currently working on a byler fanfic season 5 rewrite!! so not on this blog as of current as im pretty much putting all my steam into that :(( im not sure the current audience who follows me will be byler driven but if anyones interested ill link it when it comes out!!! also eternally grateful for all the wonderful support and lovely comments from you angels i promise i WILL eventually get something out for you guys xoxoxoxoxo love you all from the bottom of my perverse heart
âàšà§Ë. Ę picture you â± pervy!mike wheeler x reader
â± synopsis: mike wheeler stumbles upon your gym bag & then your panties .đȘœâ ĘâïœĄâàšà§Ë
â± warnings: pervy morally questionable subby mike!!! male masturbation, panty sniffing, handjob m!receiving
â± wordcount: 8400+
â± author's note: hello my angels! eternally grateful for all the love & support on my previous fic. also i had no intention on writing a monster fic this long but here it is! consider it a gift <3
â± mike wheeler is an awkward adolescent teenager, with gangled limbs & garbled words and a licorice-colored tornado of curls which does not conform to cooperation when beaten with a comb. mike wheeler is a friend that harbors a devoted gunmetal heart; he is kind & strong & rooted in loyaltyâa service dog, leashed to his friends since all the way back in the first grade. he is a good friend. he knows this means he is a good person. mike wheeler is a good person. or at least a normal one. mike wheeler is a normal person. but then again, mike wheeler is also a filthy pervert. he is sick & twisted, a mind slick with lust & a mouth full of teeth that tremble when he dares to trace the mental polaroids he canât stop conjuring up. and theyâre all shaped like you. he is too scared to say half of the things he does when he pictures you.Â
â± he canât rid himself of youâyouâre embedded, youâre fossilised, youâre here to stay. youâve set in him like calcium & heâs come to terms with it. a tender edged, star-speckled fantasy of a girl who lives under his skin, trapped beneath the bars of his ribcage like his second, illicit heart. his anatomy belongs to you, before its even his. if they cut him open and carved into the wet architecture of his brain, every groove & ridge would be shaped like the syllables that make your name. every piece of cranium meat would be preserving some sick fantasy heâd spun. something lacy & sunny & paradisial. something born of lies. heâs crafted one thousand false heavens shaped like the dip of your waist, the velvet wave of your hair. heavens heâs not allowed to enter.Â
â± and itâs not a crush, because thereâs nothing innocent about it; no pastel romance to indulge, no candy-coated confessions, sugared & hazy dreams of hand-holding or fleeting pecks to cheeks, no roller skate dates or milkshakes with two straws. all he has for you is a lust-driven hunger; a gut-deep ache for debauchery. for sex & sin. he hates the word pervert but he wears it anyway. a title he hangs above his head. because he knows thatâs what he is.Â
â± pervert because he wakes up & thinks about you. body slick with the drowsy heat of a dream he can reach but not yet hold; something foggy, something dissolving like sugar on the canvas of his tongue. something with lace or saliva-dampened skin. he wakes, almost always, with a halo of sweat crowning him against his pillow. plaid boxers lap at the stiff length of him, straining & creaking with the stretch. he tries to shake the shame off but itâs got claws in both sides and plans to drown him, eventually. pervert because he indulges in a pictureâof morning sex. of being woken, mind overcast & body lethargic, to your figure rocking gently against his morning wood as he slowly gains consciousness.
â± he thinks of spearing his hands across the jut of your hipbones, of easing your dawn-chilled movements with the guidance of his palms, knocking you against him to a slow & satisfying release. he thinks of drinking in your moans like morning coffee. he thinks of holding the angle of your jawline in his mouth. he thinks of how heâd whine, breathy & bewildered. how heâd cry out, regardless of who heard it, âshit, shit, shit, i love you. i love all of you. i wanna be all yours, please, please, please.â heâd tell you, âyouâre so pretty in the mornings. my beautiful girl.â and youâd say, âarenât I always pretty?â but youâd laugh, because youâd already know. if he had you, heâd make sure you knew.Â
â± pervert because he migrates to the shower with a head hung low, shaggy curls melting like shadows down the dip of his cheekbones & the arc of his prominent nose. his mornings begin with blistering hot steam lapping at his neck, searing water cascading around his angled body, a hand around his cock and the other wedged between his teeth. heâs got to bite down, to gnash at his knuckles, to leave raw fang-marks in the divots of his pale & delicate flesh. heâs got to muffle himself. otherwise, the wheeler household would wake to not only the white noise of shower mist, but also the rugged melody of your name, whined over & over & over again as it jumps out of his throat. it wants out, like it always does.
