pairing: step-brother mike wheeler x coddled afab reader
heed the warnings, this is no joke: stepcest!, mike is aged up, he's readers stepbrother since childhood so they refer to each other as siblings, no penetrative sex, he's a real sick perv so this isnt a light psychological read, plz dont read if you are sensitive to these topics.. mike is joe goldberg levels of odd
a/n: this ones kinda long, im trying to push my limits here! its sorta slow(?), its not a slow burn but it's fairly detailed so things dont happen quickly. im trying to figure out my prose. if people likey it enough i may finish with smut x3
preview: Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself. A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
The first time you see it you act on pure instinct.
Noisy steps raining hell on aged basement stairs, acting as a siren, telling everyone 'I'm here' before they can even see you.
"Pervert." You're crying when you reach the bottom. Your lips moving on their own accord, fighting off your self-restraint with ease, "I know what yo-you're hiding you disgusting, filthy, pervert."
"I saw everything." You confronted the crowded room, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, your eyes frantically scanning for Mike, who was already staring at you. But he wasn't the only one.
They were all staring at you. Dustin, Lucas, Will.
Their faces twist with confusion and concern, and a layer of disgust they couldn't even pretend to hide. Or maybe they didn't want to, would rather you see it written on their face, the turmoil your presence brought. It's unwanted.
And Mike, who stood from his seat and laughed perfunctorily, the corner of his eyes crinkling as they met everyone rounded at the table.
Probably his way of diffusing tension, you can't tell. You can barely breathe.
"Let's get you some water." He walked towards you, smooth and unconcerned strides. And he placed his palm atop your back to guide you upstairs, "Go ahead and continue without me, guys." He reassured his group before disappearing with you.
The kitchen is where he saw your grief, your jagged breaths; your desperation.
The part of you that sought comfort in someone you're so sure you should be running from. It's a tether, but that didn't stop you from sobbing your heart out, only pushed the confessions to pour from your trembling mouth.
And he's not denying it.
He didn't outright say 'no', if not, talked circles around your accusations. Telling you not to believe everything you see, like you're being fooled by media.
"You're being ridiculous, do you hear yourself? I stole from you? I keep a collection of you?" He's telling you more than he's asking you anything, and he said it with genuine disbelief, bewilderment clouding his expression.
"I mean, what is this? Where is this coming from? I'm your brother." He scoffed, reminding you of his place in your life, like that means anything.
You know men who do worse for less, real brothers who hurt their real sisters.
Girls who are turned into statistics, who are horror stories for the Hawkin's news, who showed up on in your mothers warnings after your father remarried. And one of those warnings, the first person you look at for reassurance, the only person you believed wouldn't be depraved enough, existed quietly with you.
"I know what I saw." You defend yourself, even if weakly.
"What'd you see?" There's a vague urgency in his voice, but it's subtle enough to brush off.
He'd pin it on some bullshit concern if need be.
"Ph-photos of me in bed," your speech faltered, uneven in its inflection, your throat clicking as you swallowed dryly, "al-almost naked."
"And where's the proof for that?"
"I..." You paused, blinking as the realization settles, his words ringing in your head.
You didn't have any of it, any of what he asked for, of what you've so confidently accused him of, of what you dragged him out of his dungeon for.
"I don't have it on me." You admit curtly, the tremble in your voice slipping through, your knees threatening to give out from beneath you.
And his gaze softened immediately, responding to your vulnerability with a tenderness only he was capable of. That reeled you into his comforting arms, that held you soft and kissed you warm.
"You know what I think it is?," He's pressed his lips against your temple, sighing, "you're jealous, hm? Jealous I don't spend all my time with you anymore, right?"
You soaked in his words and shook your head. "N-no," you sniffled, crumbling into his embrace and giving in.
"Don't scare yourself into seeing these things," he whispered, "You'll just worry yourself sick."
What had you seen?
And how can you be so sure any of it was yours?
How are you so sure any of it was Mike's?
The second time it happens, you're in his bedroom, helping him look for a book for his new campaign.
You weren't meant to be in there for more than a minute--you knew you needed to be quick because everyone's waiting for you downstairs. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and tonight, Mike's girlfriend.
Still, it calls your name as you pass by it on your way out.
A piece of notebook paper, crumpled to its smallest form, abandoned in a metal bin, asking to be left alone.
Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is always bliss, you convince yourself.
A mantra you've recited day-in and day-out since then, like a prayer that's set to salvage scared bodies from further terrors.
But you reach for it anyways, prying open its furled body with curious hands. You make out a few things. Like the fact that it's only a fragment of a longer entry. Handwritten print of your name tacked alongside a mention of items.
Of your items.
Words about your hair after shampoo day, your sleeping body and every way it contorts when you're in a deep sleep, what time of night you're deadweight, a thin swipe of your current lipstick, a comment about the shade of your soft nipples, and the color of your thighs when stretched taut.
Your cycle. Your college schedule. How warm you'd like your coffee those Fall mornings.
There's an uneasy certainty etched into his writing- unequivocal observations that make your skin crawl, telling you to stop while you can, to stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Instead, it set you off. Sent you to his dresser, pulling open his drawers and the rest is blurry. Anxious hands diving wherever they can, groping blindly, begging for something to prove you right, or wrong, or anything to keep you grounded.
But it all comes up blank.
So you tripped into his closet, crawled into every nook and cranny. Tossing back pants and shirts that'd knock against the door behind you, that forced the door into the wall, a resounding thud with every throw, but you didn't care. You couldn't.
Your knees ached, pressed harsh into thin carpet that's certain to give you a burn, trembling fingers rummaging through everything it can find, until they land on a shoebox. On a lid that's thrown off within seconds, that sends reality crashing down you.
The room feels like it's spinning, tossing you every which way, and blood is rushing to your head. Bile sticking to your already dry throat, that just burns and crawls and digs into your chest, makes your heart quake.
Lingerie, undergarments, patterned and printed, socks, all ones you had emotionally grown out of after your last birthday. A few you mentioned wanting to throw out, because you were a different girl now. Because you were grown up and going to college and wanted to feel it, too.
"So weird, I was gonna toss out a bag of clothes but I can't remember where I put it..." You mentioned.
"Huh, that is weird," Mike followed, "but I guess if you were gonna toss them out anyways, doesn't matter where they went, right?"
And you agreed, stupidly.
It's all hitting you at once.
Tubes of spent gloss. The last of your signature roll-ons tucked into their own corner. He built a home out of you. A vault of your past and present, kept you hidden.
Was he going to do that you?
Keep you hidden?
Kept away from everything and everyone, just like everything in this box?
You kept looking, you don't know why, but you couldn't stop, finding yourself in front of a familiar stack.
Dirtied polaroid's bound together by a tan band that snaps open at your distress, pictures slipping from your head, broadcasting inscribed dates and descriptions and photos of you, your body, every angle possible.
And you can feel it crawling up your spine.
That night worming its way out of every dark corner in his room, closing in on you, enshrouding you icily, when your eyes land on the photo.
A photo that was meant to be a fairytale, something you had scared yourself into believing, something you hallucinated because he said so. Because he was spending time with his girlfriend and you were jealous, he said. That's what he said, and he promised. So why is it here? Why is it real and firm in your clammy fingers, why can you see it?
Your heart beats so loud in your ears you don't hear the shoes on carpet, or the weight shifting beneath your reddening knees.
"What are you doing?" His voice is what slams you back to the present.
Your heart skips a beat, a thick silence lingering between you.
"Mike..." You tremble, but you're refusing to look at him, staring into the galleria of your life instead.
He doesn't respond to you, though.
He reaches over to close the box, nudging it back in place, then he steps away, picking up after you. You hear it, the way he calmly folds tousled articles of clothing, placing them onto his bed.
"I saw-" You're cut off as soon as you speak.
"You don't know what you saw." He brushes off your concern, a cold edge to his voice, stripped of the affection he'd always meet you with.
Devoid of any patience he'd previously carried all those times you'd gotten too close.
When you'd run into his room, excited about some band, or some news, or something he'd set aside his day for. And he'd pretend like he wasn't just adding to his trophy of a shoebox, like that one night.
But he wasn't angry, you could tell. He was never angry, not with you, at least. He was indifferent, uninterested in your tears, and for some reason that was worse.
For some reason- some disgusting reason- you wanted him to care, to make it feel better, to pull you into his arms and against his chest while you doze off to some track on his vinyl.
It makes you want to curl into yourself, so you can hide from him, from your feelings.
You thought that maybe if you hid underneath your hands and cowered, you'd be small enough to trigger a shell, one that'd take you in and protect you from his hostility. Replace his job as your brother.
"You can't be doing this t-to pe-people," you mustered up the courage, slurred speech and all, but you said it.
You can feel the warmth of his body radiating onto yours, hugging you, tempting you.
"Doing, what?" He's on his knees, draping himself over your frame as he speaks, his chest pressed into your back. "What am I doing?" He asks with soft lips, dragging them across your skin.
It makes you shudder.
"Normally," the palm of his hand rests on your arm, weighing on you and warming you, comforting you as his thumb rubs in lazy circles, "you shouldn't be making a mess in someone else's room."
His comments churn in your brain.
They push on all the right buttons--that was his thing, seeing people for who they were.
What made them weak or strong, what made them tick, what they want or don't want to hear. And him, always knowing when to reach what.
"You know," His words are a serrated knife; threatening to break the seal. "You worried everyone tonight." He punctured.
You forgot. Everyone was still here.
You made a scene, you know that. You gave him no choice.
Mike recalled what he told the group. That you were probably hurt, that this isn't anything new, and that you probably just need your big brother. Telling them you don't know how to be by yourself.
And he didn't say it, he just made you feel it. Expertly chipped away at your confidence.
You've spoiled their night because you needed your big brother to save you, needed him to watch you throw your tantrums, because you don't like it when he's with his girlfriend and without you.
It is your fault yet again. Had you kept to yourself, you would've never seen what you did. You wouldn't have ruined tonight, you would've been downstairs with everyone.
"You shouldn't be doing this to people," his words crept against your earlobe, hardly above a whisper.
You whimpered in response, the only thing you do, and it sounds pathetic. Like you were going to cry.
"I know, I'm being so mean," he crooned, gingerly coating your nape in wet kisses, as he cradled you with gentle hands--an emotional whiplash. But you couldn't help it, he knew you couldn't when you softened under his touch.
"Are you... am I..." You struggled to find the words, your breath picking up, "are you mad at me?"
He pressed another kiss to your temple before standing, "Just disappointed. You should've known better than to do this again, but I forgive you."
He doesn't tell you that he sent everyone home earlier, that he was never pulled away so selfishly, but ignorance is bliss.
Always.
Michael took you to bed that night.
He helped you up off the ground and dusted off your carpet-burned knees, then he walked you to your room, until your legs met the mattress and you were forced into its comfort.
Neither of you bothered with the lights on the way in, the moon illuminated enough bluey hues.
Words aren't exchanged when his fingers hooked onto the belt loop of your bottoms and he tugged them down your thighs, until they pooled around your ankles.
To get you ready for bed, he said at some point, you can't remember when.
When you blinked up, all you saw was Mike, peering into your teary eyes from where he stood. He bent towards you for a moment only, fingers brushing your hair back lovingly.
The heat soothed you and it was so tender you could sob into his hand.
It was demented that you knew how he felt.
That he tore down your privacy, never let you have it, saw you for who you were in every way. Yet deep down, you found yourself feeling self-conscious.
In a way you shouldn't.
In a way schoolgirls feel around their crushes, when she wonders if her hair looked nice, and the thought of looking a fool was agonizing and so she sheepishly pats down her flyaways, all to avoid being seen so imperfectly.
He made you want to pat down your flyaways.
You brought your legs up to rest on the mattress, an attempt to cover yourself but he stopped you, only kissed atop your knee. A wet kiss, the kinds you give to a girlfriend.
Has he? You ask yourself. Has he given these to his girlfriend?
You're not sure when this all began, you're not sure you want to know.
No, you know you don't want to.
You don't want to see what he saw. Or what he felt all those times you'd collapse in his arms after a bad day, a bad date, when he'd watch your eyes puff and swell with sadness. Or what he thought during those evenings your father would upset, when you'd stomp, stomp, stomp back to your room and slam the door.
You bottom lip quivered and he leaned in, snug between your legs, before you could cry. He caught your lips on his and brought you to a quiet.
He let out a sigh of relief that same second, and his hands briskly found themselves on your waist.
It all makes your stomach hurt. None of it takes away from who he is and what he's done.
"Stop," you sobbed into the kiss while melting into it--under him.
You don't know why you want him to stop either.
Is it because of his girlfriend? Or because he's your brother?
But his movements stilled, warm lips nestled above yours, "You want me to stop?" His whisper brushed against you, and you don't respond, only turned your face the other way, his lips on your cheek this time.
Your throat tightened as you swallowed.
"You can't do this to me. I'm..." you paused, wanting to collect your thoughts. "I am not your girlfriend." You whispered with an averted gaze, staring at your dimly lit window.
