch ā you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that youāre getting ready for, him that youāre daydreaming about. And itās an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they arenāt 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.Ā
Mikeās not the type to be happier with the hope ā heād let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, heād live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and youāll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes youāll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.
It feels like it.Ā
It feels like it, right now, when heās 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 youād even asked, and heāll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isnāt him, just to make sure you get there safely. Itās the type of sacrifice heāll make for you.Ā
āI canāt even feel my face, Iāve been smiling so hard all day!ā You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product ā he thinks itās all pointless. Youāre radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom.Ā
He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? Heās not happy. And heās not gonna pretend he is.Ā
You either donāt notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. āI mean, he says heās been skiing since he was 6. Heās practically an olympian.āĀ
Mike scoffs.Ā
āWhat?ā
āNothing,ā he grumbles, shaking his head. āCan you hurry up?ā
āAlright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then Iām ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.āĀ
A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. Itās true. He didnāt have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom youād want to take a peek, would you not? Thatās 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 ā that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume thatās branded itself to you. Heād recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas.Ā
āOkay, Iām ready. How do I look?ā
Cruelest question of them all. āYou look⦠fine. Good.ā
A knot forms in your brow. āAll this effort for that terrible answer?ā Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesnāt want to assume anything.Ā
āWell Iām not the person youāre dressing up for.ā I wish I was. He doesnāt say the other words, but he thinks them so hard heās half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that youād hear it anyway.Ā
āOkay, okay, whatever. Letās just get going, donāt wanna keep Mack waiting.āĀ
Two letters. Thatās all it would take. Thatās all heād have to swap to make it him.
Even if you arenāt 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.Ā
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.Ā
āIf anything happens, call me.āĀ
You sneer teasingly. āDonāt be so pessimistic. Itās gonna be great, he could be my future husband, yāknow.ā
Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, whoās 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.Ā
And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasnāt 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 youāre this good at getting your heart broken. Heās sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart thatāll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that.Ā
āYeah, sure,ā he grits. āFuture husband. Just call me, seriously.ā
You roll your eyes. āYeah, yeah. Iāll call you.āĀ
And with that, youāre off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mallās 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.Ā
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.Ā
Heās not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top youād clad yourself in prior to leaving, youāre 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 itās 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.Ā
Shit. Mikeās feeling so so bitter. Maybe itās because heās finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern heās going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that heās 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.Ā Ā
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 ā but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so.Ā
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, itās you.Ā
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 youāre wracked with tiny little cries and heās feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode.Ā
He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. Heās angry. Heās sick of this.Ā
āWhat happened this time?ā He grunts softly.Ā
āHe didnāt even show up. He couldnāt even send a message as to why, Mike,ā you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat.Ā
A momentās silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again.Ā
āWhy didnāt you call me?ā
You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks.Ā
āMy phone was dead.ā Is all you can manage to mumble.Ā
āWhat?ā Heās pissed. āWhy didnāt you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you couldāve used someone elseās, so you didnāt have to walk home in the rain, because youāre drenched.āĀ
āI donātāā
āYāknow how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights donāt even work, and I donāt even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.ā He grumbles. āI shouldnāt have to tell you all this, Iām sick of explaining all this to you.ā
You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. āHow was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? Youāre telling me I should just expect it?ā
He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.