â± you strip him of his control, just as much as his morals. pervert. he dreams of you beside him; sudsed & soapy with the foam of lavender body wash or citrus shampoo. shower droplets glinting like diamonds across the expanse of bare torso and breast. heâd lap the dirt off your body to keep you clean. heâd suck germs out of the cavity of your collarbone. press his tongue against any sullied skin, if it meant you were rid of all filthâbesides his own, of course. his own dirty filth of a mind. filthy & grimy & sick. thatâs what he knows he is.Â
â± pervert because sometimes the feeling is so visceral that he physically cannot support the weight of his frame any longerâinstead slumping against the glazed tile walling of his shower, to prop his weak self upright. he will always cum all over himself, humiliatingly fast as he wanders various speculations of you. milk-warm ribbons decorating the flex of his stomach. it swirls down the drain, swallowed by silver pipework. pervert because he will wonder why he is so sick in the head. the hot water can erode the physical filth but the stuff inside him runs bone-deep. heâll never get rid of it.Â
â± pervert because he goes to school via the bus. this is a recent tweak to his typical routine. he used to bike with his other friends, tearing through foggy mornings & letting the air settle like dust in his stomach, converse slamming rubber bike pedals, long outworn & outgrown. but he realised this: you catch the bus. you catch the bus, from your houseâjuniper avenue, house number 42, a quaint woodland structure straddling hawkinsâ outskirts. practically tumbled into the countryside & perpetually distant from the school. it is not a close-by house. it is not a house within walking distance of the school. thus, you catch the bus. mike wheeler lives ten minutes from hawkins high, and thatâs on foot. mike wheeler has overslept most of his life & still makes it to school with minutes to spare. the bus is for priority students, such as yourself. mike wheeler is not a priority student. mike wheeler is a pervert & he has started catching the bus.Â
â± he sits one seat beside & two seats back from your claim-staked spot. his knees knock together & the vinyl whines gently every time he shifts. the air is tinny; metal walls & reheated morning breath & the faint sweet rot of overchewed bubblegum hidden beneath the seats. his elbow is too angular to fold into the windowsill & lean on, heâs discovered. the freshmen are caffeinated & alive & insufferably noisy. laughter melts off the chamber of the vehicle & he sits alone & broods into his crumpled figure. itâs not worth it. itâs never worth it. why does he do this? and then you shuffle in, and itâs worth it. itâs his one wise decision in his short seventeen years of living. hawkins fog gently creasing itâs cold into the crannies of your brittle bones, soft torso enveloped in whatever color youâve decided to don for the day, and it doesnât matter to him. heâs only ever thinking of how itâd look sprawled across his bedroom floor.Â
â± it is purely for admiration purposes. he absorbs you in fragments; the way one may hoard contraband. you arrive in piecesâa sleeve, a shoulder, a bag-strap shrugged off & abandoned beside you on the seat. he never sees your face properly in these moments, almost as if he hasnât earned it, yet. itâs too early in the day. he thieves quietly, from his peripheral vision. the fog that doesnât let you go, the chill soaked over your figure, in the divot of your collarbone & the dip of your shoulders & the length of your bunched up spine. he wonders what melody youâve wired into your walkman, wonders if he could ever buy the vinyl for you, spin it through your record player as he eats you out between floral printed bedding. pervert. sunlight cuts through the bus windows in thin, trembling blades, and its favoritism is plainly stated as it soaks you up, inside & out. dust motes orbit your hair. mike thinks if the world crumbled, even decay would treat you well. every moment frames itself to fit you.Â
â± pervert. he is a pervert. because he sees you, absorbs every delicate feature & undresses it accordingly. he will see the back of your head, the curtain of your hair, and imagine tugging it to elicit soft cries. he mentally reworks the convex dip of your two shoulders to become the perfect place for him to anchor his hands as he ploughs you. the notches of vertebrae along your spine are something he would count & then push against, to press you deeper into the pillowed embrace of your mattress. he likes to think heâd take control, but realistically he knows heâd crumble into salt the moment you touched him; yours for the keeping. heâd take whatever scraps you tossed him. any sliver of skin is deemed worthy by him, simply because its yours.Â
â± and because his perversions know no bounds, he pictures taking you right here. in the cramped enclosure between bus seats. lifting up that pleated skirt subtly, sitting against him, easing his length between the dulcet bracket of your goose-bumped thighs, your back to his chest. he pictures the way heâd rut upwards, the way heâd meet each bounce of your ass like an undomesticated animal. the way heâd whine loud enough for everyone to know what was going on. the way his breath, so heavy & so abundant, would ghost across the glass of the windowsill and block the idle scenery as it traipses past the bus in a blur. his head would rock back, against the seat. heâd say, âoh shit. oh jesus christ, honey, i canât evenâshit!â and heâd choke on anything else before itâd come out. drooling like a teething baby. heâd probably cum inside you. because you know, by now, what he is. pervert.Â
â± pervert. pervert. the anthem of mike wheeler is seven letters & two syllables. p-e-r-v-e-r-t. his heart pounds the letters; blood-soaked & in morse code. he has algebra one every morning. by default, it means he has you, every morning. he sits beside you, as decided by the seating chart drafted at the beginning of the year. he hates seating charts & yet he canât seem to be mad about this one. your nearness is a pressure system; this is as close as he will ever get to you. he observes with quiet reverence & hopes you never notice. itâs safest as a one-sided religion, anyway. mike wheeler is not a bad personâjust a hungry one.
â± the classroom dusts his throat with the scent of chalk & pencil shavings. there is graphite all over his hands & you all over his mind. every equation equals you, the solutions impossible without your presence. x doesnât matter, and you are his y. his why. why? because of the tilt of your head, when you think, the flesh of rosed lip curvature bleached white as your teeth sink into it, the loop in your cursive handwriting, the purple-ink that spews across your grid-lined pages. he presses his pencil hard, harder than himself in his jeans, traces black-lead lines into his page until it turns translucent. he reckons he could press hard enough to carve through his book, his desk, the floor, the centre of the earth. and heâd still circle back to you.Â