Not, 'I am family' or 'I am your childhood', but 'I am not your girlfriend.'
"Is that it?" He purred against you, kissed along your cheek to the side of your mouth, where he kept himself pressed, and his hand pushed underneath your chin. "You want to be my girlfriend?" He smiled, you knew because you could feel his lips stretch thin as he spoke.
But he didn't wait for an answer this time.
He used the hand under your chin to turn your face back to his. Then he dove back in without restraint, the kiss eliciting a moan you could tell he was holding back.
He kissed you fervently, like you were meant for him, and him you, and he let you sob under him. He let your hands weakly nudge at his biceps, let you make weak noises.
"Tell me to stop again," he breathed against your lips, "tell me."
He was testing you, what you really wanted, and like clockwork you never knew.
So he made the choice for you and left your swollen lips alone, pulling back and breaking strings of spit with him. Choosing, instead, to stamp your cheeks with wet kisses.
Then along your jaw and down your neck, like he was tasting you or savoring you, the way a devoted man would. And he kissed until he reached your bare navel.
Your mind drifted.
Each memory mingling with your emotions.
Did it start on the night of your sixteenth birthday?
The night he took you down to Benny's because all you talked about was a messy burger with a side of extra soggy fries, topped with the coldest pop, and he watched you eat with all your glory.
Or is that just when it started for you.
Your stomach fluttered in response. You watched through wet lashes as he reached your lower half, where he lightly rubbed his nose into your inner thigh and the ends of his hair tickled your skin.
He bit into the fat of your thighs like the sweetest nectar was promised, with gentle teeth and warmed lips, and he brushed down to your panty-clad mound.
His breath hot above your crotch, and your hand went flying, shoving itself between his mouth and you.
His eyes flicked to look up at you, an eyebrow raised, before he looked back down at your hand. He kissed your knuckles, each one, from thumb to pinky.
He kissed your nails, each one again, then he kissed the pudge of your wrists, nudged at it with his nose. A dog asking, no, fighting for it's treat. And you, the owner, caved by moving your hand.
Michael Wheeler, your childhood, your stepbrother, and what next? Your lover?
a/n #2: hopefully this reaches the right audiences!
heed the warnings: stepcest, penetrative sex, creampies...!, extremely dubcon/blackmailing mike into doing stuff, reader is the dominant one here but this mike perspective heavy
a/n: a drabble of sorts while I finish up my fic
Mike Wheeler who's also readers stepbrother.
And reader, who's snug on his lap, facing him; your casual display of affection.
You're rubbing his chest and pressing slow, wet kisses to his jawline, and maybe he should know better but he never gets this attention from anyone else. So lets you anyway.
Lets your hand graze his biceps, let's your fingers push up his shirt and feel underneath.
He'd think you were testing him, to see if he'd respond to any new touch. What he might've learned over your semester away.
Until your hand travels too far down south and a soft palm hangs above his crotch, and there's gentle weight with every curious stroke.
And Mike, poor Mike, reaches for your hand to stop you, but you don't let up. No, you ignore him, fingers laxly tracing the zipper, pulling down.
"Wait– wait—" Mike is panting, delirious from all the touching he's been starved of. "We're— yo-you're my—" he's calling out to you, doing anything to get you to stop.
"You don't want me?" You're pouting, keeping your warm hand on his clothed cock, and it twitches from that alone. "The body never lies." You purred, expertly hooking your knuckles into the hem of his briefs, tugging them just below his hardened base.
Mike puffs his cheeks and furrows his brows out of pure desperation. He tries to pull his hips back when your pretty fingers wrap around the base of his cock.
And he's so caught up in his selfish need to stop you, he doesn't even notice your half-naked body.
He's too late.
"If you don't let me..." You're straddling him as you speak, rubbing the tip of his cock against your sopping heat, arousal that coats him just like any warm hug would. "I'll tell your mom you tried to hurt me." You press his thick head against your entrance, visibly shuddering at stretch while you inch downwards.
He has no choice.
He wouldn't want to lose his friends, or his mom's love, or his caring sisters affection.
You'd move your hips in slow fashion, let his cock drag against your sensitive walls, grinding onto him with such ease.
And you'd be so vocal about how big he is, and how nice he feels inside of you. The lewd squelch was living proof of how good it feels to have a cock that fills you whole. It'd make his chest swell with pride he'd never felt. To Mike, you were making love.
"It's like you were made for me." You'd pant into his ear, mouthing at his earlobe and listening to his strangled gasps, and him drinking in your gentle whimpers.
He's in Heaven. He's sure.
But then he's asking you to get off because he's close, and if you seriously didn't want to get in trouble, then you need to get off. And it's easy: you ignore him, dive into a kiss instead, quelling his fear.
And Mike doesn't mean to, but he gasps. Almost like he wants your warm tongue in his mouth, so you give it to him. Until his lips are red and swollen and they're rubbing hot against yours.
He's fucked dumb, you can tell, his eyes are glazed over and his droopy lids fight to stay open. His lashes grow wet with every soft blink. He can't tell what's what, only finds pleasure in your supple tongue and your warm, wet pussy.
It adds to the welling pressure in his cock that just keeps rising and rising.
You need to get off now.
"No–" He inhales, his hands gripping onto the fat of your thighs and his fingers pushing, but you just situate yourself firm. You sink onto his twitching cock until he's snug inside you, stretching your walls deliciously, pressed dangerously against that sweet bundle of nerves.
It's enough to send him over the edge. A suffocating heat that stills him into white ecstasy, and he lets himself go right then and there. His jaw going slack while you swallow his desperate, jagged moans, and he's rutting into your pussy while he plugs you full because it's human nature to want more.
And for a brief second, something primal washes over him. A part of him that wants to ravage you whole, to keep you locked beneath his body so he could show you what it means to be fucked by your younger step-brother. He wants to leave that print on you, the same way you're leaving it on him.
Instead, his spent body sits there in disbelief. He gives in as you kiss him one last time before you're gone.
He think's it's possible that, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he wanted this too. That if he didn't, he would've never opened his door when you knocked. And maybe he goes the rest of his pathetic life trying to relive that memory with girls who'll never live up to it.
Hello everybunny. My next fic is Mike x Fem reader but it's pretty dark ;-; so this is your heads up: stepcest (mike & reader are step siblings), dubcon, mike is Joe Goldberg levels of demented and pervish
author's note: i need him in my skin, blended this ask of him with a prior similar idea i've had check it right here, xoxo. wc: 500.
preacher’s son mike wheeler who grows up learning that love is something you prove. his mother’s hands are always busy, dusted in flour or folded in prayer, never still long enough to hold him. his father’s approval comes only when mike is quiet, obedient, god-fearing. so he learns early how to disappear. how to be good. how to ache without making a sound.
farmer boy mike with sunburnt shoulders and aching hands, standing in the fields long after dusk because it’s easier to talk to god when no one’s around. the crops don’t judge him for his doubts. the dirt doesn’t ask him to be pure. it just takes what he gives and gives back when it’s ready. he wishes love worked like that.
but then there’s you. you who laugh too softly, who look at him like he’s something worth tending to. he doesn’t mean to fall for you. he knows he shouldn’t. but god, you feel like rest. like the quiet after the hymn ends and no one’s speaking yet.
he doesn’t plan on breaking. it just happens. one another bad day, one too many sermons about sin and sacrifice, one sharp word from his father that lingers too long. he ends up with his head in your lap before he even realizes it, curls falling into his eyes, hands fisted in your skirt like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. when he cries, it’s quiet at first. apologetic. like he’s waiting to be told to stop. but you don’t. you just smooth his hair back, slow and steady, murmuring things his mother never had time to say and his father never learned how to mean. it wrecks him. he presses closer, face then tucked against your chest, not for anything sinful, at least at this instant, just warmth, just safety, just somewhere to finally fall apart.
little did his father know, while he was preaching about sin and redemption, his son was busy planning how to ruin you in every dirty lingerie set he'd stolen the church charity money to go buy at the thrift shop down the road. he had you bent over your bed like an altar, tearing through those innocent looking panties and bras like a starvation possessed him.
preacher’s son mike who sobs like a child because no one ever let him be one. who shakes under your touch because this, this gentleness feels like something holy he was never promised.
he loves you quietly. desperately. the way he was taught to love god. but with you, it doesn’t hurt as much. with you, he doesn’t feel like he has to earn it.
he surprises you one morning by gifting you a rosary. not just any rosary though. he personally picked out the beads, each one representing a prayer he whispered for you. he ties it around your wrist gently, "to keep you close to god." but especially close to him.
tag list: @10iceicebaby @heartheejake @loveemmaall
Huge shout out to all the people who read fics. Who actually take the time out of their busy days to open a fic and read it
Before I started writing in earnest, I did not understand how much writing was going to eat into my fic reading time. We joke about having too many tabs open, but I have a different problem: the amount of tabs I have open on new fics is way smaller than it used to be. My ao3 wrapped would be a sad affair. Unless I’ve subscribed to an author or come across something on my dash, I basically don’t see it
Which has really driven home for me how much fandom cannot just be creators. You have to have people who want to read fic and meta discussions and joke posts. You have to have people who want to look at art and gifs. It has to be mutual.
Community thrives on flow. You have to have that movement of people sharing things with each other for a community to exist
warnings, warnings: steve harrington breeds reader! he's mean and honestly not super ic of him but in a world where hes a typical 80s freak with 1980 values, plz dont read if youre very sensitive to 70s-80s misogyny or dont like ooc
A socially traditional Steve Harrington who pretends to be as free spirited and accepting as reader.
Like, of course you can go out with your friends without a man beside you.
Of course he'll respect your independence and let you get a job
Of course he'll let you get on that new birth control.
But if he were to be totally honest, he didn't care that you didn't agree with him right now, because you will eventually, you just needed to come around to it. To his life. To what it means to be a married woman.
"Birth control makes girls a bit, y'know," he'd warn while you got ready for your appointment, "Save it for the pornstars who delude themselves into thinking life has no consequences, cause that's what it is. Avoiding consequences."
You don't say anything.
But you don't catch his grimace either, the way the corner of his lips curl repulsively at the mention. Makes him sick, the thought of you wanting to keep something so sacred from him.
It didn't make sense to him, why you wanted part in any of it. He's fully aware, though, that you didn't need it to make sense to him, because you're an independent woman yadda yadda yadda.
God
What would his family think? If they caught you tossing back these pills like candy?
You don't need that in you, is what he tells himself, not when you have a man already.
You're just lost.
But he's just making a joke, you think, albeit not a good one. Didn't make you crack a smile let alone make you laugh. But he's not being serious, you know that.
He can't be.
So you do nothing, you ignore him, and head to your gynecologist to prep for your second month.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...
And then the night he wants to have you, Thursday, it feels different.
You're delirious, drenched with need.
He kept your knees bent over his shoulders, a hand placed near your head, that occasionally strokes away the strands sticking to your sweaty forehead.
Your pussy fluttering around the thick stretch of his cock every time he drove himself home. Every time his balls pressed against your underside.
"Steve..." you're puffing out, low and greedy.
"Yeah," he leans in to press his forehead against yours, agreeing with your lust, doesn't still his hips as he does so.
Your lips touch without meaning to, a flurry pleasure washing over you. Hot electricity shooting down your abdomen, warming your full belly, and to your aching calves. It's enough to make any woman dumb, your jaw going slack.
He swallows your moans anyway, slips his tongue into your mouth, humming lowly as your lips wrap around the thick muscle, sucking.
"Don't forget to pull out," you're panting against his wet lips, staring into his eyes.
You can tell he's close because his thrusts stagger, sporadically chasing their own release.
He doesn't say anything, but he's looking at you while his thumb rubs slick arousal over your puffy clit. You're a wet mess under him, eyes squeezing shut, you almost forget to remind him again.
"St..." your voice dies out as he times his thrusts with the flit of his thumb, like a synced dance while your achy walls cry around his cock. Your legs tremble around his head and they only grow weaker by the minute, stuck in your perversion as you go completely lax.
"Oh, Steve," You sigh, your hands blindly flying to grab onto him, whatever they can greedily hold while groomed fingernails dig into skin.
His hips stutter once and your eyes fly open, the palm of your hands digging into his bicep, "Of-off, Steve!" You wail.
But then he's pinning your weakened wrists above your head with one hand, his thrusts quickening while another hand works your clit. Lazily rubbing, pad of his thumb pressing down on you. And the tip of his cock pushing against that one spot, over and over.
And oh, you hate him.
You hate him. You hate that he knows you like the back of his hand.
Because you're forced to watch him as he buries himself, as he bullies his cock so deep you can feel him in the back of your throat, trapping the noises that bubble, that want out. As he gets to moan and pant from above, his cock hauling against that sweet bundle of nerves with every drag.
"Be good," He whispered, and he's got you in such a rigid position, you can't escape his grip. Your bottom half practically curls into you, all the blood rushing to your head, that it dizzies you and steals what's left of your sanity. He's folding you so nicely your pussy froths, it tingles, accommodates his girth while he defiles you, like you're liquid glass being shaped any which way.