āThatās not what Iām saying.ā
You scoff. āItās what you implied.āĀ
āItās not what Iāā He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. āWhy canāt you just listen to me?ā
āWhat, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, donāt know where Iād be without you,ā your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth.Ā
āOr maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.āĀ
After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? āAt least I try to get out of the house! At least I donāt spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!āĀ
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, itās been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house.Ā
āDonāt,ā Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like heās about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. āDonāt throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. Itās not like I have a choice.ā
āSo what, youāre so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?ā
āControl? Youāre like my child! You donāt even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!āĀ
You scowl. āYouāre not obligated to do anything for me, yāknow Mike. Why do you keep me around if Iām that much of a chore for you!ā
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. āBecause youāve got no one else!āĀ
You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else youāve said to him tonight. Heās feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears heāll become rubble beneath the debris.Ā
āIām sorry, Iām sorry, I just⦠god, justāā His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He canāt swallow his guilt this time. āIām sorry, I shouldnāt have snapped like that.ā
āItās fine,ā you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, youāve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. Itāll be different. And it never is.Ā
āNo. Itās not ā Iām a dick, I just⦠I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.ā
Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That youāre left longing for. You know heās 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 youāve leeched onto likes what they see, so you donāt have to feel so alone anymore. Youāre oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if youād just let him in.Ā
āWhatever, Mike. Itās true anyway.ā
Thereās 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 ā heās crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. Heāll build you back up. You deserve it.Ā
āNo it isn't. No it isnāt. You have me. Youāll always have me.āĀ
A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that youāll stop and see what heās offering you, that youāll stop chasing your own tail, that youāll stop the cycle.Ā
āMikeā¦ā
āAnd Abby.ā
You indulge him.Ā
āYou have me. And you have Abby. And I know thatās⦠not much, but she loves you. So much. And Iām sorry, ācause I know I donāt say it enough, I donātā¦. I donāt say how much you mean to me, but I justāā
āMike.āĀ
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.Ā
āI love you.ā
He gives you that stare. That stare thatās the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings youāve 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.Ā
Heās waiting. Heād wait forever.Ā
āAnd⦠and seeing you with these⦠shitty people who donāt even care about you, it justā¦ā He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face.Ā
His sentences canāt seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when heās practiced in the mirror, when Abbyās walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up.Ā
āYou love me? Likeā¦ā
He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. āYeah. I do.ā
Youāre beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you.Ā
āWhatā but⦠youāā
āYou donāt have to⦠say anything. I just, I canāt⦠I canāt pretend anymore. I canāt do it.ā
You reach for his hand. Itās a little clammy, a little trembly, but itās a perfect fit. Just like you.Ā
āI love you too, Mike.ā
What?
āYou⦠do?ā
Heās skeptical, but heās also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking.Ā
āI just didnāt⦠didnāt think I could have you. I mean, youāre so⦠youāre everything, yāknow? Youāre a good brother, and you work so hard, and youāre⦠Iām just⦠I donāt think I deserve you,ā 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. Heās gentle. In his eyes, youāre porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and thatās all he needs. Itās all heās ever needed.Ā
āYou deserve everything.ā He says it so quietly itās barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because heās carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and heās kissing you.Ā
His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. Heās starting small. Itās been a while. And heās gonna take his time with you. Heās gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and youāre closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so.Ā
Within moments heās 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 heās kissing you again atop his navy comforter.Ā
Heās gentle, respectful, but you understand what heās trying to tell you, what heās been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steadyā he feels as though heās gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon.Ā
He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; heās been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. Youāre a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What youāve been missing.Ā
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 doesnāt speak loud enough. He elaborates.
āCan I⦠uh⦠do you wannaā¦?ā
Do you want to? You need to.Ā
āShit, okay,ā he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didnāt realize you said that out loud.Ā
Heās endearingly awkward ā you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasnāt done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But heās 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.Ā
āCan I take this off?ā He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and heās 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. Youāre perfect, and he knew you would be.Ā
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.Ā
āBeautiful,ā he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples.Ā
āMngh, Mikeāā
āSh. Just let me⦠just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?ā He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?
The moment you agree, heās grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and heās settling himself in the gap that you create for him.Ā
Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot thatās dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton.Ā
āMike,ā you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and heās groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar.Ā
āYouāre so wet,ā he mumbles to himself, like heās 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.Ā Ā
āMike, shit, please just do somethingāā
āOkay,ā he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and heās tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor.Ā
Youāre here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and heās 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 whatās rightfully his.Ā
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 heās 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.Ā
āMike,ā you whine gently, and heās mumbling weak praise right into your cunt.Ā
āFuck, youāre so pretty. Wanted this for so long.ā
Itās barely audible between his languid sucks; heās 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 budā once, twice, and then youāre far too close to the edge.Ā
āOh, Mike Iām gonna come,ā you choke out between gasps.Ā
āDo it. Please.ā
Heās begging you.Ā
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, heās still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body.Ā
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.Ā
He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. Heās 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.Ā
āFuck, baby Iāā
āBaby?ā You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes.Ā
āMnghā g⦠got a problem?ā He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.