â± heâd fuck you here, too. heâd fuck you anywhere. but heâd fuck you here. heâd bend to the axis of your spine rocking against his. heâd acknowledge the parenthesis of your eyelashes, encasing each eyeball. the addition of each moan to the soft, chalk-mottled atmosphere. the division of your legs, to fit his lanky torso inside of it. carefully calculating the surface area of the desk so he can angle you against it, if pressed there. aware of weight distribution, of the fractions you form when fused, together. itâs improper. heâs improper. youâre the dominator & heâs the denominator, always bending under the weight of you. one hand to the side of your cheek, the other star-splayed against the deskâs width. knock-knock-knocking his pelvis with yours. he might be on top in a literal senseâbut in truth, heâll always be below you, lapping at your feet.Â
â± heâs a pervert, in the cafeteria. straight backed on the laminate table. ignoring whatever white-noise conversation the rest of the party is captured in. salivating over rubber mac n cheese & also the subtle swell of your breasts through your cardigan. he has an appetite that extends past food. mike wheeler is starving & it isnât for lunch. you laugh; mouth-filled with half-masticated meal, slurp strawberry milk, breath warm with the sickly sweet artificial twang of it. he is jealous of foolish things. the bend of the forkâs tine as you drag it over your tongue, seeking flavor long faded. the plastic cheese & pasta noodles, as they gnash to paste beneath your teethâat least they get to realise what the inside of your mouth tastes like. lord knows he never will.Â
â± and finally. he is a pervert every single darkened nightfall. his sick & comfortable routine. sliding his door close, letting it sing out with a soft click. twisting the lock & checking that the door is indeed, closed. checking that he is indeed secluded, protected, hidden. he does his best work when he is hidden. he will draw the blinds. flick his overheads down, until they are only at a soft dim, their lowest setting. and he will tuck himself into the navy embrace of his cool sheets, & he will reflect on whatever stolen moments of you that heâs managed to capture throughout the day, unspool these moments in the ridges of his mind. feel your figure wallow around his skull, reverberating soft laughter & sweet nothings. he will drink up these soft little memories he preserves, he will put a hand on himself, he will whine & rock & rut into this enclosed fist and wish to fallen angels & deities above that it was yours instead. he will finish with a breath-heavy vacuous call of your name, empty of consonants and covered in the warmth of his throat. heâll wonder if somehow, telepathically, you hear it. or the outline of it. in your own little house, your own little world, outside of him. he dares to dream & fears to wonder. he is sick and he knows it. but you are all he has.Â
â± and these perverse actions bleed in & out of every day. they follow him around like a rotting animal. classrooms to classroom to locker to hallway to his home. curling at the foot of his bed & waiting for the lights to go out. he tells himself he will change, and it is a lie every single time. says heâll outgrow you, like a child outgrows baby teeth & instead settles into molars. he says this and he never does it. he returns to his predictable patterns the way one continues to pick at the scab of a healing wound. he knows heâll never heal & so heâs knuckle deep in his own flesh, and he picks & picks & picks. the reopened wound remembers his name, & yours, too. it gapes on command, like it always does & suddenly heâs bleeding again. heâll always be bleeding. forever split open by the idea of you.Â
â± due to his ever-returning perversions (and he is getting tired of that word but thereâs really nothing else to describe it as), it is no surprise how he reacts to stumbling upon your gym bag in the changing rooms, at around 5:43 on a school evening. your gym bag is here because you are here because you are in the gymnasium because you are participating in some after-school dodge-ball related fundraiser. for some cause thatâs probably admirable; sick children or injured kittens or more science equipment. heâs a little fuzzy on the details, because when the class presidents were explaining said fundraiser, during the morning announcements, he was too busy admiring the slope of your velveteen thighbone & the soft satin fabric of the skirt that barely covered it. pink & checkered & impossibly too short. it was like a performance; the way the textile traced your skin, illuminated it.Â
â± it is very important to him, to note he did not intend to be here. the school, the changing rooms, your orbit. he didnât seek this out. however morbid his mind may be, he wouldnât, yâknow. stalk you. or anything. he merely entered the changing rooms under the intent of retrieving the sweater he left behind earlier, during phys-ed class. a simple mistake. an in-and-out encounter. he would find it, grab it, and then head home & rot away under his covers, like usual. nothing notable shouldâve come out of this visitation. except before he finds his sweater, there it is. there it is. half-zipped & awaiting him, like it was purposefully placed there. your gym bag.Â
â± it seems like nothing but itâs everything just because its yours. zipper teeth half parted & nike logo scuffed with age. slumped against the bench. waiting for him. he hopes whatever god above his mom tells him to believe in is shielding its eyes. this is the nail in his self-made coffin. he crafted his own grave & it is shaped like your body. & now he will die in it. you are the death of him. he debates with himselfâfor a good, hot minute. does he go through it? does he take it? does he run? just leave? a bag is a bag is a bag. theres nothing special about it, michael wheeler. he should leave. be respectful to your property & your privacy & holyshitholyshitholyshit who knows what he could find? discover? your deodorant & your sweaty clothes. okay. yeah. he never stood a chance.Â
â± he thinks of how objects remember people; how chairs keep the shape of thighs. how bedsheets preserve morning warmth, and thatâs what gets to him; he knows that you will be inside of the seams of this unsuspecting duffel. youâre not in the room & yet you will be smeared all over it. the stretches of fabric, the objects inside, the handles which remember the tight clench of your fists from where youâve held them. and itâs all he needs, to push him over the edge. he hates how his thoughts kneel to things that donât even realise theyâre being worshipped, but its how he is & its how heâll always be.Â
â± he approaches timidly. double-triple-quadruple checking over his shoulder that thereâs nobodyâs shadowing him, and there isnât. right now, he will indulge himself. and he does. fists clenching just so that they have something to do. heart doing that stupid thing where it tries to claw its way out of his chest. he dips into the pockets, and analyses the contents with the attentiveness of a forensics officer. deodorant, summer berry scented with a faded label & he takes it, untwists the cap, sniffs it gently. puts it back where it belongs. spare socks all bundled up & they invoke imagery of feet hitting gym floors & grassbanks & pavements. all the distance you travel. he tosses them from hand to hand a few times. and he puts them back where they belong.