It makes you hungry for more but when you feel it, the throb of his cock as it empties a thick load, you come undone alongside him without meaning to.
Your hips buck and writhe pathetically at the delicious stretch, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think you were begging for it.
Your head is thrown back and arching off the mattress, quietly unraveling beneath him while he soaks it all in. Draws out those wanton moans he loves so much.
He knew you'd like it. You just needed some time.
"By the way," he speaks the second your breaths died down, "you've been taking sugar pills."
heed the warnings my fellow readers: asphyxiation!!!!, reader is called the b word, no aftercare,, mike is actually a little creepy in this i have like 5 versions of this little drabble that got scrapped cuz it bordered joe goldberg territory, heavy heavy dubcon- not nc, but def dubious, biting, hair pulling, italics = memory
a/n: excerpt from consumed by david cronenberg, dividers by chrissiren && thank you to my lovely dovely s/o for helping me out
"The bear loved the deer," Mike begins, reading from an excerpt he'd stumbled on a library stroll, "It was obvious."
Mike Wheeler was anything but self-exposing.
He knew who he wanted to be in front of others, who he needed to be. His voice, brimmed with kindness, and him, nothing but the bone-deep affection that beats through his heart, body and soul. All for his friends, family, you.
You never knew him as anything else. So it takes you aback one night.
Your body folded over the end of his bed, his taller frame hugging yours, taking you, plugging you from all sides with each languid thrust.
"You went on a date," He husks out, curious yet knowing. He only ever asks questions he already has an answer to.
"No..." You lie, mouth agape, fingers slipping onto the linen beneath you as he smooths a heavy, warm palm down your back, fixing you onto your stomach while his knees rest on either side of you.
An angle that props you against him, stretches you wide around him with every tug, massaging you. Leaving you quivering around him, crude squelches spilling into your ears.
"Keeping secrets, are we?" He speaks to you like you're his lover, the whore mother of his first born, with light breaths that creep against your nape, littering around prickled skin.
"No, Mike." You try to fight it, him; his confidence. He's not wrong, never wrong, but he doesn't need to know.
He's a Saturday night, not your boyfriend.
You lift your head, wanting to meet his eyes, but he's quick to sink his fingers into your hair, skillfully shoving your head forward, like he's done this before. Strength that forces you back into the sheets, molars grazing uncomfortably against the side of your cheek that's smushed firm against the mattress.
That knocks the wind out of you because he holds you down, back-to-chest, skintight. It keeps you trapped beneath his weight, reminding you that he's a man with strength above yours.
His hand presses into the base of your skull, slowly curling into a fist that furls inwards, until your hair coils tight around his whitening knuckles.
And there's a dull ache kissing the back your head within seconds. Throbbing, foreboding, telling you to stay put as his free hand sneaks around your neck.
Your lungs burn as you inhale, suffocated by his presence. As if you swallowed hot coal, but it's soft and warm and oddly comforting in ways it shouldn't be because he's opposite of who he is-- of who you've ever known him as.
He's not doing it to hurt you, he tells you. Not at all. This is your fault, you see. This is what you're making him do.
Because if you had just been honest, had just told him the truth before he got a chance to find out, you wouldn't be here now, would you?
"Are you proud of yourself?" He rasps.
And even when he's not facing you, when you can't see what he's thinking, you can still hear the frigidity in his voice, laying bare his emotions.
He's disappointed in you.
A pang of guilt pools your stomach, engulfs your anxious bones. A guilt so demanding the corner of your eyes fill with tears, stinging with every blink you didn't take.
"Have I ever been anything short of disrespectful to you?" His angst looms over you, voice hushed while his fingers flimsily wrap around your neck, draped over you like jewelry.
"Hm?" He presses for an answer, lips grazing your ear lobe, lightly tugging.
A cry gets caught in your throat when his wrist flexes and pain shoots down your scalp.
It distracts from his fingers leaving your skin, trekking up your throat to your jaw. Pushing into your mouth with a force unknown to you, hooking themselves onto your cheek like he's caught bait, viciously pressed into your pulpy warmth.
Shows you how easy it is for him to spread you open.
"Hhg..." it's guttural, the noise you make. Nothing but spittle and your flailing, wet tongue, but human nonetheless.
"Huh? What was that?" His knuckles press further into the wet flesh, claiming their rightful heir to your gaping mouth, "What'd you say?"
You're beyond humiliated.
"Use your words," His tone is kind, condescending. And he feels it more than he sees it, your twitching lips, tugging at his fingers to let you go, but he keeps your mouth pried open a second longer. Lets his stretch linger, your drool coating his fingers, burning into the corner of your lips before he finally lets go.
You can't speak.
You don't want to.
You don't know how to.
He swallows you into his warmth and you're putty in his mean hands, lulling you into a familiar submission.
But he's so intense. It's overpowering, overwhelming.
He's hiding himself into the curve of your neck, lets out his own heaved gasps. Buries his wet cock with deep strokes, and he doesn't stop until your velvet walls are bearing down on him.
Until he's sure he's made a memory of himself inside of you.
Until your consciousness thaws everything that made you a functioning human, blurring your personhood.
"You think I don't know," his nose rubs on you, and suddenly he's inhaling. A motion that feels drawn out, so slow and selfish, so deep you can hear the way it fills his lungs, expanding, invading a piece of you and making it his.
"Not everyone's like you," weighty fingers tap at your temple, like if he knocks it'd ring empty, hollow. "Some of us know how to use this," the pads of his fingers rub at your temple, calling out your carelessness, punishing your privacy.
"It ripped the deer's throat out," He read, staring at you, "and then licked the dying deer with the most passionate affection."
And his teeth bare against your skin, steadily dragging across the sensitive arch of your shoulder blade, jagged canines pressed against the soft tissue, finding home as they sink into you.
"Hff," His heavy cock slugs into your heat, easing inside of you, the dense musk of sex filling whatever air you had left to breathe.
You ache and he pulls his mouth back, a tense quiver in the pit of your stomach that matches the pace of your pleasured, struggled gasps. Your arousal betraying every moral bone in your body, smearing onto him, claiming its stake on him.
"Please," you're panting, you can't tell if you're asking him or yourself but your skin is hot, your body instinctively moving away from his grip but he doesn't let you.
Only buries you into his pillows, pretends not to hear your hoarse wails the same way you pretend to hate it, snuffs out your breaths into the hot air of his bunched covers.
You feel lightheaded. Your skin prickles, burns as he ignores you. Burns as you ignore you.
This is when he should be pulling out, when he peppers kisses on supple skin and showers you with tender praises.
His lips nudge against the shell of your ear. His thrusts slowing until they drag in and out of you with a calculated pace, and then he comes to a stop. Then he's sinking his cock in so deep you're stuffed full, makes your chest heave.
Your moans turning into disfigured breaths, taking gulps of air as he stretches you so unfairly that it sets you ablaze. "Filthy bitch," he sneers, and your legs squeeze shut but all that does is keep his leaking cock warm and snug in your dripping sex.
His moans crowding your ear while he empties a load in you, inflates against fluttery walls.
heed the warnings: this is reader perspective heavy, frottage, dry humping no intercourse!!, a heavy make out sesh, mainly using this as writing practice soo, based in the 80s. mikes kind of indifferent a little itty bitty assholeish & wc is 2.3k
a/n: this is a repost!! wanted to add a little more detail
A disinterested Mike Wheeler, who doesn't necessarily shy away from the idea of sex but doesn't quite lean into it either. He doesn't go out hunting for women to take home. Doesn't build relationships with the intention of a hookup.
In other words, he's "pure"... as pure as a man could be in these dying times, at least.
All things considered, sexless motives are a foreign concept to men his age, so you wonder what it is: why did he ask you to be his partner on this project? No, why is he asking any girl to be his partner if not to score?
The answer comes after weeks of observations, minus the rumination because you're curious, not obsessed. You conclude he's a boring fuck and that's why, unlike all other men you've known, he's pure in his motives.
A natural deduction, of course.
The sentiment wasn't entirely unfounded to you. A man who doesn't put his sexuality on display is nothing more than a man who doesn't know what he's doing. Again, what you naturally deduced. Even if most men who flash their sexual alpha prowess are just as bland as the next.
"Alright," a voice rings from behind, bringing you back to the present. Seconds later and Mike Wheeler himself steps into frame, with a stack of printed papers tucked between his fingertips - made up of yours and his final draft, "I'll proofread yours and you proofread mine," he takes a seat beside you, sifting through the pile.
Your eyes fall to his hands, watching as he flips the pages with ease, and also without interest in you.
"Why did you ask me to be your partner?" Your mouth moves before you can think, eyes flickering to his face.
He's slow to peel his eyes away from the loose leaf's in his hands, unsure of what to make of your question.
"Uh," he starts, locking eyes with you, "I'm not sure what you're getting at." His gaze smoothly shifts back down to the project in his hands, preoccupying himself once more.
"It's just," you start again, but he continues with his task, "why ask a girl to be your partner if you're not going to have sex with her? Are you a virgin?"
It's a question that would make most guys stutter in defense, one that would push them to protect their honor. A way to preserve their fragile egos.
It's also a question that's been answered, even if not by Mike himself. I mean, it's not exactly a secret that the Wheelers aren't as inexperienced as they look.
"What's it to you?" His voice cuts through your thought, unconcerned, busied; completely indifferent to the conversation. Like your curiosity is just another chore he's been assigned.
Yet none of this stops you.
"You don't go out looking for sex, so what is it?" You prod, his initial response falling on deaf ears. Not like you had an answer anyways, you're not nearly someone he should be trusting with that information.
And the next brazen act, "is it something you suck at?"
He laughs to himself this time, quietly while craning his neck to look over at you, unwavering in his silence.
"Why aren't you answering my questions?" You press again, and even when you're highly aware it's in your best interest to drop the topic, you can't help the interest tugging at you.
A muted thump! hits your ears. Didn't take curious eyes to know it was his and your project now messily spread across the coffee table, though.
"Dunno, guess I don't see why it's so important to you," his lips purse for a moment, "have you always been such a pervert?" The corner of his lips twitch into a stupid smirk, one you want to swipe clean off his face.
"What?" You scoff at his accusation, laughing halfheartedly, "I am not a pervert."
"Oh, no?" He's shifting his weight to face you, his cologne wading through the basement's air. Warm notes that hang in the air, comforting, fitting for winter.
You catch the glint in his narrowing eyes. You see it here. How entertained he is by your reactions, what you gawk at, seeing you so anxious to escape his interest in you.
"You are." You claim sheepishly, dumbly. Your self-assurance dwindling with every passing second.
Your eyes draw away from his, to futilely get him out of your sight, off of you, but it's like no matter where you turn or how long you looked away, he was always on you.
He shadowed your every breath, with leering eyes that seared away your bubble of safety. Cutting through you by tracing the crease of your furrowed brows, outlining the rise and fall of your chest.
"You look a bit scared," He speaks, smooth and steady, his tone lathered in unexplored amusement.
"Of... of what?" Your reply is delayed, faint and cracked. A timidity that contrasts his confidence.
Your brain lags. You can't make him out. You struggle to find the reason behind his confidence. You're not sure you want to know either, you just know there's an ebbing flutter in the pit of your stomach.
Your body grows warm. Maybe a warning, maybe a sign.
But to him, it seems like you're more than willing to find out.
Because you do nothing when the back of a warm hand soothes over the fat of your cheek once, twice, delicately trailing down your jaw. Like he's petting you, or priming you.
It melts you into looking at him, and you all but expect him to already be looking at you. His stare sits so heavy on you. Pins your limbs into place like molten slabs of honey, stuck to any surface they've been smeared onto.
It's so heavy that even if you wanted to move, you'd just collapse into yourself like an abandoned fawn.
"Aw, c'mon, what happened?" He's pouting but he doesn't mean it.
He's searching for the part of you he successfully suppressed just moments ago. He was dangling this newfound control in your very face, a dog with a bone.
You swallow dryly. A prey fallen victim to its predator.
The palm of his hand flattens against the curve of your cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking your skin, convincing you to relax into him.
"Mike..." you breathe out.
"Yeah?" He responds with curious eyes, hand slowing in motion, and you lean into his lack of touch. Your head is spinning.
"What is it?" He speaks softly, innocently.
Your body runs warm, prickling all over you, your sock-clad toes tingling at the very tips.
This game of cat and mouse has always been yours to play. Yet, under him it's all so unfamiliar. You're so far behind you can't remember when his full lips latched onto yours, or when your eyelids succumbed to their heavy weight.
There's an exchange of heavy breaths and rough lips, his aquiline nose bumping into yours as he invites himself into your mouth. His hot tongue slipping past your parted lip, wet muscle grazing yours, languidly pumping life into you while also taking from you. Making you breathe him in, your mouth sculpting a mold of his lips, the heat that pours from his tongue and lips.