āItās out of character,ā you tell him gently.Ā
āShit, can I be inside you?ā He asks you, voice ripped raw.Ā
And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless.Ā
āYeah. I need it. I need you.ā
He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. Heās 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.Ā
Heās stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. Heās never been so ready for something. For you. Itās all for you.Ā
Heās 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, itās safe to say that he gets a little dumb. āOh, shit, Iām notā not gonna last long, youāre so tight, shitā¦ā Heās rambling a little. Itās cute.Ā
A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline ā your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. Youāre squeezing him for all heās got and heās three seconds away from spilling before heās even so much as thrusted. You do this to him.Ā
All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if youād ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. Theyāre all worth it.Ā
Youāre clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and youāre exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and itās what he does.Ā
He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. Heās satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, heās chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins.Ā
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 doesnāt 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.Ā
āOh my god Mike,ā you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.
āYou dādonāt know how long Iāve wanted this,ā he moans lowly. āHow many times Iāve imagined you likeā like this.ā
Heās 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, youāre too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but itās arousing all the same.Ā
āYouāre so⦠so beautiful,ā heās flushed and heās faltering, and you know heās close before he even announces it.Ā
āShit, baby, I canātā canāt last much longer,ā he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake.Ā
āDo it in me, Mike, please, please,ā shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and heās 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.Ā
He tries to keep himself quiet, but itās 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.Ā
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 doesnāt let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow itās 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.Ā
author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH
Mikeās expression always glooms when you bring up the next date youāve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men youāve matched with on whatever sketchy website youāve wasted your time on. Theyāve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead youāve set your poor, precious heart on.
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 āyou were right Mikeā leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesnāt bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones.Ā
Itās no different today.Ā
Mark or Matt or Mitch ā you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that youāre getting ready for, him that youāre daydreaming about. And itās an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they arenāt 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.Ā
Mikeās not the type to be happier with the hope ā heād let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, heād live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and youāll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes youāll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.
It feels like it.Ā
It feels like it, right now, when heās 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 youād even asked, and heāll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isnāt him, just to make sure you get there safely. Itās the type of sacrifice heāll make for you.Ā
āI canāt even feel my face, Iāve been smiling so hard all day!ā You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product ā he thinks itās all pointless. Youāre radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom.Ā
He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? Heās not happy. And heās not gonna pretend he is.Ā
You either donāt notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. āI mean, he says heās been skiing since he was 6. Heās practically an olympian.āĀ
Mike scoffs.Ā
āWhat?ā
āNothing,ā he grumbles, shaking his head. āCan you hurry up?ā
āAlright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then Iām ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.āĀ
A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. Itās true. He didnāt have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom youād want to take a peek, would you not? Thatās 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 ā that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume thatās branded itself to you. Heād recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas.Ā
āOkay, Iām ready. How do I look?ā
Cruelest question of them all. āYou look⦠fine. Good.ā
A knot forms in your brow. āAll this effort for that terrible answer?ā Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesnāt want to assume anything.Ā
āWell Iām not the person youāre dressing up for.ā I wish I was. He doesnāt say the other words, but he thinks them so hard heās half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that youād hear it anyway.Ā
āOkay, okay, whatever. Letās just get going, donāt wanna keep Mack waiting.āĀ
Two letters. Thatās all it would take. Thatās all heād have to swap to make it him.
Even if you arenāt 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.Ā
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.Ā
āIf anything happens, call me.āĀ
You sneer teasingly. āDonāt be so pessimistic. Itās gonna be great, he could be my future husband, yāknow.ā
Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, whoās 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.Ā
And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasnāt 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 youāre this good at getting your heart broken. Heās sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart thatāll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that.Ā
āYeah, sure,ā he grits. āFuture husband. Just call me, seriously.ā
You roll your eyes. āYeah, yeah. Iāll call you.āĀ
And with that, youāre off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mallās 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.Ā
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.Ā
Heās not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top youād clad yourself in prior to leaving, youāre 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 itās 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.Ā
Shit. Mikeās feeling so so bitter. Maybe itās because heās finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern heās going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that heās 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.Ā Ā
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 ā but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so.Ā
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, itās you.Ā
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 youāre wracked with tiny little cries and heās feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode.Ā
He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. Heās angry. Heās sick of this.Ā
āWhat happened this time?ā He grunts softly.Ā
āHe didnāt even show up. He couldnāt even send a message as to why, Mike,ā you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat.Ā
A momentās silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again.Ā
āWhy didnāt you call me?ā
You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks.Ā
āMy phone was dead.ā Is all you can manage to mumble.Ā
āWhat?ā Heās pissed. āWhy didnāt you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you couldāve used someone elseās, so you didnāt have to walk home in the rain, because youāre drenched.āĀ
āI donātāā
āYāknow how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights donāt even work, and I donāt even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.ā He grumbles. āI shouldnāt have to tell you all this, Iām sick of explaining all this to you.ā
You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. āHow was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? Youāre telling me I should just expect it?ā
He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.