â± spare hair ties which he stretches out with his fingers, testing the elasticity. and then he puts them back where they belong. a pen with bite marks all over the cap; he is cosmically jealous that it knows the inside of your throat. he puts it back where it belongs. cherry cola chapstick which he almost gives in to, almost smears all over his mouth like some sort of far-fetched, indirect metaphor of a kiss. but he instead puts it back where it belongs. he is proud of his self-control, in a way. he hasnât shoved anything in his pocket, hasnât violated your privacy completely. heâs only looking; amazed by the artifacts in the museum of you. all of this stuff would be junk to him if it hadnât belonged to you first. proof of your existence, personality crammed into the walls of the stupid pink girlish bag.Â
â± he finds your clothes, gently folded & placed in the bagâs corners, waiting patiently until you come back, change outta your exercise gear & back into them. itâs harder to control himself here; seeing the skirt you wore just this morning, the warmth still etched across the interior of your little pink blouse. the scent of linen & lavender bodywash is tender as it falls off the fabric & drowns him. but he manages to put it back where it belongs. it is the discovery of one garment; baby blue, lace-lined & dripping in the semi-sweet mellow of the forbidden space between your two legs that ultimately shackles him to the spot. your panties. ânope. nope.â he mumbles, to himself. he has a habit of self-speaking whenever heâs flustered. this is one of those times.Â
your panties are in his hand. he doesnât even know why youâre not wearing them. did you swap into fresh ones, for when you were exercising? prevent sweating into them? dampening this pair? are you not wearing any altogether? âokay. okayokayokay.â it doesnât matter to him. he canât think past the sky-colored ball of fabric that tangles into itself on his fist. he should put it back where it belongs. he does not put it back where it belongs. âyouâre being gross mike. this isnât good. shit.â he mutters. flummoxed. but ultimately he is out of control.Â
â± he tries to calm himself down. the fabric is just fabric. the lace is just lace. the little bow that is at the front of them; satin & sitting comfortably, insinuating your cunt is all wrapped up like a giftâits just a bow, just a fucking bow. the soft sugared whisper of scent that is just barely lingering in the pouch where your theoretical pussy would theoretically sit, is justâis a scent. a forgettable, typical scent. but he knows heâs lying to himself.Â
â± he doesnât have a choice. heâs face deep in fabric before he can even think twice. inhaling heavily, audibly, pressing the sloped crescent of his nose deep into material, submerging himself in an ocean of youyouyou. heâs drowning & heâs never been happier. pervert. all roads lead to it. & to you. he realises, now, once and for all, that this is what he is. pervert, pervert, pervert. michael pervert wheeler. alive & breathing in the fragrance you exude. âfuck,â he whispers into it. his spine bows & his shoulders cave; he must look ridiculous right now. dark eyes fluttering shut, getting completely lost in every sense he can extract from his lace covered sin.Â
â± his cock, inside his jeans, itâs rubbing & fucking aching. the denim is corroding like asphalt & he needs to do something about it. he really does try not to. he really does. mumbling to himself, âokay. câmon. stop it.â he croaks, bargaining with the empty room. âfuckâdonât be weird, mike, donâtâjesus.â but the moment has already claimed him. it starts with the cotton balled under his nose & ends with the ache in his pelvis. he holds the lace close; youâve always been part of him, some of him, half of him, now youâre all of him. heâs completely consumed.Â
â± the rest transpires accordingly. itâs scrambled. desperate. the way he paws at the jaws of his zipper, the way he haphazardly captures the flushed & swollen length of himself in his eager fist, the one that isnât holding onto the closest thing to your body heâll ever haveâthe garment that confines it. every thread pulls him closer, a lullaby he cannot stop singingâpervertpervertpervert wheeler. but heâs really given up caring & morals & any shred of dignity, otherwise heâd have abandoned his post here, minutes ago. he only has two hands; one for your panties & one for his cock, so thereâs nothing he can use to hold onto his sanity. his palms are full. no fingers left to cling with. & he doesnât care anymore.Â
â± he grips himself at the base; teasing as he drapes the gentle blue hush of your cotton over himself. it looks so comically out of place; something so feminine against the awkward jutting of his body, angles & hipbones & wiry fingers. but god, if it doesnât do the trick. he lets himself rut, swaying hypnotically into the fabric with these soft little sounds like heâs begging for mercy. a mouse underneath someoneâs shoe. spleen crunching with the effort. âfuck. mâso sorry. mâso sorry, baby, mâsorry, i canât help it,â he whispers into the cold & careless expanse of the empty changing rooms. his head lolls back & his throat rocks outwards. dark locks of hair are pressed backwards by the gravity of the movement. he shuts his eyes & lets you consume his field of vision. lets himself picture a perfect world where you stumble into the room & join him.
â± his fist continues its assault as he sees it materialize in a warm, honey-sweet harmony, in front of his mindâs eye. gym shoes squeaking as you approach him. as you press a kiss to his sweat-warm nape & tell him heâs pretty. replace his hand and do the work for him, creamy vanilla fists & velvet palms. gentle voice traipsing earthquakes down the bumps of his spine. itâd be impossibly easy to fall into you. every action & word. anything would spur him on. he speeds up. catching himself with each buck, tip prodding his palm & your lace with blunt force. honestly the friction burn is a little unbearable, but it heightens the experience, rubs his shaft all achey & raw. it feels visceral. real. like your hands could really be on his body, like your voice is really melting against his hot breath. mike. youâd say. iâm all yours, mike. youâd say. is someone in hereâoh my god. youâd say. wait. why would you say that? waitâ
â± his eyelids separate with a snap & his swollen black eyes settle forwards. on you. no. no. no. no. nope. nuh-uh. this is a bad dream & he will wake up covered in sweat & semen and he can return to his usual routine. he blinks twelve times but nothing changes. he is going to kill himself. he is going to tie bricks around his ankles and jump off the quarry like he tried to in seventh grade. no. this is not happening. there you are. you look as otherworldly as always; even with the sheen of sweat accumulated over your forehead, curling stray hairs at your temples that have straggled free of the high ponytail youâve fashioned upon your scalp. your gym shorts are offensively tiny & high-risen, your knee socks are cute & your bare thighs & shoulderblades are cuter. your face, curled up in a semi-repulsed frown, certainly not cute. his hand, floundering to tuck himself back into his boxers despite the damage being clearly done is not cute. the ruined orgasm isnât even the worst pain of the moment but it certainly doesnât help; weeping cockhead pressed uncomfortably back into his soggy boxers, shaky & overexerted hands balling up your panties to try and hide them. but its too late. it really is. this is the end of michael the pervert wheeler.Â