And he's pressed in so close you can taste the coolness of his breath, dressed in spearmint from the gum he'd long tossed out.
You feel drunk, high, dumb. Dumb, so dumb that he's gained this much power over you in just one evening.
He's sinking back into the sofa's cushion when he effortlessly drags your body onto his lap, aligning your crotch snug atop his bulge while your legs rest on either side of him.
It's the roll of his hips that break the kiss, collapsing you into him, arms curled beneath you.
And ever the kindest man, his arms engulf your frame, confining your body against his. Attracting an angle that hooks the hardened tent of his pants against the crotch of your shorts, syncing you.
You choke back a broken whine and push yourself to sit up, palms against his chest.
"Mike," wet lips part, asking for his attention.
"Mm?" Is all he gives you.
A lulling buzz settles in the back of your head, the type you get when you're doped up on hormones.
It's all so juvenile, so high school, and you feel like a teenager rediscovering the world of heavy petting.
But he doesn't mind it. No, his hands explore you with all the liberties in the world. They take you on, unashamed of their interest in whatever part of you they grope and squeeze.
He's unashamed in wanting you, Mike Wheeler is.
"Relax..." he's purring, his chest rumbling.
His hold on you stabilizes him, lets him buck his crotch into yours at free rein. Urging your hips to move in tandem with his, guiding you into riding a phantom mold of his cock, but it's too much for you.
Reminds you of how primal this entire thing is, how the core of your panties fold over the roll of his denim crotch, how it bulges just right when it bumps into your clit. Up and down, over and over. It's friction that sends you into a frenzy, that quells the ache in your knees.
God, he was addicting. Unlike anything you've ever known.
He catches your guttural sob in his mouth when he reels your body into his, thrusting you into him.
His rough hands slip underneath your top and knead at the small of your back, until they're splayed across the dip of your arched spine. He keeps you snug against him this way, caged between his fingers.
You pull from the brief kiss when your hips jerk on their own, and you can't help the string of whines that leave your gaped mouth, panting for release.
"Aww," He coos, taunts your labored sobs and choked moans. Watches as you try to push off his chest because rubbing your fevered clit against thick denim, and the glide of your wetted cunt, is steadily overstimulating you.
That's when he hears it.
Music to his ears, the obscene squelching of your sex rutting against his. It's muffled but it's there. He snickers, amused.
God, fuck.
His grip tenses, glides to cup your breasts, the coarse pads of his thumbs ghosting ever-so-slightly against your erect nipples. It makes your hips buck once more, brushing against hard cotton.
Your hands run to his wrists, pretty nails digging into the meat of his skin, wordlessly asking him to let go. To give you, your cunt, a chance to breathe.
"You sure?" He questions your insistence. You don't know if you say anything, if you respond at all. You can't imagine you did because when his hold drops to your waist and your hips twitch in response, his force grows iron tight– refusing your freedom.
He doesn't budge when your hands shove at his forearms, just ignores you, fondles the fat of your breasts, bumps your crotch against his own. Continues mounting your puffy clit against his aching bulge, because to him, you don't know what you want.
And maybe you really don't know any better, you're probably just acting petulantly. So maybe you should just sit there and take it.
"You like it," He rasps out, and you nod, absentmindedly, as if he was asking a question. You can hear a low chuckle, a mocking laugh at your response to his non-question. But he loves it, revels in your lack of thought. Fucked dumb off humping on him, you're probably the most desperate bitch in heat he knows.
His palm crawls to rest at your nape while an arm loops along your waistline, pulling you still.
Inside of you, a pleasure builds on itself, forcing you to mold the rhythm of his and your rutting hips. To remember the way your cunt knocks against his denim cock.
'Is it like this for everyone else who's had him?' Your mind drifts, but it fades within the second when a mind-numbing buzz crashes into you, clouding your thoughts, reminding you of what's waiting for you on the other side.
White stars paint your vision while your body threatens to come undone on his lap. Eyes squeezing shut as your hips jerk in place, too embarrassed to watch him watch you, to see you unraveling like this.
The hand on your nape moves to fist your hair, slender fingers taut around the bunch in his hand. His hold is so tight your scalp throbs, cries for relief as the back of his knuckles roll against it with every move. Jolting your body awake, demanding you back to him.
"Open." He breathes out.
You force your watering eyes open to find his stare on you. You, your crying body, his greatest masterpiece of the night.
"There you go," he praises, leaning back to relish how your body responds to him, drinking in the sight of your flittering lashes that chase your rolling eyes.
Deep in an ecstasy he introduced you to.
The arm around you asks your hips to continue, hastily, desperately. Forces you down on him, fitting himself between the gap of your thighs, making you feel the pulsing heat of his cock.
And your abdomen burns with heat. A fever that flares through your stuffed lungs, that just inhales the scent of him. His stupid spearmint gum, his clothes kissed by gentle linen detergent, and his warm cologne, and his hands all over you; feeling you. An all-consuming reminder that leaves your core tightening as you spill and your walls spasming around emptiness while begging for everything.
He's taking from you, dragging you into complete and utter bliss.
Oh, if only he knew. If only he could see the dampened splotch in your garments, the way your insides cry around the ghost of his cock, wishing it was his that kissed your walls.
The meanest thing disinterested Mike Wheeler ever did was prove you wrong.
Dare I request shy aged up Mike x reader where she makes him touch himself in front of her while she watches….mayeb this is too political idk but I’ve BEEN thinking about this idea 😋
the exercise | college!mike wheeler x f!reader
summary: You offer to fix Mike’s inability to talk to women by having him participate in a lovely, very much not board certified, psychological exercise.
word count: 6.9k
warnings: mike-centric but still second person pov, cursing, discussions of sex, sub!mike (as the lord intended), dom!reader (not crazy dommy mommy but it makes sense you’ll see), unethical use of science??, m!masturbation, light oral, spitting, mike being a big fucking loser (what’s new), mean!reader (if u squint), vague discussions of anxiety, mike discovering he does in-fact like to be told what to do, fluff, no use of y/n
a/n: all characters engaging in sexual acts are 18+ SUB MIKE IS HERE SUB MIKE IS HERE, y’all idek know what i did here but dis shit freaky. i didn’t really imagine him as a virgin in this one but he’s definitely inexperienced, the world is your oyster imagine him how you wish! i also don’t know shit about psychology & this is a work of fiction so don’t go looking for evidence bc all this shit is made up. sorry anon if this is not what you had in mind- it just took it and ran with it! thank you for your request & hope you enjoy!
this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos
[banner credit @dividers-are-us]
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Mike Wheeler believed himself to be a very lucky man. As luck went, it seemed like he'd consistently received more than his fair share, yet somehow, there was always more to go around.
In his fruitful luck, Mike had miraculously aided in saving the world, defying all odds and somehow living to tell the tale. He'd also been able to snag a last minute seat in his freshman Introduction to Publishing class, where he'd luckily met the son of the most influential publisher in the North East, who was luckily very interested in Mike's authorship.
His most recent bout of luck had come the first week of winter break. He'd come back home to Hawkins, excited to see his friends and ready to catch up on lost time. His parents were on a trip to Florida for Holly's dance competition, luckily set to return a couple days after Mike had arrived, leaving Mike home alone.
The rest of the party wouldn't arrive in Hawkins until around the same time, but ever so luckily, you'd arrived first.
So in the spirit of luck, fate, and the Holy Powers That Be, Mike, desperate to finally have something to show for the three years he'd wasted pining timorously after you, cashed in the remainder of his luck and invited you to spend the night at his house, just like old times.
Luckily, you'd said yes.
But what Mike didn't realize, in his present luck-induced euphoria, was that his luck would eventually run out. There, in the dimly lit basement of his childhood home, surrounded by a pizza box, chip bags, and the light smell of underground mildew, with your pajama-clad body spread out peacefully on the opposite side of his couch.
There was a reason he'd allowed himself to pine after you for all these years- he couldn't get himself to talk to you without sounding like a complete idiot. He often couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth, really. He'd decided it was better to yearn in secret. Poor guy.
Mike was usually (keyword there) very outgoing. He'd been the leader of the party, the Dungeon Master, the one everyone depended on to call the shots. But when it came to you and your beautiful eyes, kind features, and bold personality, Mike found himself regressing.
He became shy around you, unsure, not wanting to trip over his words in fear of ruining any shot he had with you. He'd known you’d never hold that against him, but you were just so beautiful, so perfect, and you reverted him to a meek puddle of the man he could be whenever you were near. Pitiful really, but Mike never said he was unhappy.
So there, in his basement, with a mindless sitcom playing in the background, laugh track rudely interrupting Mike's precious brainstorm for conversation starters, Mike realized that his luck had finally run dry.
You both were so close, in an empty house with no responsibilities, but Mike couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say in order to take the night in the direction he wanted it to go.
He'd thought his luck would grant him a couple of good pick-up lines, or maybe just enough confidence to slide up next to you, anything. So far, everything you both had spoken about had been completely, utterly, and entirely mundane.
It's not that Mike didn't care about how college had gone for you, nor you for him. On the contrary, he'd drunk up every word you'd said with genuine interest.
The issue lay with your sheer cotton long-sleeve and no bra, which had your nipples pebbling deliciously in the cool December night. Mike had noticed them immediately, and for the entirety of the night, his brain had been plagued by insufficiently effective ideas on how to address the problem at hand.
He wanted something more like his problem in your hand.
And he'd been absolutely losing his mind about it.
You’d been watching Mike for a while- not in a creepy way, just in that unmistakable you’re being observed and I know you know way.
He cleared his throat. Again.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?” you asked, innocently in the most fake way possible.
“That,” he said, gesturing vaguely at you. “The looking.”
You grinned. “I’m allowed to look at you. You’re my best friend.”
“That feels like a loophole.”
You shrugged. “I think unprompted looking is allowed in Clause C, Section 2 of our friendship code. ”
He laughed despite himself, then immediately realized that laughing was a mistake because now you’re smiling wider, eyes bright like you’d just unlocked a new achievement.
Mike shifted, the couch creaking traitorously.
You tilted your head. “You okay there, Wheeler?”
He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “You are doing this on purpose.”
“Oh, absolutely,” you said, adjusting yourself so that you were laying facing him. "You're acting weird, and I'm going to keep staring at you until I figure out why." You squinted your eyes in his direction.
"I am not acting weird," he huffed, reaching for a slice of pizza. Maybe he could conceal his internal battles by shoving his face.
"You are so acting weird. I've known you forever. You're acting all skittish, like," you paused to make a motion with your hands, "like a mangy cat."
“You’re sho kin’,” he said, speaking through a mouth full of pizza.
You pursed your lips knowingly, shooting him a look that read more "I know all your secrets," rather than "I am a kind and loving friend! Trust me!".
"Mike, c'mon. Are you worried about school? I thought all your classes were going well?"
He shook his head as he chewed, "It's not school, I'm fi-"
"Is it girls?" You cut him off.
Mike began to choke on his pizza.
Your eyes lit up in delight. "Gotcha!"
You shimmied yourself over to him, offering two friendly pats to his back to help the choking subside.
Mike was very outgoing, yes, but his fatal flaw had always been that he wore his heart out on his sleeve. In your years of friendship, you'd learned to read him like a book. Mike wore his emotions on his face and through his actions. He would practically reek of feelings, his vibe shifting outwardly to match whichever sensation most plagued him.
"It's, n-no-, fuck, it's not that," he finally breathed out once his attack died down, placing the slice back in the box.
"Mike," you shot him another knowing look. "You can talk to me. Wouldn't it be nice, to y'know, talk about your girl troubles with a girl? I could have valuable insight!"
"Dude, no way you're a girl?" he joked, eyes wide in fake surprise. You slapped him in the arm, his laugh light.
"I'm serious, you ass!" You nudged him lightly with your leg, both of you sinking into the side of the basement couch. You weren't terribly close, but enough to touch each other without having to reach much.
Mike sighed, ultimately cornered under your watchful gaze.
“It’s nothing, really, I don’t know,” he shook his head in exasperation, “I just need to stop getting so, like, nervous all the time.”
You looked at him with understanding, warm eyes urging him to continue. “What do you mean by nervous?”
“Shit, like, I see a girl, okay right, she’s attractive,” he spoke animatedly, “and I know what I want to say, but then I speak and it all comes out wrong and I end up sounding like a fucking idiot and she looks at me weird and runs away!”
You hummed, nodding your head slowly. “Why do you think it’s hard for you to talk to them?”
Mike had finally caught on to what you were doing. “Are you doing your therapist shit on me right now?”
You glared at him. You were a third year psychology student at NYU, studying hard in hopes of one day earning a PhD. You’d done two years of dual enrollment at Hawkins Community College, so you were fast-tracked to enter your master’s program in a couple years. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but let your education seep into your friendships, seeking always to provide the tools to assist them with whatever it was that troubled them.
“Yes I am, now answer the question. It could help!”
He rolled his eyes at you, pulling a throw pillow onto his lap for comfort.