āThatās not what Iām saying.ā
You scoff. āItās what you implied.āĀ
āItās not what Iāā He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. āWhy canāt you just listen to me?ā
āWhat, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, donāt know where Iād be without you,ā your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth.Ā
āOr maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.āĀ
After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? āAt least I try to get out of the house! At least I donāt spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!āĀ
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, itās been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house.Ā
āDonāt,ā Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like heās about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. āDonāt throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. Itās not like I have a choice.ā
āSo what, youāre so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?ā
āControl? Youāre like my child! You donāt even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!āĀ
You scowl. āYouāre not obligated to do anything for me, yāknow Mike. Why do you keep me around if Iām that much of a chore for you!ā
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. āBecause youāve got no one else!āĀ
You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else youāve said to him tonight. Heās feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears heāll become rubble beneath the debris.Ā
āIām sorry, Iām sorry, I just⦠god, justāā His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He canāt swallow his guilt this time. āIām sorry, I shouldnāt have snapped like that.ā
āItās fine,ā you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, youāve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. Itāll be different. And it never is.Ā
āNo. Itās not ā Iām a dick, I just⦠I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.ā
Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That youāre left longing for. You know heās 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 youāve leeched onto likes what they see, so you donāt have to feel so alone anymore. Youāre oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if youād just let him in.Ā
āWhatever, Mike. Itās true anyway.ā
Thereās 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 ā heās crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. Heāll build you back up. You deserve it.Ā
āNo it isn't. No it isnāt. You have me. Youāll always have me.āĀ
A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that youāll stop and see what heās offering you, that youāll stop chasing your own tail, that youāll stop the cycle.Ā
āMikeā¦ā
āAnd Abby.ā
You indulge him.Ā
āYou have me. And you have Abby. And I know thatās⦠not much, but she loves you. So much. And Iām sorry, ācause I know I donāt say it enough, I donātā¦. I donāt say how much you mean to me, but I justāā
āMike.āĀ
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.Ā
āI love you.ā
He gives you that stare. That stare thatās the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings youāve 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.Ā
Heās waiting. Heād wait forever.Ā
āAnd⦠and seeing you with these⦠shitty people who donāt even care about you, it justā¦ā He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face.Ā
His sentences canāt seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when heās practiced in the mirror, when Abbyās walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up.Ā
āYou love me? Likeā¦ā
He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. āYeah. I do.ā
Youāre beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you.Ā
āWhatā but⦠youāā
āYou donāt have to⦠say anything. I just, I canāt⦠I canāt pretend anymore. I canāt do it.ā
You reach for his hand. Itās a little clammy, a little trembly, but itās a perfect fit. Just like you.Ā
āI love you too, Mike.ā
What?
āYou⦠do?ā
Heās skeptical, but heās also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking.Ā
āI just didnāt⦠didnāt think I could have you. I mean, youāre so⦠youāre everything, yāknow? Youāre a good brother, and you work so hard, and youāre⦠Iām just⦠I donāt think I deserve you,ā 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. Heās gentle. In his eyes, youāre porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and thatās all he needs. Itās all heās ever needed.Ā
āYou deserve everything.ā He says it so quietly itās barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because heās carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and heās kissing you.Ā
His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. Heās starting small. Itās been a while. And heās gonna take his time with you. Heās gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and youāre closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so.Ā
Within moments heās 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 heās kissing you again atop his navy comforter.Ā
Heās gentle, respectful, but you understand what heās trying to tell you, what heās been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steadyā he feels as though heās gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon.Ā
He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; heās been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. Youāre a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What youāve been missing.Ā
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 doesnāt speak loud enough. He elaborates.