â± âholy shit. michael wheeler?â you sputter. disbelieving of the scene before you; eyes big & bewildered. donât look at me like that, he thinks. he pleads. the first time youâre properly looking at him & itâs with repulsion & horror. he lets out a jerky little sound of mortification, a whimper of sorts. face white-hot and sticky, freckles smudging with a red flush, ears ringing and heartbeat tasting metallic as it crawls into his throat & settles there like a dying carcass of an animal. he canât look at you. he looks anywhere but you. âtheâthe room was empty. thisâshit. the room was empty, whâwhy are youââ
â± âiâm grabbing my waterbottle.â you say. bluntly. his gaze flicks to where you point. purple plastic bottle rests near your bag. the bottle in question. if he pussies out of suicide he is going to have to flee the country. how are flights for spain, costwise? how long does it take to learn the language? he will sit on his ass with a spanish for dummies textbook open for the rest of his life, if it means escaping the horror that is this moment. âright. yes, of course. shit i am so unbelievablyâ-â you donât move. still hovering in the doorway. halfway between bolting & staring him down. âmike,â you say. slow & careful. âwhy do you have my panties. areâwhy are you jerking off with my panties.â he flinches like you struck him. heâs lost. nobody taught him how to have this conversation. âi didnât steal them,â he blurts, then immediately, desperately, âânot like, intentionallyâgod, that sounds worseâi mean, i noticed them in your bag, and i shouldnât have noticed them and then i shouldnât have touched them and then i really shouldnât haveââ he cuts himself off. breathing hard through his nose. âi crossed a line. i crossed, like, ten lines.â
â± âwhatâs wrong with you?â you mumble. ânothing!â he exclaims. hopelessly. âwell, no, something, clearlyâi meanâiâiâm sorry. this looks so pervy, i swear i donât have pervy intentions, yâknowâi donât, like, follow you around, or anything. shoot, iâm totally making this worse. uh. thisâŠiâm notâi didnât mean to, to do this. to you. i didnâtâi just came in here to get my sweater & then i saw your stuff & i swear to god i was just looking, and then, like, i donât know. god. it sounds so bad. itâit is. so bad. i shouldnât have done this. i know. okay? i know that. fuck. okay. this is where i shut up.â he stammers. completely floundering; eyes sticky & glassy & glued to the floor beside your sneakers.Â
â± you donât answer his little explosion of half-sentences. but he feels the need to fill the silence. âi justâyouâre fucking beautiful, okay? thatâs the reason iâm even, fuck. even doing this, i guess. youâre really pretty.â he blurts. band-aid officially ripped off his ever-festering scab. âand i think about you all the time, which i hate, but i canât stop. and i just saw your bag. and then i just, i thoughtâi didnât think youâd come in here. i never thought youâd, like, see me. ohmygod.â he croaks.Â
â± âdoesnât make it okay,â you mutter with soft bitterness. honestlyâyouâre not as mad as youâd think youâd be. heâs a little endearing, circumstances aside. trampled, doglike expression knitted tight. brows intertwining & big eyes teary. he knows heâs in the wrong. he does. that makes it better, right? surely itâs gotta count for something. âi know! i know i know, i know. i donâtâiâm not tryna excuse anything, jesus. this is all so fucked up, iâmâyou should be disgusted, iâmâi violated your, uh, privacy. sânot okay. totally.â he mumbles. all self-pitiful.Â
â± almost cute. heâs almost cute, you reckon. standing here, floundering. sporting a terribly blatant erection & a blush so rosed and rufescent it looks like a sunburn. heâs mortified beyond words, no matter how many he tries to spit out of swollen, nibbled lips. âi didnât take âem to be gross. i meanâobviously it is gross, but i wasnât thinking about that. i was just thinking about you, really. i know thatâs probably worse. way worse.â he swallows really really hard. his throat constricts with the action. he is suffocating. âi didnât even realise what i was doing until i was alreadyââ he cuts himself off, eyes going animatedly bigger. a cartoon. ânope. nope. not going there, sorry. iâm so sorry. iâm so disgusting.âÂ
â± however youâre supposed to react is completely lost on you. heâs caving into himself; like a locked jaw, like nail marks in the meat of a palm; moon-shaped and raw. heâs taut & tight. completely panicked. doubling over like heâs been kicked rough in the sternum. like maybe he expects you toâand you totally could. itâd be warranted. but you donât think you want to. heâs sorta really cute. his cheekbones corrode the fractured sunlight, warmth pooling across the canvases of flesh they provide. his eyes are thick & dark & endless, smooth as riverstones, refracting like water. glassy & rippling. freckles melt lazily from feature to feature; idle across his nose and his cheeks and whatever pale shreds of him are available. and his throat is strained & drawn tight like a clenched fist as he chokes down what you assume to be soundless little cries. heâs mortified in a way words will never do justice. pervert. but you think itâs sweet. itâs flattering. âdisgusting?â you mutter. âright. sure. maybe. i dunno. i meanâi see you looking at me all the time. youâre not exactly subtly. i probably shouldnât be surprised.â you mutter. & he deflates right into it. âsorry,â he whispers. yet again. âyouâre sorry.â you deadpan.Â
â± he jumps at that. an opportunity of redemption, however miniscule. âi am. i am. iâm so sorry.â hopeful. despite all this, heâs foolishly hopeful. maybe youâll forgive him. âi should be more grossed out, right?,â you huff, slightly disappointed in yourself. âbut youâreâhmm.â you pause. analyzing him. âyour handâs still wet.â you murmur. your eyes look different; darker. more unforgiving. expanding with an expression heâs unable to completely read. he blinks before he really understands what the fuck youâre even saying, too lost in the ash black graphite void of your pupils. they widen around him; like a bear trap ensnaring his twig ankles. body & soul, heâs shackled to you. âyeah.â he murmurs. not listening. before those brows of his twitch, involuntarily skywards. âwait, what?â his voice is dry, creaking like old staircases.Â