“I’ve never been confident when it comes to girls, you know this. Girls usually don’t like guys who aren’t athletic or don’t work out or whatever. I’m- I’m a freak to them most of the time, and it’s hard to get past that first impression. I guess I get scared that I’ll say the wrong thing before I even say anything, and then it goes downhill from there.”
“That’s not necessarily true, Mike. Lots of girls would be delighted to be with you,” you offered.
“Yeah, maybe. I just wish I could wake up one day, y’know, and be different. I wish I had the confidence to say what I needed to without sounding stupid.”
You thought for a second before an idea came to you. “What if you didn’t need to be different? There’s exercises you could do to bypass that, maybe. We just learned about some.”
He looked at you with wary eyes. “Exercises?”
Okay, maybe not necessarily exercises. More like experiments. You had a feeling, a hypothesis if you will, that if Mike paired his communication issues with a high-stress environment, his cognitive output would become distracted, ultimately overwhelming himself and releasing his ‘tongue-tie.’ Once he did that, he’d subconsciously realize that it was okay and normal to say whatever it was he needed to say, and boom, he’d be cured. Maybe. Possibly.
You nodded, “you gotta stay with me here okay. You’d need to simulate a high-stress environment, um, somewhere you’d feel like, uncomfortable or nervous. But it needs to make you feel substantially more nervous than talking to a girl would. It has to override that feeling, sorta.
“Then, I’d ask you questions that would simulate a conversation with a girl. Since you’d be focusing on two things at once, the goal would be that the greater stressor, situation one, would overpower the minor stressor, the communication issues, and you would basically distract you into forgetting about how you can’t talk to girls because you’ll be caught up in the major stressor. Does that make sense?”
Mike was confused as to the details, but understood the general principle. You were basically trying to distract the nervousness out of him, and it seemed plausible. He just didn’t know what kind of environment you both could simulate to get the desired outcome, but it was worth a shot.
“O-okay, sure, yeah.” He agreed, gripping the pillow a tad tighter.
Your face lit up with joy, excited to get your exercise on its way.
You cleared your throat as you settled in next to him, using your hands to put emphasis on your words, “so we would need to brainstorm, um, think of stuff that would stress you out. But be realistic. No skydiving or failing a math test or whatever.”
Mike nodded, gears churning in his brain.
“Well, for one, girls-“
“We can’t do that, the variables would be too similar. Next one.”
“Okay, uhhh, haunted houses?”
“Mike,” you warned, “you literally fought real-life monsters and you’re stressed by haunted houses?”
He shrugged, “fine, um, let me think.”
You both sat in silence for a while, TV still playing mindlessly in the background. Mike was deep in thought, committed to finding something that would work well for the exercise.
“Sex.” He finally spoke, eyes shifty and nervous, refusing to meet your gaze.
“Oo-kay,” you sing-songed, “sex. Right. Actually, it's a pretty normal choice, statistically speaking.”
“But, like, how do we, y'know, use that for the exercise.” He brought a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing oddly for comfort.
“Well,” you swallowed, wracking your brain for any uses you could think of. “I don’t think it would be fruitful to simulate sex itself, but maybe like, a part of it?”
“A part of it,” Mike repeated, heart starting to beat a bit faster.
“Yeah, a part of it. Sometimes most experiments and exercises don’t require a subject’s full exposure to the variable. Sometimes a partial exposure works just as well.”
“So what, you want me to have partial sex?” His voice squeaked.
“No, silly, just like, something sexual? I think it would distract you just like you need it to.”
Mike opened and closed his mouth a couple times, searching for the appropriate thing to say. He felt like a fish out of water.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to. It might be a bit strange. We can think of another way,” you offered, looking to avoid a Michael Wheeler panic attack.
He shook his head, much to your surprise. “No, no, I…I think you’re right. This could help. It’s just, wow, um, I could, maybe, touch myself? Would that work?”
“Yeah, yeah it could, but I don’t want to freak you out with anything, so really, we don’t have to.” You offered him a small smile, finally meeting his gaze. He looked unsure, and you hoped he wasn’t doing this to save face for your sake.
“I want to, yeah. Let’s do it.” Mike didn’t even know why he was agreeing to this. He was having a hard time grappling with the fact that he’d need to be naked and touching himself in front of you before he’d even confessed his feelings. It seemed like he was skipping a few steps there.
But this small part of him, a tiny minuscule part hidden under the nerves and anxiety, was grateful for the opportunity. If this exercise failed at getting him over his tongue-tie, he hoped it would change something between you. While you were being exceptionally clinical about it all, which he partially appreciated, deep down, he wanted you to feel some sort of way about this- about him doing this in front of you.
“Okay. Cool. I really think this will work. Just, get situated, and I’ll ask you questions. It’s gonna feel super uncomfortable at first, but just remember that it’s for the greater good. And you can stop at any time.”
He removed the pillow from his lap, awkwardly wiping his clammy hands on his thighs.
You scooted closer- just enough that your knee brushed his thigh. Deadly casual.
“You’re very cute when you’re flustered,” you told him.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Mmhmm. And thinking very loudly.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” you said. “I can practically hear the gears churning in there,” you gestured to his head.
He exhaled, dropped his hand, and looked at you- really looked at you now. His cheeks were pink and his eyes a little too focused, like he’s deciding whether he’s brave enough to jump off a cliff.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
You hummed. “Maybe.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
He shifted again, slower this time, like he’s finally given up pretending nothing’s happening.
“You’re not gonna make fun of me,” he said.
You softened just a touch. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Okay, maybe a little,” you admitted with a smile. “But only affectionately,” you said with a wink.
He laughed, breathy, shaking his head. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you said, leaning in just enough to lower your voice, “you haven’t told me to stop.”
That does it.
He swallowed. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, like he’d been checking the exit signs one last time before deciding to stay seated.
“…You’re not gonna look away?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He let out a long breath, a half-laugh. “You’re evil.”
“Correct.”
Another pause. This one was heavier, but still playful, buzzing with the type of tension that felt slightly ridiculous and extremely charged.
He finally nodded, just once. “Okay. But if I die from embarrassment, that’s on you.”
“I’ll put it on your headstone,” you say. “Died doing his best.”
That earned you a snort, which somehow made the moment better instead of ruining it.
He settled back against the couch, shoulders loosening as he realized- oh. It wasn’t scary. It was just… vulnerable. And you were right there, watching him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your chin propped in your hand, eyes warm and unmistakably interested. You were curled up next to him, your warm legs burning a hole into the side of his thigh.
His hands started towards his zipper, but hesitated slightly once they reached the button.
“Wow,” you said after a moment, thoughtful. “You really do overthink everything.”
He groaned. “Please don’t narrate.”
“Fine,” you said. “But just so you know-”
He sent you a hard glance.
You smile, slow and unapologetic. “You’re doing great.”
He returned his gaze down towards his cock, now slightly inflated in his pants. He was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that maybe he did like this, you watching him. It felt dirty, taboo even, and definitely unlike anything he’d ever thought about while touching himself.
Well, you were always there, of course, in every dirty fantasy of his. But when he touched himself at night, he more so imagined being the one taking on the leadership role, caring for you- guiding you. Instead, Mike was discovering how much he liked when you led him.
Mike bit his lip, refusing to meet your eyes, focused instead on his growing erection that seemed to spur itself on the more he thought of you watching him. Tentatively, his hand came to rest directly atop his erection, pushing down slightly with a soft roll of his hips.
He looked good enough to fucking eat. His pale skin was slightly flushed, and his hips were rolling in on themselves softly, but still desperate enough that you could tell he was holding himself back. You loved Mike like this, completely nervous and raw. You loved knowing that you made him like this, and that he would kiss the ground you walked on if you’d let him.
“How’s that?” You asked softly, eyes trained on the way he groped himself.
“N-not bad, yeah,” he responded breathily, voice cracking a bit.
You practically melted at the vulnerability in his voice. If you were a better woman, you’d let him be. You’d let him forget all about the deal you made earlier and just let him enjoy the moment. You wished you were better, really, but you had waited a long time to see Mike like this, and you were going to milk it for all it was worth.
“Do you like it,” you paused, “when I watch you?”
It was an innocent enough question. Nothing outwardly dirty or provocative- a basic understanding of what was happening would be enough to answer. Mike, however, who would become red in the face if you accidentally touched his hand, almost choked on the spit in the back of his throat as blood rushed to his cock.
Unable to trust his voice around you, he chose to nod quickly, hand gripping harder around his full erection. He had practically forgotten the second part of this exercise, arguably the most important part. He couldn’t think of what to say to you even if he’d wanted to, focused deeply on how he’d let you do absolutely anything you wanted to him at any point, forever.
You tsked in disapproval. “C’mon now Mike, we agreed on words.” You dragged your blunt nails over his knees for emphasis, reminding him of his purpose.
Shame shot through Mike at your touch, feeling his cock jerking in his hand. He was filled with this overwhelming sense to please you, to be good for you. He wanted to show you that he was capable of stringing together two fucking words in front of a hot girl. Most importantly, he wanted you to be proud of him for doing it.
Your touch lingered on his knee, fingers now rubbing soft, small circles overtop his jeans, slowly acclimating Mike to your touch.
“I- I do, I like every-, everything y’do,” Mike spilled out, chest starting to heave a little from exertion.
What in the everloving fuck was that. If he had half a mind right now, he would slap himself in the face and leave his own damn house. Not only did Mike basically admit to having a crush on you, but he didn’t even care. He was in this odd sort of headspace, aiming only to please, and somehow, he felt like the best way to achieve that was indeed to sound like a submissive virgin while he touched himself in front of you.
Luckily for Mike, his admission had your legs squeezing together like they were connected by magnets, pussy fluttering at his honesty. It was becoming quite hard to keep yourself together for him.
Instead, you returned to your role, your voice dripping honey. “Aw ,that’s sweet, Mike, really. I think you deserve something special for how sweet you’re being, what do you think?”
He nodded lightly, hips coming to a stop in preparation for your next instructions. “Yeah, y-yeah, whatever you want.”
“Look at me,” you demanded, having adjusted yourself slightly so that your covered nipples were unobscured by your arms. Immediately, his eyes locked on yours. He was so easy for you, questioning nothing. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Take your cock out, Mikey,” you hummed lightly, following with a small giggle, “I wanna watch you for real.”
His mouth dropped open slightly at your request, eyes not breaking contact with yours. Nervously and with much incoordination, Mike managed to pull his zipper down, slip his pants off, and place his hand back on his cock while only breaking eye contact thrice. Small wins.
Once he realized what he did, his face flushed even redder, so incredibly nervous to be sitting like this before you. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched you watching his cock, waiting for you to say something before he started again. The longer you stared, the more freaked out he became. Was he too much of a nervous wreck? Were you having second thoughts? Did you not want to do this with him?
One by one, evil thoughts began to plague his brain, and in true Mike Wheeler fashion, they began to show all over his face.
You were mesmerized by him, tall and proud, leaking small pearlescent beads of precum from the top of his red, leaky tip. It was so long, long enough to reach the back of your throat with more to spare, delicious and lengthy. It looked so soft, almost velvet to the touch, with one long vein running down the bottom of the shaft, begging for you to run your tongue along it.
You licked your lips hypnotically, caught in your own fantasies of Mike and blissfully unaware of the emotional wreck he was becoming beside you.
A small, frustrated groan pulled you from your reverie, a tiny pout marring your face in disappointment. Your features softened substantially once you realized the look on Mike’s face, once again so nervous that he seemed ready to bolt from the couch. You warmed slightly at his demeanor, finding his anxiety rather charming.
“What’s wrong?” you hummed, knowing rather well what he could be feeling.
Mike’s hand was no longer on his cock, instead balled into a fist at his sides. His nerves did nothing to discourage his length, however, which thrived in the novelty of the situation. Mike still didn’t know what to think. He knew he was highstrung, closer to a full blown crashout than he’d probably ever been, but not because he didn’t want to be here. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Simply, Mike was having a hard time adjusting to his role, not fully understanding that his shy, nervous attitude could act as an attractant instead of a repellent.
“What are you thinking?” He asked in response, desperate for your opinion to soothe his perpetual worries.
You thought about it for a second, choosing your words carefully. Mike’s heart was pounding in his chest the longer you took, preparing himself for a vicious rejection.
“I think,” you started, slowly rising from the couch, “that you look too good to not get a better view.” Slyly, you slipped onto the floor, in between his spread legs, now face to face with his angry cock, bringing your head to rest lightly on his knee. You could see his face perfectly, full of emotion and surprise. An absolutely perfect seat.
Mike was about to throw up. He felt like he was in a dream. Like he’d just taken a ride on the longest rollercoaster in America. Like he’d gone to Blockbuster and snagged the last copy of The Lost Boys with a box of M&M’s. He was absolutely out of his element, with you watching him expectantly between his legs. He silently blessed whoever had been looking out for him, and he’d come to the conclusion that he fully, totally, and wholly lucked out.
“How do you feel?” You spoke softly from the floor.