āCan I⦠uh⦠do you wannaā¦?ā
Do you want to? You need to.Ā
āShit, okay,ā he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didnāt realize you said that out loud.Ā
Heās endearingly awkward ā you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasnāt done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But heās 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.Ā
āCan I take this off?ā He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and heās 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. Youāre perfect, and he knew you would be.Ā
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.Ā
āBeautiful,ā he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples.Ā
āMngh, Mikeāā
āSh. Just let me⦠just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?ā He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?
The moment you agree, heās grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and heās settling himself in the gap that you create for him.Ā
Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot thatās dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton.Ā
āMike,ā you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and heās groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar.Ā
āYouāre so wet,ā he mumbles to himself, like heās 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.Ā Ā
āMike, shit, please just do somethingāā
āOkay,ā he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and heās tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor.Ā
Youāre here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and heās 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 whatās rightfully his.Ā
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 heās 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.Ā
āMike,ā you whine gently, and heās mumbling weak praise right into your cunt.Ā
āFuck, youāre so pretty. Wanted this for so long.ā
Itās barely audible between his languid sucks; heās 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 budā once, twice, and then youāre far too close to the edge.Ā
āOh, Mike Iām gonna come,ā you choke out between gasps.Ā
āDo it. Please.ā
Heās begging you.Ā
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, heās still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body.Ā
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.Ā
He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. Heās 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.Ā
āFuck, baby Iāā
āBaby?ā You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes.Ā
āMnghā g⦠got a problem?ā He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.
āItās out of character,ā you tell him gently.Ā
āShit, can I be inside you?ā He asks you, voice ripped raw.Ā
And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless.Ā
āYeah. I need it. I need you.ā
He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. Heās 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.Ā
Heās stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. Heās never been so ready for something. For you. Itās all for you.Ā
Heās 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, itās safe to say that he gets a little dumb. āOh, shit, Iām notā not gonna last long, youāre so tight, shitā¦ā Heās rambling a little. Itās cute.Ā
A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline ā your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. Youāre squeezing him for all heās got and heās three seconds away from spilling before heās even so much as thrusted. You do this to him.Ā
All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if youād ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. Theyāre all worth it.Ā
Youāre clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and youāre exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and itās what he does.Ā
He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. Heās satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, heās chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins.Ā
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 doesnāt 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.Ā
āOh my god Mike,ā you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.
āYou dādonāt know how long Iāve wanted this,ā he moans lowly. āHow many times Iāve imagined you likeā like this.ā
Heās 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, youāre too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but itās arousing all the same.Ā
āYouāre so⦠so beautiful,ā heās flushed and heās faltering, and you know heās close before he even announces it.Ā
āShit, baby, I canātā canāt last much longer,ā he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake.Ā
āDo it in me, Mike, please, please,ā shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and heās 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.Ā
He tries to keep himself quiet, but itās 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.Ā
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 doesnāt let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow itās 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.Ā
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author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH
Mikeās expression always glooms when you bring up the next date youāve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men youāve matched with on whatever sketchy website youāve wasted your time on. Theyāve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead youāve set your poor, precious heart on.
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 āyou were right Mikeā leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesnāt bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones.Ā
Itās no different today.Ā
Mark or Matt or Mitch ā you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that youāre getting ready for, him that youāre daydreaming about. And itās an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they arenāt 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.Ā
Mikeās not the type to be happier with the hope ā heād let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, heād live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and youāll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes youāll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.
It feels like it.Ā
It feels like it, right now, when heās 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 youād even asked, and heāll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isnāt him, just to make sure you get there safely. Itās the type of sacrifice heāll make for you.Ā
āI canāt even feel my face, Iāve been smiling so hard all day!ā You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product ā he thinks itās all pointless. Youāre radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom.Ā
He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? Heās not happy. And heās not gonna pretend he is.Ā
You either donāt notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. āI mean, he says heās been skiing since he was 6. Heās practically an olympian.āĀ
Mike scoffs.Ā
āWhat?ā
āNothing,ā he grumbles, shaking his head. āCan you hurry up?ā
āAlright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then Iām ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.āĀ
A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. Itās true. He didnāt have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom youād want to take a peek, would you not? Thatās 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 ā that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume thatās branded itself to you. Heād recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas.Ā
āOkay, Iām ready. How do I look?ā
Cruelest question of them all. āYou look⦠fine. Good.ā
A knot forms in your brow. āAll this effort for that terrible answer?ā Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesnāt want to assume anything.Ā
āWell Iām not the person youāre dressing up for.ā I wish I was. He doesnāt say the other words, but he thinks them so hard heās half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that youād hear it anyway.Ā
āOkay, okay, whatever. Letās just get going, donāt wanna keep Mack waiting.āĀ
Two letters. Thatās all it would take. Thatās all heād have to swap to make it him.