â± âyour hand. itâs still wet. from before.â before. his face significantly ripens, completely incandescent; redder & redder. are you trying to humiliate him? the constraint of a denim prison only gets more throbbing as his length makes crueler contact. harder & harder. you make him harder. you make everything harder. âum. iâm sorry.â he stumbles. âyouâve mentioned.â youâre stalking closer; so much so that the semi-sour reek of salt & sweat & summer-berry deodorant is asphyxiating him. he'd happily choke to death on the scent of you; let it breed in his lungs & overpopulate his system. his bodyâs always been yours, anyway. he is completely overwhelmed; sensory overload of you severing distance from him. inch by inch by inch. âyou didnât even get to come, huh?â he might die. maybe he already has. âwhâwhat? whyâre you asking me?â you shrug. he cannot read you. are all girls like this? just you? his head is a convection current; youâre rising & plummeting. again and again and again.Â
â± âwhatâre you doing? whyââ he stammers & you sigh. âiâm considering something.â you mutter. pressing a velvet palm against the side of his face, thumb skimming low against the angled boneline that strains through his skin. the contact floors him. his knees threaten mutiny. his eyelashes tremble around the image of you that is plain & before him. and itâs real this time. âdonâdonât.â he pleads. donât tease me. donât stop. donât leave me. donât hurt me. donât do anything because i wonât survive it & i donât want to traumatise you with my empty shell of a body.Â
â± âdonât what?â you say. tilting his wandering eyeline right back onto you. âdonâtâi donât know. shit. i canât tell what youâre thinking. are you gonna yell? you should probably yell. hit me or, i dunno. something. whatever you want.â he whispers. he swallows & you feel it all happen beneath your thumb. âyou think iâm beautiful, right? you said that?â you whisper. he nods. weakly. âhuh?â particularly dense. âoh! yes. yes. so beautiful. seriously. honestly, i donât care if that makes you mad, actually. iâll stand by it.â he croaks. âall the other stuff, yeah. very sorry for that. but i do mean it. i look at you all the time, i canât even stop looking. i think about you. like. all the time, too.â he admits. sheepishly. the admission hangs between you two like foggy breath stains on glass; plumes ghosting up windowpanes. fading & ephemeral. so he breathes again.Â
â± you step. even closer. knees knock down to the bone, foreheads kissing, shadow swallowing his shoes. you are his wildfire; charring his skeleton, his heartbeat, his entire being. you arenât saying anything and it makes him even more nervous. but what has he got to lose? he thinks whatever mechanism in his brain that allows him to feel shame has completely dried up, given how much heâs exploited it in the past ten minutes. youâre too close.Â
â± youâre far too close. your face is one pitiful inch from his. your noses are colliding. breath mixing & exchanging. your hand is drifting closer to his own balled up one. âwhat, uh, whatâre you doing?â his voice cracks like gravel underfoot. you ignore him. you reach into the pallor of his palm, his closed fist. tug out the same ice-blue panties that began the end of him. then you carefully extract his cock from where heâd hastily buried it to die, choked in a chamber of denim & checkerprint boxer short. the headrush he gets could cause addiction problems. âwoah, seriously, whatââ
â± you shush him. he obeys. he thinks heâd answer willingly to any command youâd give, right about now. what has he got left to lose? nothing. and heâs got everything to gain, everything to live out; this image of you permeates every soft-edged dream heâs ever dared to visualise; glitter pink smudges of pastel nail polish, cherry-ripened lips blooming in arches, smacking softly as they part ways. love-heart locket sitting upon your neckâs hollow. he wonders what secrets youâre keeping in the jaws of itâs sterling silver clasp, if he could ever shrink himself small enough & crawl inside it & live there, pressed into the metal & against the spot just above your heartbeat. the biggest secret of them all. heâd happily bury himself inside your jewelry, seal himself into the silver reliquary, if it meant being that close to any part of you. every part of you. his undoing. heâs dreaming heâs gotta be fucking dreaming. his cock hurts but his head aches more, twisting around the idea that you arenât fleeing & quite frankly repulsed at the sight of him. when your lanky digits press deeper against his hot flesh, trace tenderly along the chafed expanse, he lets out a puppylike little plea. âwhatâre you doing, baby. i canât.â baby. youâre not his baby. if anythingâheâs yours.Â
â± everything about you is painfully, viscerally female; sight & scent & smile. and he doesnât know where to put his eyes, so he leaves them on you. soaking up anything he might be able to keep when this is inevitably all over. with careful maneuvering, you cradle your own panties into the concave arc of your tender hand & owlishly blink at him. you wrap the panty-clad palm around his shaft & enjoy the way his pelvis uncontrollably snaps forward; seeking you out, chasing any illusion to more contact. itâs cute. whines leak out of the slot where his lips touch; he canât keep himself on a leash anymore. âholy shit, seriously? youâre gonnaââ
â± âshut up. or iâll stop.â you mumble. a flick of the brittle wrist & suddenly thereâs motion on him. the unity of your flesh & your dampened panty fabric on him is numbing; wet with his own foul excretions, drooling outta his indigo tip. itâs sinful & itâs gonna make him cum really stupidely boyishly fast. he nods ridiculously; eyes never once separating their settlement on the entirety of your figure. displayed shamelessly before him like every night in his bed. âthâthank you. thankyou. jesus. this isnât evenâahââ
â± he needs something to tether to. when you stroke over his tip with your thumb, he simultaneously bucks back into the action & also slams his own hand on your forearm, gripping the bare skin of the limb with a force so strong the tendons straining beneath his knuckles flex. a simple handy has him seeing stars, all âcause youâre the one whoâs pulling the strings. âyouâre so pretty, prettiest girl ever, yâknow? likeâyouâve gotta know. guhâshitâgotta know it. my perfect girl. fâme. shit.âÂ
â± you cradle the wilted droop of his balls in one hand, push the lace further into him with the other. he throws his head back at the action, punching a sob out of the cavity of his chest. âoh fuck. oh my god.â his throat is exposed; he swallows around dry air involuntarily, the canted twitch of his throat right there, before you. you latch onto it, leaving cruel bitemarks,, mottling & staining their harsh purple bruises against his flesh. his skin. he is warm & soft underneath your teeth. âtell me what you do.â you tell him. âtell me what you do, when you picture me.â & he winces because he knows whatever he tells you will drive you away. the sleepless nights imagining the sweat-crowned shape of you pressed into the mattress beside him. the sideline marvelling from his bus seat, praying nobody asks him why the hell heâs even there in the first place. every single class. every single hallway. seeking you out for a quick-fix, an addict chasing itâs next crumbling high, his drug of choice, his only choice. over & over & over. you pollute him. heâs intoxicated. & heâs happy in his decay. he answers you, tells you, because heâs always been a pervert first & a boy second. heâll answer to you. he always will.