“Good, y-yeah, real good.” He spoke, just a bit rushed.
“Tell me more. You agreed, remember? Talk to me,” you added lightly, wrapping your hand around the back of his ankle lovingly, rubbing the cotton material of his crew sock lightly with your thumb.
He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling before settling in back on you.
“Well, fuck, ummmm, y’know, good’nstuff,” he mumbled, red in the face.
You huffed out a laugh, “good and stuff? Sweetheart, this is supposed to help you communicate in high stress situations. You do have to help yourself, though.”
He scoffed, as if it wasn’t a completely reasonable expectation to be nervous in a situation like this.
“It’s a bit hard to judge when you’re not the one naked and hard,” he said matter-of-factly, your name rolling off his tongue at the end.
“Would it help?” You countered. “If I took my shirt off?”
Mike may have been a loser, but he wasn’t an idiot. That would fucking rule.
But he had to play it cool. This was an exercise, after all.
“Only if you want to. I think I’ll be okay.”
You didn’t like that answer. You wanted feelings, real thoughts. Not what he thought you’d want to hear.
“No,” you shook your head, “Tell me straight. Do you want my shirt off?” Your eyes bore into his, tempting him to lie again.
He knew the act was up. Again, he was filled with that overwhelming urge to please you, to open up the deepest parts of himself and lay them out for you on a silver platter.
“Please,” he whispered, eyes closed for a brief moment, “take it off. I- I want to see you.”
Pressing a kiss to his knee, you voiced him a quick praise, lifting your shirt up from the hem, exposing your breasts to the cool air.
Mike sucked in a breath, his shaky hand subconsciously returning to his cock. You looked so good, carefree and calm, like you weren’t rocking his world with one simple action.
You leaned back against the coffee table, chest in full display before him. While it was supposed to ease his nerves, the sight of your bare torso made him a bit dizzier, in actuality.
“Better?”
“Yes, yeah, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you smiled at him lightly. Now that he was settled, you urged him to continue.
“You can, y’know, start, if you want.”
He nodded in understanding, remembering again what was supposed to be happening. He watched you watch him, confidently sitting back between his legs, gorgeous tits taking up his field of vision. Soon, the throb in his cock got to be too much, and he began to alleviate himself with slow, shaky strokes.
He huffed a breath through his nose at the sensation, brows furrowed ever so slightly. He liked this, a lot more than he wanted to admit, and you hadn’t even begun asking him questions. It was different from his expectations for sex. He’d always believed that sex had to be this thing, an act that required set-up and commitment to follow through. But this was so casual, so free, and Mike was excited to be a part of it.
You squirmed a bit as you watched him touch himself, huffing out little gasps of pleasure, bottom lip catching between his teeth. You were so entranced by his movements, you forgot that you were supposed to be asking him questions. Unfortunately, you’d have to push your feelings to the side for a moment. For, uh, science.
“I’m gonna ask you stuff now, okay? The questions are supposed to elicit a, um, reaction. But try your best to answer truthfully and coherently. I’ll start off easy.”
You tried your best to not sound clinical, but there was no way to explain the parameters of the exercise without seeming like you’d need a labcoat and a legal pad.
He nodded in understanding, his hand still moving slowly.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” You started. That was easy enough. He’d basically admitted his crush on you earlier, so you didn’t believe it to be too egregious of a start.
The pleasure in Mike’s groin was starting to build, if ever so slightly, meaning he was growing exponentially more disheveled as the time passed. He knew that his answers would lose coherence accordingly.
“Y-yeah, so pretty. Prettiest-ngh, girl I’ve ever seen.” He broke eye contact halfway through, choosing to sacrifice his gaze for comprehension. He didn’t think he’d be able to fully comply just yet.
You were tempted to praise him again, but you wanted this to feel as normal of a conversation as possible. “I think you’re pretty, too. Painfully handsome, actually.”
“Oh fuck, really?” His hand stuttered a bit as he registered what you said, ultimately gripping himself a little harder once he realized your comment.
“Yeah, I do. So, so handsome. I think about you sometimes. Do you think of me?”
He threw his head back at your admission, his hand moving a bit quicker, small drops of precum leaking out of his tip, spread slickly by his thumb.
“What the fuck,” he groaned out your name, his brain completely unprepared to deal with this. He was actually going to die. You thought of him? He hoped it was like this, dirty thoughts. Thoughts that matched his of you in the middle of the night.
Giggling, your hand grazed his knee in gentle reassurance, urging him to continue.
“Y-yes, all the-shit, all the time.” His hips started rolling softly again.
“What do you think about?”
You were unsure if you even wanted to know the answer. Mike was pent up, sure, but at least he got to put his hands on his cock to alleviate some of the surely building pressure. You were stuck squeezing your legs together in response to what was possibly the sexiest thing you’d ever see in your entire life, unsatisfied and forced to stay calm. You had to keep reminding yourself that you were doing this for him, not for you.
Mike used the little resolve he had left to wracked his brain for an appropriate answer, but ultimately came up short. He decided to just put his faith in the exercise, trusting himself to say the right things. In reality, he could only focus on two things at once, choosing those to be his cock and your tits.
“I think about you, ohgod, how fuckin’ p-perfect you are. So smart, funny, fuck-brave” he got cut off with a light groan, “think about us, sometimes, too. Alone.”
You leaned away from the coffee table, arranging your position so that you were seated on your knees. “And what do you think about, when you’re alone?” A kiss on his knee again.
“Fuck, I don’t k- stuff like this?” He was crumbling ever so slowly, his hand moving faster against himself.
“What’s ‘stuff like this’?” You hummed against his knee, trying to pry it out of him.
A pained groan left his mouth, “sexual s-shit, like this. I think about it with you.”
“Good job, that wasn’t that hard, hm? Do you think you’d like doing it with me?”
He nodded immediately, “Fuck yes, always yes, wan-wanted you…so fucking long,” his breath hitched at the end, almost whimpering. You had no idea what you were doing to him, so fucking innocently, like you were unaware of how hard he was trying to keep it together. Something about you, treating him like you almost didn’t care, was so unbelievably attractive. It surprised him that he’d even lasted this long.
“I’ve wanted you too, Mike. I want to do things with you, nasty fucking things,” you kissed both his thighs between words, “can I show you something?”
He expressed his agreement in a rather aggressive jerk of his head. You leaned closer to him, face mere inches away from his throbbing, red, beautiful cock, and took his wrist in your hand. His hand was dry, and you knew despite the desperation, it could always feel better. Without warning, you brought your lips to brush the head of his cock, so delicately. You parted your lips, and a fat, warm, dollop of spit landed right on the side of his cock, trailing slowly down towards the base.
Mike thought he was dead. Rest in fucking peace.
He was destroyed. Demolished. Annihilated. Obliterated. Mike had been fucked for every other girl for the rest of his life, because he would only ever be able to think of this moment. He’d think of it until he was blue in the balls. He’d think of it until he memorized every single detail.
Once you pulled away, a small string of spit connecting your lips to his cock, you noticed his chest heaving, eyes locked in on yours with his jaw slack. Beautiful and utterly fucked.
“Go on,” you prompted, back to your position on your knees, resting your ass on your heels.
“Holy fu-uck,” he spread your spit over himself, pumping with little resistance. He gripped his hand tighter around himself, desperate to come.
“Tell me what you think of,” you asked, head returning to his knee. You were so wet. You could feel your juices seeping through the cotton of your pajama pants, the wet spot growing to cover the tops of your inner thighs.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d tell you everything. Every dark fantasy, every secret thought, he didn’t care. He’d let the words flow, his need overcoming his nerves and shyness, both of those carelessly thrown halfway out the window.
“I think about your mouth, fuck, so warm…and w-wet,” it sounded more like a question, but he was too fucked to care, “wanna fuck you, y-yeah, all the fu-fucking time. Wanna make you feel so good, shit-like this. Let you- whatever you want, anything.”
You closed your eyes and let out a shallow breath as he continued. “Think about your tits, holy fuck, and wonder if you’d let me…let me come on them, sometimes. ”
He was so close, it wouldn’t take long at all. His brain was swarming with thoughts of you. You knew that it was probably the best time to keep asking him questions- he’d be raw and unfiltered, exactly what you think he’d need to get over his tongue-tied affliction. However, the room was about ten degrees hotter, and you were also beginning to lose your ability to think clearly.
“Y’gonna come, Mike?” You asked softly.
He nodded, hand working diligently to get him over the edge. All you could hear was the slick sound of his pumps harmonized with his heavy breaths.
“Can I help you?” You tried to stay strong, you really did, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
“Fucking shit, please,” he grunted out, knowing he wouldn’t need much.
You were at the point of ferality, and sure, you could’ve moved his hand and pumped him the rest of the way, or maybe suckled on his tip so that he came into your inviting mouth. But no. You wanted him to feel things, things he’d probably never felt. So you dipped your head, your warm, wet mouth coming to suckle softly on the center of his balls. They were heavy on your tongue, but the moan Mike let out was enough to make you hum with content.
He grabbed onto the back of your head by instinct, keeping you right where he wanted you. Before the back of his head even hit the couch, he was coming. His legs trembled while you sucked, running your tongue around the loose skin and savoring his salty taste.
He moaned your name loudly, pumping roped of cum onto his torso. He felt shattered, almost like he couldn’t remember where he was off the comedown. He was buzzing down to his toes, his whole body in a floaty state of euphoria.
You pulled off him with a pop, glassy eyes watching as Mike covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths, cum splayed over his clothed stomach.
After giving him some time to recharge, you spoke, weary voice splitting the silence.
“Try now,” you said.
“Hmmph?” He mumbled quizzically from beneath his hands, chest taking slow, deep breaths.
“I want to see if the exercise worked. Tell me something that would’ve made you nervous before.”
He removed his hands from his face and shot you a deadpanned look. “You couldn’t wait, I don’t know, until I wiped the cum off my shirt?”
You scrunched your nose, “No actually, Mike, I am a woman of science. I must know now. And also change your fucking shirt. Don’t just wipe.”
He rolled his eyes, lifting the shirt off his head, momentarily stark naked. He gathered up all his clothes, piling them in his hands while you put on your shirt.
“What would be considered a success? Based on the exercise,” he asked, walking up the basement stairs to dispose of his clothes in the hamper and put on pajamas.
“I don’t know,” you called, settling back down on the couch, “something you wouldn’t normally say without getting flustered. To a girl!”
Mike went up to his room pensively, thinking about what you’d said. As he shuffled through his drawers for a t-shirt and sweatpants, he realized that he didn’t physically feel any different than he did before you worked your psychological voodoo on him. Mentally, however, he felt like things between the both of you had shifted. The confessions from just a view minutes before were not lost to him, and he wondered if knowing that you felt the same about him made the idea of talking to you about his deepest thoughts easier to digest.
He’d made up his mind by the time he met you back in the basement. Running a hand through his tussled hair, he plopped down next to you and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
You looked at him expectantly, patiently awaiting the results of your experiment. In all fairness, it was self-serving. Lucas had told you months ago how Mike felt about you, and you’d truthfully run out of patience with him to make a move. Luckily for Mike, you’d just finished a Sexual Psychology class at NYU, and you were more than happy to kickstart the beginning of your relationship for him.
Much to your satisfaction, Mike turned to face you, hand coming to cup your cheek. His eyes met yours and found acceptance, tenderness, and a hint of something else. Adoration, perhaps? He wasn’t sure. But he knew he’d wasted too much time with you already.
“I like you. A lot. I,” he sighed, “I wasn’t kidding…before. I have for a long time,” he ran his thumb delicately across your cheek. “And, I think about you, all the fucking time. I want to be with you, and fuck, that was so hot- you’re so hot. And truthfully, I think I like when you tell me what to do.”
You smiled into his palm at his confession. “I know.”
Now that caught him off guard. You could see the emotions flickering through his features, ultimately landing on confusion.
“Lucas told me in June, before we left,” another sheepish smile.
He took a minute to process the information, before letting out a shocked laugh.
“For the record though, Mike, I wasn’t lying either, earlier. I like you too. Lots. I wouldn’t mind thinking of you more.”
He dropped his head to your shoulder with a groan, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Then why didn’t you say anything? You knew I’d never be able to.”
You ran your hands through the back of his hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo. Was that fucking Fabergé Organics? Whatever, you’d bug him another time for that.
“Actually, the exercise worked exceptionally well, I think. From your confession, and lack of intense stuttering, I can deduce that you’ve overcome your fear of talking to pretty girls.”
He pulled away, locking eyes with you, “you’re a genius, Doctor,” he joked, leaning in slightly to the point where your foreheads were touching.
You reciprocated, tangling your hands in his hair, brushing your lips with his, and whispered with a laugh, “I think gonna win a fucking Nobel prize.”
thank you all for your support! lmk what you think <3 muah!
warnings: missionary the entireeee time, reader is under the influence (alcohol), although she n' mike share a bond, somewhat dubious not really, penetrative intercourse!, mike is kinda impatient, pure smut, probs too many commas, lowk breeding kink
preview: "Just.." he leaned in close, hunched over your frame, "just take it, okay?" That's the last thing you remember hearing, the last coherent statement your brain parsed. To him, you gave in so easily, it'd have been a waste to not take you.