Even if you arenāt 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.Ā
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.Ā
āIf anything happens, call me.āĀ
You sneer teasingly. āDonāt be so pessimistic. Itās gonna be great, he could be my future husband, yāknow.ā
Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you meet online, whoās 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.Ā
And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasnāt 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 youāre this good at getting your heart broken. Heās sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart thatāll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that.Ā
āYeah, sure,ā he grits. āFuture husband. Just call me, seriously.ā
You roll your eyes. āYeah, yeah. Iāll call you.āĀ
And with that, youāre off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mallās 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.Ā
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.Ā
Heās not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top youād clad yourself in prior to leaving, youāre 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 itās 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.Ā
Shit. Mikeās feeling so so bitter. Maybe itās because heās finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern heās going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that heās 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.Ā Ā
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 ā but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so.Ā
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, itās you.Ā
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 youāre wracked with tiny little cries and heās feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode.Ā
He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. Heās angry. Heās sick of this.Ā
āWhat happened this time?ā He grunts softly.Ā
āHe didnāt even show up. He couldnāt even send a message as to why, Mike,ā you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat.Ā
A momentās silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again.Ā
āWhy didnāt you call me?ā
You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks.Ā
āMy phone was dead.ā Is all you can manage to mumble.Ā
āWhat?ā Heās pissed. āWhy didnāt you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you couldāve used someone elseās, so you didnāt have to walk home in the rain, because youāre drenched.āĀ
āI donātāā
āYāknow how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights donāt even work, and I donāt even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.ā He grumbles. āI shouldnāt have to tell you all this, Iām sick of explaining all this to you.ā
You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. āHow was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? Youāre telling me I should just expect it?ā
He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.
āThatās not what Iām saying.ā
You scoff. āItās what you implied.āĀ
āItās not what Iāā He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. āWhy canāt you just listen to me?ā
āWhat, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, donāt know where Iād be without you,ā your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth.Ā
āOr maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.āĀ
After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? āAt least I try to get out of the house! At least I donāt spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!āĀ
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, itās been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house.Ā
āDonāt,ā Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like heās about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. āDonāt throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. Itās not like I have a choice.ā
āSo what, youāre so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?ā
āControl? Youāre like my child! You donāt even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!āĀ
You scowl. āYouāre not obligated to do anything for me, yāknow Mike. Why do you keep me around if Iām that much of a chore for you!ā
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. āBecause youāve got no one else!āĀ
You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else youāve said to him tonight. Heās feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears heāll become rubble beneath the debris.Ā
āIām sorry, Iām sorry, I just⦠god, justāā His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He canāt swallow his guilt this time. āIām sorry, I shouldnāt have snapped like that.ā
āItās fine,ā you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, youāve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. Itāll be different. And it never is.Ā
āNo. Itās not ā Iām a dick, I just⦠I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.ā
Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That youāre left longing for. You know heās 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 youāve leeched onto likes what they see, so you donāt have to feel so alone anymore. Youāre oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if youād just let him in.Ā
āWhatever, Mike. Itās true anyway.ā
Thereās 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 ā heās crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. Heāll build you back up. You deserve it.Ā
āNo it isn't. No it isnāt. You have me. Youāll always have me.āĀ
A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that youāll stop and see what heās offering you, that youāll stop chasing your own tail, that youāll stop the cycle.Ā
āMikeā¦ā
āAnd Abby.ā
You indulge him.Ā
āYou have me. And you have Abby. And I know thatās⦠not much, but she loves you. So much. And Iām sorry, ācause I know I donāt say it enough, I donātā¦. I donāt say how much you mean to me, but I justāā
āMike.āĀ
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.Ā
āI love you.ā
He gives you that stare. That stare thatās the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings youāve 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.Ā
Heās waiting. Heād wait forever.Ā
āAnd⦠and seeing you with these⦠shitty people who donāt even care about you, it justā¦ā He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face.Ā
His sentences canāt seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when heās practiced in the mirror, when Abbyās walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up.Ā
āYou love me? Likeā¦ā
He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. āYeah. I do.ā
Youāre beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you.Ā
āWhatā but⦠youāā
āYou donāt have to⦠say anything. I just, I canāt⦠I canāt pretend anymore. I canāt do it.ā
You reach for his hand. Itās a little clammy, a little trembly, but itās a perfect fit. Just like you.Ā
āI love you too, Mike.ā
What?