â± his hands paw at you, hopelessly, as you continue your assault upon him, slick & lacy, your fist pumps with a speed almost painful because you want it to hurt. you want him to suffer. just a little bit. & he does too. the pain will make him feel like maybe heâs worth all of this. the raw ache is sort of enjoyable, in a masochistic devilish sort of way. he moans too loud for the little space, carves white teeth into the jut of his lip in a foolâs attempt to try & keep those stupid moans trapped there under the blade of his tongue. âanswer me. câmon,â you mumble, a little confused at yourself. you donât know why your hand is âround his cock instead of his neck, donât know why youâre giving mercy instead of malevolence. heâs disgusting! heâs a thief! but he ruts into your panties like maybe the rest of you will replace them, if he snaps his hips hard enough. you erase the fabric, replace the meshwork entirely. & heâs so cute.
â± âmmnghâshit. okay. yeah. sure, uh, when iâwhen i picture you? uh, i see you. youâreâit doesnât matter what youâre doing. anything, iâll picture anything. i like, i think of what you wear underneath your clothes, like, if you have a favorite color, orâor if you, i dunno, wear lace, orâor, jesus. anything! anythinganythinganything. it doesnât matter as long as its you whoâs doing it. and youâre smiling, andâand itâs always sunny, i dunno, sounds so fuckkkk. sounds so fucking dumb, but i justâits the only thing that can, like, yknow. make me, uh, make me hâhard, or come at all, orâ-shit youâre actually gonnaâkill me, i canât.â
â± he lets out a shaky windpipe breath, hot air fanning all over your face. heâs taller than you, way taller, but he folds at the neck & presses his face hesitantly into your hair. he waits for you to stop him, but the moment doesnât come, so he seizes the fleeting opportunity. inhales, shamelessly, the scent of leftover shampoo lathered up to the roots of soft silken hair; lingering suds of blossomy oranges, fresh juice & velvet petals, right all up in his features, embedded. he moans into it with a heaved exhale, like heâs snorting you & getting high off the fumesâstraight from the source.
â± âi think mâgonnaâ-likeâcome.â he breathes all heavy, whispering the confession like heâs done something wrong. something worse than everything else heâs got to his name, so far. every dirty sin you now know about. âi reallyâmngh. youâre gonna make me come. mâgonna come, tâtell me i can come, god, please, please, i need it,â he cries. his words are planted straight to the crown of your head, blooming tiny gardens of desire right into your hairline.Â
â± the sloppy echo of his cock repeatedly cramming into your tight fist only rings clearer & faster & louder as he desperately chases what heâs waiting for you to giveâheâs pushing his entire torso into each thrust into the chamber of your palm & the panties that you are making him fuck into. all six-foot-something of his gangled frame, slamming into the little cavern you create with five fingers all curled & tangled up. heâs spewing a faucet of stupidly sobby moans. his trembling hands have migrated to either respective shoulder, as if gripping tight enough will tether him on the spot, keep from drifting out of this room, out of this experience. if this is a dream, he is trying to latch onto it with all he has; remain in the safe sanctuary he has created, strewn inside the hawkins high changing rooms. who knew heaven was four sweat-simmered walls? who knew heaven was duffel bags & stale deodorant? who knew heaven was even attainable, for people like him? never wake up mike. never wake up. never wake up. he wonât let himself do it. another morning recovering within his comforters & his own outline of moist perspiration may actually be his final straw. âplease, lemme come, câcanât do it till you tell me to.â he sniffles. how pitiful.Â
â± âlook at me.â is your firm ultimatum & it is cartoonish the way he snaps his head up to do just that. dragging his eyeline out of the field of your tresses and directly smushing it close right against you. if he was a romantic, heâd steal a kiss off your lips, catch one & smash it against his own, swallow it down and let it breed its sugared toxins in the cavity of his chest. lord knows he wants to. but he doesnât because he doesnât know what the hell this even is. you should be slapping him for his audacity, for the theft of your belongings & the subsequent soiling of them with his own filthy desire, but you havenât. you shouldnât be offering him pleasure right out of the palm of your hand, but here you are. he wonât risk losing it, whatever âitâ even stands for. its nothing more than a filler word.Â
â± his pupils are engorged and reflective. people sometimes talk about their lovers, people sometimes say, i wish i could see myself through his eyesâand now you are. dark & mirrored, you see yourself through his eyes; the glossy stare of them shows your figure blinking right back at you. his lens makes you seem softer, prettier, forgiving. curved edges & sweet angles. youâre not sure what prompts you, but before he can sever completely, you stretch the panties out as best you can with one hand, still handling his cock in the other. you cup the fabric & curve it into somewhat of a net. you stroke him once, twice, thriceâand mumble. âcum in them. right in âem fâme, mike. thatâs it.âÂ
â± and heâs gone. âhngghhhâ-yeah, yeah, yeah, ohmygod, yesyesyes. shit.â he breaks out into a rising scale of whines, up & up & up the octaves until he might shatter the glass of the small window above him. creamy alabaster ribbons spew out of his rosy tip, completely red like the warmth that his entire face soon becomes. âfuck. fuckfuckfuck. ohmygod.â he is whining like a dog put down. your name creases as it tumbles free from the binds of his teeth, over & over & over. he comes hard. he comes lots. he comes all over the delicate frills of diaphanous fabric, pale pastel blue smothered in ivory spills of himself. it doesnât seem to end, heâs been pent up & waiting for a while. waiting for you. âoh jesus, sâtoo much, iâi canât.â he needs to cast a mould of this moment, slip it into the waistband of his jeans, capture it forever.Â