Mike Wheeler, the boy next door.
Mike Wheeler, the boy you grew up with.
Mike Wheeler, your friend.
Mike Wheeler, the friend who was there to take you to and from Stacey Albright's graduation party. The one who offered to be the designated driver because you can't control your liquor (a lie, but who was he if not an exaggerated storyteller). He was softer, lighter with you when you were under the influence, like he knew that all you needed was care and affection.
So when he took you home that night and opened the door to your bedroom, it wasn't out of the ordinary. It was everything but different when he slipped the straps of your dress off your shoulders, when he found his nose buried within the crook of your neck, slender, warm fingers finding their home in the plush of your hips; squeezing, like you'll run off if he doesn't hold you in place. Words are hardly exchanged when he's pushing you onto the mattress, and your garments pool at your ankle, with one hand petting your hair and another petting your crotch, feeling for the warmth he looked forward to these nights. Your jagged breaths synced together when he pressed two fingers against the button between your bare folds, earning him a wanton moan.
"Like this..." He'd murmur from above, pressing his fingers taut against the back of your thighs, bending your legs forward and soaking in the sight beneath him. All before draping his fingers over the wet nub tucked between your wet lips, grazing at it with the pad of his coarse thumb. He relished in the way it twitched, his chest growing warm at seeing you unfold because of him. He did this to you, he is doing this to you. Another minute passed and he's pushing the head of his cock into your sopping heat. Your breath hitched while he pressed in, stretching you out so nice and full, you swore you could feel him in the back of your throat.
Your watering eyes locked with his momentarily, begging for reprieve from his uncaring cock. "Mi..." your voice died out, getting caught in your throat at the same time he bottomed out. He was snug inside and his balls nestled against your taint. He felt the muscles in your calves tense up as your toes curled in anticipation. He swore he could write about the luxury that was your body.
"Just," he leaned in close, hunched over your frame, "just take it, okay?"
That's the last thing you remember hearing. The last coherent anything your brain parsed that night. To him, you gave in so easily, it'd have been a waste to not take you. That's why he had you folded beneath his body, trapping you in his heat as his hips smoothed into yours. He could feel your limbs writhe and his hands found themselves restraining you each time.
"Just let me," He'd breathe out, burying his moans into every crevice he kissed. "Just..." he muttered once more, both hands pushing you down into the mattress by your thighs. He kept you there. He hiked your legs over his shoulders and kept you there, still in time.
"We'll have a whole litter..." he practically moaned, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs, kneading into you, "we'll get away.." he was rutting into you now, "Let me give it to you," he wasn't asking, he never did. He snaked an arm behind your neck and his fingers nestled on the back of your head, cradling you into pressing your forehead against his. Then, he was sliding back in. Your heat coating his cock with the slickest arousal, until his pelvis kissed yours, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran down your body. You couldn't help the way your cunt fluttered around the base of his heavy cock, or the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head and his slender fingers wrapped a fistful of hair to keep you still. You couldn't help but find comfort in his warmth, finding comfort in his presence as his cock emptied inside of you, while he pet your hair, letting you ride out your orgasm, and he whispered- no, rambled on about everything you'd once you were bound to him.
warnings: missionary the entireeee time, reader is under the influence (alcohol), although she n' mike share a bond, somewhat dubious not really, penetrative intercourse!, mike is kinda impatient, pure smut, probs too many commas, lowk breeding kink
Mike Wheeler, the boy next door.
Mike Wheeler, the boy you grew up with.
Mike Wheeler, your friend.
Mike Wheeler, the friend who was there to take you to and from Stacey Albright's graduation party. The one who offered to be the designated driver because you can't control your liquor (a lie, but who was he if not an exaggerated storyteller). He was softer, lighter with you when you were under the influence, like he knew that all you needed was care and affection.
So when he took you home that night and opened the door to your bedroom, it wasn't out of the ordinary. It was everything but different when he slipped the straps of your dress off your shoulders, when he found his nose buried within the crook of your neck, slender, warm fingers finding their home in the plush of your hips; squeezing, like you'll run off if he doesn't hold you in place.
Words are hardly exchanged when he's pushing you onto the mattress, and your garments pool at your ankle, with his one hand petting your hair and another petting your crotch, feeling for the warmth he looked forward to these nights.
Your jagged breaths synced together when he pressed two fingers against the button between your bare folds, earning him a wanton moan.
"Like this..." He'd murmur from above, pressing his fingers taut against the back of your thighs, bending your legs forward and soaking in the sight beneath him. All before draping his fingers over the wet nub tucked between your wet lips, grazing at it with the pad of his coarse thumb.
He relished in the way it twitched, his chest growing warm at seeing you unfold because of him.
He did this to you, he is doing this to you.
Another minute passed and he's pushing the head of his cock into your sopping heat. Your breath hitched while he pressed in, stretching you out so nice and full, you swore you could feel him in the back of your throat.
Your watering eyes locked with his momentarily, begging for reprieve from his uncaring cock. "Mi..." your voice died out, getting caught in your throat at the same time he bottomed out. He was snug inside and his balls nestled against your taint. He felt the muscles in your calves tense up as your toes curled in anticipation. He swore he could write about the luxury that was your body.
"Just," he leaned in close, hunched over your frame, "just take it, okay?"
That's the last thing you remember hearing. The last coherent anything your brain parsed that night.
To him, you gave in so easily, it'd have been a waste to not take you. That's why he had you folded beneath his body, trapping you in his heat as his hips smoothed into yours. He could feel your limbs writhe and his hands found themselves restraining you each time.
"Just let me," He'd breathe out, burying his moans into every crevice he kissed. "Just..." he muttered once more, both hands pushing you down into the mattress by your thighs. He kept you there. He hiked your legs over his shoulders and kept you there, still in time.
"We'll have a whole litter..." he practically moaned, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs, kneading into you, "we'll get away.." he was rutting into you now, "Let me give it to you," he wasn't asking, he never did.
He snaked an arm behind your neck and his fingers nestled on the back of your head, cradling you into pressing your forehead against his. Then, he was sliding back in. Your heat coating his cock with the slickest arousal, until his pelvis kissed yours, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran down your body.
You couldn't help the way your cunt fluttered around the base of his heavy cock, or the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head and his slender fingers wrapped a fistful of hair to keep you still. You couldn't help but find comfort in his warmth, finding comfort in his presence as his cock emptied inside of you, while he pet your hair, letting you ride out your orgasm, and he whispered- no, rambled on about everything you'd do together once you were bound to him.
Mike Wheeler, he always quite the storyteller.
disclaimer: any smut concerning st characters are aged up! this is the rule of thumb
mdni banner @cafekitsune
divider cr. @uzmacchiato
Forgive me everyone, I'm a rookie at Tumblr using. had no idea about these inbox submissions! I'm just now seeing them D: thank you to all who've read my work and left behind some kinds. My heart is full, knowing my writing has filled smutty voids
warnings: dark content, dubcon, reader and suguru were fwbs(?) prior to his death, kenjaku just wants a taste, p-in-v, unprotected sex, kenjaku uses suguru’s memories to his advantage
wc: 607
A/N: happy october! here’s my attempt at something horror related, super short. MDNI banner by cafekitsune!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Imagine left-in-the-dark reader, never made aware of Suguru’s passing. His disappearance was sudden but understandable and had never swayed you of your certainty in him. You admired this about him- the convictions of the world and his commitment to making a dream a reality. It was all why you swore fidelity to him, his purpose. Naturally, you believed that if anything happened, you would be one of the first to know. At least you convinced yourself of that.
You always knew better than to doubt him, you trusted him. So when there’s one, two, three knocks on your front door, you expect anything but him. It’s all a blur from here on out. He gives you no time to question him, to ask about his whereabouts or why there’s a healed stitch all along his forehead.
Instead, he invites himself in. He’s smiling, caressing the warmth of your cheek with the back of his hand. He’s burying his face in your neck and breathing you in, pressing his tongue flat against the curve of your neck to get a taste- and he groans. So primal. Desperate. Like there’s nothing in the world that he wanted more than to have your scent imprint the depths of his soul. Like he’s savoring you, for a memory he’s set to visit.
You, on the other hand, are grasping at what you can. The ends of hair, his biceps, the sleeves of his shirt. He’s rough with the way he touches you, it feels familiar and new at the same time but it makes you feel alive. You can’t be bothered to make conversation when he’s practically eating you alive.
It’s no surprise when your legs are being pressed so far up against your chest, your knees are pushed against one another. You whimper when he slaps the head of his cock against your sopping entrance; one that’s been waiting for him since he left. You let him take what he needs from you as he’s bullying his cock inside you, stretching you full. He has both of his hands on the back of your thighs to keep you in position. It goes on like this for a while.
The obscene squelching and his growling push you closer to the edge. He’s pressed in so deep you can feel him in your throat. You’re crying out to him like he’s your God and only he can save you from the ache in your body. He draws back only to push himself all the way back in, so he can snicker at the way you flutter around him. He brings a hand to thumb at your clit; rubbing in close circles, pushing down on the swollen button, to feel you tighten around his cock. Then he’s leaning down to meet you face-to-face, a wicked grin spread across his lips.
Only then do you get a clear image of what’s been ravaging you all night, and it wasn’t your Suguru. You thrash beneath him in response but he continues to ruin you, molding you around the girth of his cock. He has you locked beneath him, nearly crushing you with his weight as he drives himself home one last time and meets your eyes. The way your Suguru would right before-
“Wai-wait-!” A feeble plea cut short, you make an attempt to look anywhere else but he makes that choice for you. With an iron tight grip on your jaw, he’s demanding you look at him as takes you. You feel the way he throbs so far deep inside you, the way his chest rumbles with every drawn out groan, violating you in every single way Suguru had grown to love you.
And only then do you notice how it’s all so different. His touch is demanding, aggressive. His smile is depraved. You never stood a chance.
wanted to write a lil something about big brother naoya... this is my first time writing anything kinda long in a WHILE so i'm proud of myself :') i needed the practice so be nice to me. who knew all it took was incest and piss LMAO also can u believe i used caps for this one <3
tw for incest and piss, themes of humiliation and degradation (mostly the situation, "slut" used once), female reader (she/her prns and petnames like "baby girl" used), naoya is his own warning and he's kind of a dick, maybe a little clan-relevant misogyny if you squint, fingering, naoya gets a boney but this isn't about him, not really proofread u get what u get, naoya has a shitty accent and it's inconsistent
word count: 2.5k
Half an hour into your big brother's tirade, you realize you really need to pee.
All your objections fall upon deaf ears, your big brother telling you to shut up, stay quiet, or fuckin' listen each time you interrupt his ranting to try to ask. It's pointless. So instead, you bow your head in submission, whimpering from the painful straining of your bladder.
Fuck, you need to go. You're not sure how much longer you can hold it, but it's not for you to decide. You know your brother – when he's this angry, he could keep berating you for at least another hour.
You interrupt him once more.
"Please, nii-sama, I've learned my lesson, okay? I'm sorry!"
Above you, Naoya scoffs, arms folding over his broad chest. “I don’t believe that for a fuckin’ second. First you humiliate me in front of the elders, now yer talkin' to me like I'm some kind of idiot? Is that what this is? You think yer better than me?"
It's been a while since you've seen Naoya this upset. Even with his short temper, your sister antics usually only leave him mildly annoyed. Your brother doesn't take it lightly when he feels embarrassed – even worse, undermined – and by his little sister of all people. His little baby of a sister that's meant to walk three steps behind him, bow her head, speak when spoken to. Yes, Naoya-sama. No, Naoya-sama.
"No, nii-sama," you're weeping shamelessly at his feet, your face hot and hands fisting at the skirt of your kimono, all while your bladder strains painfully. "Please, I'm sorry! It hurts, nii-sama, please let me go."
It's probably a matter of seconds now, maybe a minute at best. You're begging, silently praying to whatever Gods are listening that Naoya will take mercy on you and let you up, let you rush to the bathroom in a technique-imbued sprint so you can finally get a release from this pain. You'll even settle for pity at this point, because if you let go now, release your bladder right in front of your brother – all over the tatami, all over your kimono – you'll never hear the end of it.
Imagining the walk of shame to the nearest servant, forced to explain the mess you’ve made in the other room with a heated face and head bowed in shame – all while your big brother laughs – sends a chill through your body.
You don't notice your head fell until Naoya cradles your face, lifting it up to meet his gaze again. He's crouched to your height now, both face and touch uncharacteristically gentle when compared to... well, everything else about him. His palm is warm, yet rough from nearly three decades of back-breaking training and battle.
For a moment, you think you're lucky. Maybe Naoya is finally taking pity on you after seeing you tremble, your bottom lip quivering and eyes wet with tears as you plead for his mercy. After seeing you look weak in comparison to him.