āYou⦠do?ā
Heās skeptical, but heās also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking.Ā
āI just didnāt⦠didnāt think I could have you. I mean, youāre so⦠youāre everything, yāknow? Youāre a good brother, and you work so hard, and youāre⦠Iām just⦠I donāt think I deserve you,ā 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. Heās gentle. In his eyes, youāre porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and thatās all he needs. Itās all heās ever needed.Ā
āYou deserve everything.ā He says it so quietly itās barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because heās carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and heās kissing you.Ā
His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. Heās starting small. Itās been a while. And heās gonna take his time with you. Heās gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and youāre closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so.Ā
Within moments heās 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 heās kissing you again atop his navy comforter.Ā
Heās gentle, respectful, but you understand what heās trying to tell you, what heās been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steadyā he feels as though heās gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon.Ā
He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; heās been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. Youāre a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What youāve been missing.Ā
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 doesnāt speak loud enough. He elaborates.
āCan I⦠uh⦠do you wannaā¦?ā
Do you want to? You need to.Ā
āShit, okay,ā he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didnāt realize you said that out loud.Ā
Heās endearingly awkward ā you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasnāt done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But heās 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.Ā
āCan I take this off?ā He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and heās 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. Youāre perfect, and he knew you would be.Ā
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.Ā
āBeautiful,ā he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples.Ā
āMngh, Mikeāā
āSh. Just let me⦠just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?ā He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?
The moment you agree, heās grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and heās settling himself in the gap that you create for him.Ā
Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot thatās dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton.Ā
āMike,ā you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and heās groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar.Ā
āYouāre so wet,ā he mumbles to himself, like heās 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.Ā Ā
āMike, shit, please just do somethingāā
āOkay,ā he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and heās tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor.Ā
Youāre here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and heās 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 whatās rightfully his.Ā
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 heās 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.Ā
āMike,ā you whine gently, and heās mumbling weak praise right into your cunt.Ā
āFuck, youāre so pretty. Wanted this for so long.ā
Itās barely audible between his languid sucks; heās 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 budā once, twice, and then youāre far too close to the edge.Ā
āOh, Mike Iām gonna come,ā you choke out between gasps.Ā
āDo it. Please.ā
Heās begging you.Ā
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, heās still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body.Ā
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.Ā
He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. Heās 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.Ā
āFuck, baby Iāā
āBaby?ā You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes.Ā
āMnghā g⦠got a problem?ā He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.
āItās out of character,ā you tell him gently.Ā
āShit, can I be inside you?ā He asks you, voice ripped raw.Ā
And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless.Ā
āYeah. I need it. I need you.ā
He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. Heās 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.Ā
Heās stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. Heās never been so ready for something. For you. Itās all for you.Ā
Heās 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, itās safe to say that he gets a little dumb. āOh, shit, Iām notā not gonna last long, youāre so tight, shitā¦ā Heās rambling a little. Itās cute.Ā
A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline ā your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. Youāre squeezing him for all heās got and heās three seconds away from spilling before heās even so much as thrusted. You do this to him.Ā
All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if youād ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. Theyāre all worth it.Ā
Youāre clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and youāre exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and itās what he does.Ā
He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. Heās satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, heās chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins.Ā
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 doesnāt 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.Ā
āOh my god Mike,ā you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.
āYou dādonāt know how long Iāve wanted this,ā he moans lowly. āHow many times Iāve imagined you likeā like this.ā
Heās 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, youāre too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but itās arousing all the same.Ā
āYouāre so⦠so beautiful,ā heās flushed and heās faltering, and you know heās close before he even announces it.Ā
āShit, baby, I canātā canāt last much longer,ā he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake.Ā
āDo it in me, Mike, please, please,ā shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and heās 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.Ā
He tries to keep himself quiet, but itās 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.Ā
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 doesnāt let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow itās 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.Ā