"Hey," he coos, caressing your cheek with his thumb, wiping a tear and relishing in the way you keen into his touch. His baby sister. His sweet girl that's depended on him every day since birth, relying on her onii-sama to guide her. "You know I'm not doin' this to be mean, right? Yer just... gettin' too mouthy for yer own good."
"Naoya-nii," you whimper, voice breaking. "I can't hold it anymore, please."
"Yeah, you can," he sighs. "Dumb baby, just shut up a second and listen to me."
Another gentle hand rests on your shoulder. When Naoya holds you like this, it almost feels loving. He presses a kiss to your hairline, dampened with sweat from your body's exertion. You take a deep breath, trying to will the ache in your bladder to go away. For a moment, it does.
"If ya mouthed off to anyone else, they'd throw yer ass in the disciplinary pit, but not me. Is that why you do it? You know you can be a brat to me 'cause I won't beat yer ass about it? Tell me."
You nod shakily. "Yes, Naoya-nii."
"Look at me."
You do. Naoya's features look softer, kinder, more like the brother you love. The one that would gently push on your back to make you bow when you were young. The one that held your hand and snuck you out of the estate during the summer to show you the fireflies. The one that, despite threatening to leave yer ass out to dry when he catches you meddling in places you shouldn't, always takes the fall for it so you don't get punished.
But he can only do so much for you. For now, at least. When the old man inevitably bites it, making him the clan head, he'll be untouchable. Therefore you will be too.
The urge returns. How did you forget?
Naoya watches your eyes widen, your lips part in a stammer.
"Shh," he soothes, silencing whatever you're about to say with his finger over your lips, then replacing the digit with his own.
The kiss is soft, you try and distract yourself with the feeling of his lips, more assertive than yours, and his tongue softly prying you open. The hand on your shoulder ventures lower, smoothing over linen, fingers digging under your obi to loosen it in a practiced motion. Eventually, he accesses the ties to your kimono, loosening that as well until the fabric parts, exposing your body to him, ignoring your whimpers and pleas of protest.
It's not that you don't want him to touch you, because fuck, you really want him to touch you, you're aching for it. It's the throbbing pain inside that looms over your head in a constant reminder. You can't do this right now. If his fingers touch you, god forbid enter you, you're not sure you'll be able to hold it. The slightest amount of pressure and –
"Look at you," Naoya sighs, allowing himself to be swept up in lust. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, hair tickling your face as his lips trail down your neck and nip at the sensitive skin. "So fuckin' beautiful. My beautiful girl, aren't ya?"
Still, you're keening into his touch. The linen of your kimono hangs limp over your body, Naoya reaches underneath it and palms your breast, groaning silently against your skin. The hand cradling your face repositions, caressing your jaw before pushing two thick fingers past your lips, leaving you no choice but to accept them. You do it dutifully, allowing your brother to glide his fingers over your tongue, even hollowing your cheeks weakly around them.
Naoya takes and takes. It's no different when it comes to your body. The blood rushes to his cock, tenting the fabric of his hakama as it swells. His hands only get greedier, moans sounding more desperate as he gropes at your body, feeling your nipples harden under his palm, your skin so unbearably soft. He wants to sink his teeth in you, mark you in places only he has the privilege to see. He finds the warmth of your mouth so tempting, so inviting, he can't help but push his fingers deeper. You choke around his fingers, coating them in a rush of saliva.
"Open your legs," Naoya orders, hand now resting atop your thigh, both of them still clenched tightly together, attempting to push them apart. Your eyes widen in panic.
"Naoya-nii, I can't," you mutter, shaking your head frantically. "At least let me go first. I'll be fast, I promise–"
"Nah," Naoya teases, lips curling in a sharp grin. "Trained you to be a real good girl, didn't I? You can hold it a few more minutes."
"I can't!"
"You will."
Your body acts on its own, betraying your will and allowing your brother to manhandle you into a position he finds more acceptable. Your legs open so easily for him, giving him access to your now unclothed pussy. Spit-slick fingers rub over your folds, gathering the wetness there. You let out a shaky breath.
"After all, it would be real fuckin' embarrassing if you did," Naoya drawls, his voice always takes on this soft, condescending tone when he teases you. "If you pissed yourself, I mean."
Naoya kisses you again, this time skipping the pleasantries and parting your lips with his tongue, greedily licking against your own to taste the inside of his sister's mouth. You're overextending yourself, trying to focus on too many things at once to forget how dangerously close you are to pissing yourself, because if you were to let go right now, it would get all over your big brother's hand – and then you really wouldn't catch a break. So you try to focus on the softness of his tongue, on the pleasure of his fingers finding friction over your swollen clit.
"I don't wanna," you whimper, voice sounding like that of a petulant child. "Naoya-nii..."
"No?" He mocks, nearly grinning from ear to ear. "Don't wanna piss yourself like a dumb baby? Then don't."
One hand grips your hip to steady you, the fingers on his other finally breaching the tight entrance of your cunt. Your jaw drops, mouth hanging open in a moan. His fingers are thick. He always gives you two right off the bat, claiming he's being generous and prepping you for his dick instead of making you take it. It's funny, how he loves you like that.
His sweet baby sister, opening for him like a flower.
Pleasure sparks through your body as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, providing the right amount of pressure in tandem with his prodding fingers. Your mouth hangs open, unmoving and pliant while his tongue licks into it, kissing the corner of your lips. The fullness of your bladder makes everything feel so much more sensitive, more responsive as your brother works his fingers and and out of your cunt, aided by your saliva and drooling arousal.
Knowingly, his fingers reposition and curve, finding that spot within you and targeting it with the pads of his fingers. It triggers what you've been fighting so hard to hold. For the first time since he started berating you, you move, hands clinging to his clothed forearm, clawing at it in desperation. Your body and mind are on two different pages, the little voice in your head still grounded in reality screaming for you to push him off. Maybe you could swing it with a desperate surge of cursed energy, but your hands urge his fingers deeper, keeping them pressed against that spot.
Naoya seems to like this, cock throbbing at the sight of you trying to get yourself off on his fingers. He can feel your pussy squeezing, sucking them deeper.
"Hey, you forget your fuckin' manners?" He reprimands, though the amused look on his face doesn't match his tone. He's getting off on this, the sick bastard. You know he is. "Gonna ask me first or were you just gonna keep humping my hand like some desperate slut?"
"Please, Naoya-nii," you blurt out, the tightly-wound coil inside you clenching tighter by the second.
"The fuck was that?"
"Nii-sama," you correct, pleading. It's so fucking close. "Nii-sama, please, can I cum?"
Naoya hums, pretending to think it over. His fingers plunge in and out of your cunt at a rapid pace, filling the small room with the obscene squelching of your arousal. Your hips move on their own, desperate to meet his pace, riding his thick fingers to chase the high. Maybe you have the restraint to hold it, let yourself cum on his fingers and still have enough time to rush to the bathroom before it takes a turn for the worse.
"Gonna pull that shit again?" He asks, pace not relenting. "Hm? Gonna lash out at me again like a spoiled brat when everyone can see you? Make me look like a fuckin' idiot?"
"No!"
"Yeah, better fuckin' not. Undermine me again and I'll kill ya. Now cum for me."
You don't need any further prompting. Your body goes lax, walls clamping snug around Naoya's fingers before releasing, soaking them in a hot rush of cum. He fucks you through it, not once stopping or slowing, narrow brown eyes watching your pussy coat his knuckles in a layer of milky white. "There's my good girl," he praises, soft but sweet, only ever meant for you to hear. "There's my good baby girl, that's it, let me have it."
It hits you for the last time before your orgasm even finishes, the relaxing of your muscles. You physically can't hold it back anymore, even if you could, it's far too late.
There's another surge of warmth, the wet sloshing of another liquid streaming from your spread legs and making a mess on your brother's hand, soaking the sleeve of his haori, soaking the tatami, trickling down your inner thighs in clear rivulets. Naoya's jaw drops, eyes widening at the sight. Even then, he can't fucking stop.
"What did I say, huh? Didn't I tell you to hold it?" His fingers press harder at your inner walls, ramping up the pace, desperate to fuck every last drop from you as his cock throbs under his hakama. "You're that incapable, can't even hold your own piss?"
You're fucking horrified.
"I'm sorry, nii-sama!" you sob. "I didn't mean to, I promise!"
"Yeah, yeah," he sneers. "Go on then, let it out."
With no other option, you resign yourself. Your body slumps forward onto Naoya's broader frame, shuddering, the urine releasing in pulsating gushes along with your orgasm, further soaking everything else. Hand, haori, tatami, even the linen of your kimono pooled underneath you. Your body is overwhelmed. Your face burns hotter, eyes drooping in exhaustion and relief. Blood rushes in your ears, heart pounding loud enough, you're certain Naoya can hear it.
The room spins.
Naoya's opposite hand rubs your back in a rare act of affection. It feels different from pity. He kisses the top of your head, then your shoulder, allowing you to come down slowly.
As the rushing of blood quiets, you're too ashamed to pull your face from the crook of his neck.
"Kid, look at me."
"Don' wanna."
"Come on."
Sniffling, you force yourself upright, still kneeling on your jello legs.
Still kneeling on the cold, soaked garments. Gross.
Naoya cradles your feverish cheek. You look cute like this, lips pouted, face absolutely debauched. His heart swells in his chest.
"I'm sorry, nii-sama."
"You kidding me?" He laughs under his breath. "You know how hot that fuckin' was? Almost came in my pants 'cause of you. Wanna see you do that shit again for me."
Embarrassed, you scoff and look away, but your brother redirects you, kissing you once more – chaste, but gentle. Reassuring.
After that, he leans back and starts undressing from the waist up, shrugging off his haori, working on his kimono, all until the soiled garments sit in a heap.
"Now go get someone to clean this shit up."
"Me?" You ask, incredulous, looking down at your disheveled form – still soaked, might you add. "Can't you go find someone to do it?"
"I wasn't the one that pissed myself, little sis. Now get out of here."
warnings: dub-connish, cult-talk, reader is a non-sorcerer and Suguru takes advantage of her admiration for him, reader is also his most subservient follower, submission, cock-sucking at the end
word count: 617
A/N: honestly, probably not my best work but I didn’t want to incorporate too many sexual themes into it because I wanted to put emphasis on their submissive-dominant dynamic. Also didn’t wanna drag it out
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Thinking about cult leader Suguru…
He’s not overly assertive, doesn’t necessarily force anyone into doing anything they don’t want to do, no. If people do things, with some threats here and there, it’s because they were always meant to do it. They just needed that extra push.
It’s what you convince yourself. When he’s pressing the sole of his sock-clad foot right between your shoulder blades, forcing you into a more respective bow with your cheek pressed right up against the chilled bathroom tile. Your hands attempting to push yourself back into a comfortable position, but he’s quick to put more weight into his step. And you think you hear a snicker when you fall back into place.
“Just teaching you how these things work, okay? I won’t hurt you.” His sickly-sweet promise tore any doubts you had about his ways of teaching. He was good at that. Good at breaking through the barriers of dubiety to build his own wall of security, with just his words.
You had things to learn, things to adapt to, and who is he if not the person to help you. He accepted you as you were and gave you a chance. Yet there was always a sliver of superciliousness hidden beneath his words, as if you weren’t worthy of being there. He’d lord over you and use you to his advantage, the way he did with every non-sorcerer in his game; you were no exception.
You follow him around like a puppy, picking up after him so selflessly. When he does something for you, you lower your head and show him your gratitude with resounding sincerity.
The way you do now
“Thank you..” you sniffle, voice barely above a whisper. You shake when he lets himself off of you. Tremble when you hear him pad over to the tub. Shudder when he whistles for you, asking you to come closer. Flinch when he tuts at the way you rise to your knees. And you obey when he asks you to crawl
He leans back as you inch towards him, listening to the soft thud of your knees and the gentle stick of your palms against the ground. You can hear it now, his voice. His words. His disappointment and it makes your throat tighten up.
You stop right before him and let yourself look up, that familiar smile already visible on his face. He was proud of you.
“You know what to do next, don’t you?” He starts.
You do.
It was a routine you had grown accustomed to. You’re quick to rid him of the confinements, free of his help, until he’s bare. He would never undress you, though.
Then he steps into the bathtub, sinking into the warm water and flicks his fingers towards the shower cloth.
You always know what to do next. So loyal, so submissive.
You wet the cloth with the water, soaping it next as you begin rubbing at his chest. His eyelids flutter open to watch your every move, watching the way you carefully wash him, the way you scoop up the water to rinse him off. You always avoid his intimate parts, averting your gaze, angling yourself away.
It’s futile.
Because that doesn’t stop the night from ending with his fat cock pressed inside the warmth of your mouth, refusing to reprieve you from the lack of air. His hands pressed together and locked behind your head to keep you in place, until he’s forcing a generous load down your throat.
Your gags, your whimpers, your tears, the dull ache on his thighs from your scratching. They’re all a gift to him.
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