â± his flaccid length sags into the eager mouth of the fabric & you mop up the sensitive flesh with a few final strokes. he weeps overstimulated mewls. he gazes dreamily at you. stiffly; he stands, like a wooden board, taut in every limb. âsoâŠ.âÂ
â± without word, you cram the droopy, damp pair of panties into his jean pocket. the sodden material rubs against his denim, already leaving off-white blooming stains & he will cherish them until the day he dies. you go ahead & give him the liberty of tucking his cock back away into his boxers. you reach for that waterbottle you originally sought out; admire the shade resemblance, from the purple plastic of it, to the billowing marks of teeth & tongue youâve etched into his neck. you press a cherry-chapstick peck against the gaunt dip of his cheekbone. he is starstruck & frozen solid. if his chest wasnât expanding, rapidly swelling up & down with each heavy pant, youâd assume him to be dead. ânot a word of this, wheeler.â you mutter. as if heâd dare humiliate himself. âyeahâyeahâi wonât sayââ but youâre already gone. sneakers whining your departure as they thud with grace across the floor. out the door. youâre already a fading fantasy. ââa thing.â he finishes. dumbly.Â
â± pervert. pervert. pervert. michael pervert wheeler. he will never live this down. he will never let this go. he catches his own vacant expression, spat back from the mirror above the communal tap & sink, fixed on the opposite side of the room. âget a grip.â he mutters, blinking away the accumulation of teary briny moisture, that has settled like dusk in the curve of his lashline. he has been completely & utterly undone by the predicament that is you. he needs you around. do you picture him like he pictures you? he swore that you wouldnât.Â
âàšà§Ë. Ę yes to heaven â± virgin!mike x popular!reader
â± synopsis: mike wheeler ends up wedged in the janitor's closet with the angel of hawkins high. .đȘœâ ĘâïœĄâàšà§Ë
â± warnings: penetrative sex, foul language, female anatomy depicted reader
â± wordcount: 5500+
â± heâs got his eye on you. quite frankly, everyone in town has got their eye on youâyouâre perfection personified. a true angel haunting the neighbourhoods of hawkins, a syphus wearing the cinnamon-soft skin of a mortal body, a soft-edged miracle roaming sidewalks & cul-de-sacs & the soulless school hallways. seraphic light stuck into teenage bones, carved from crystal, yet breathing the same tired indiana air as everyone else & mike doesnât get it. youâre heaven sent & yet stuck, slumming it here in the wasteland of cornerstores & cornfields that is hawkins indiana. some bored god mustâve dropped you here by mistake, to see if anyone would notice. some sort of deity-driven prank. well, mike wheeler has very much noticed.Â
â± he means it when he describes you as perfectâyouâre no more and no less; all sugar-spun soft locks of hair bleeding down your spine, pink ribbons and pinker cheeks, a sugarcoated psalm of a girl leaping from classroom to classroom like lazy sunlight over stained glass. you are draped in the scent of faint frangipani & vanilla & adolescent daydreams, your laughter sounds like weeping piano keys, and everyone adores you for it. even the sun bends to your will, constantly following you around & illuminating your statuette from behind like a lovesick worshipper. and mikeâpoor, smitten mikeâmimics its rays, becomes a second little sun just inches behind the first one, swallowing your footsteps. hot on your heels. soaking up your glory from the shadows.
â± he yearns for that smile you lend out to others; strawberry-sweet & saccharine, the color of pearl. he yearns for the melody your bangles make upon lithe wrists. he yearns for the flavor of lips glossed peach, yearns for the glow of full cheeks blazed rosy, yearns to memorise the subtle contours of your figure as it arches in cold cobalt levis, yearns to place his fingers across the slope of your noseâs arc, read the braille of your freckles, study the architecture of your face, the structure of the features that have tattoed themselves onto his frontal lobe. the memory of you is not quite as sweet as the real thing, but to be honestâitâs the best he has. itâs not like youâve ever even spoken to him properly.Â
â± heâs a loser, and he canât have something as sacred as you. his body stretched over the summer and he hasnât mastered maneuvering it. he is awkward & gangly & juts out at odd angles. his voice still cracks occasionally, like young fireworks or popping vertebrae. he has strange interests, wizards & warlocks & wiverns. he likes galaxies, and thus there are planets painted on his bedroom wallpaper. theyâve been there for his whole childhood. he has an entire universe to lose himself in, a literal one etched onto the plaster around him, yet every night, without fail, his orbit curls back to you. the center of his gravity is rooted in an all-american bone white smile & baby pink kitten heels. heâs got no chance of holding you, having you, knowing you, but sad boys can dream and so he does too.Â
â± he mourns you like a soldier mourns his wife from the battlefields; craving the face he knows he wonât come home to. he paints perfect little fantasies where you know his name & say it breathily, mould your mouth with his, fold your body into the open alter of his palms, absorb the longing he exudes for you and let it live beneath your ribcage, carving out a little slice of the heaven you carry just for him. itâs a very much look-but-donât-touch type of crush, he learns. like heâs a child with sticky hands blooming against the glass window of a candystore; heâs forever salivating in front of ripe sugared paradise, yet his teeth will never learn its flavor. in his eternal purgatory he is forced to pretend he can properly recreate it with other girls. with his mind. his memories. his imagination.Â
â± his friends all tease him relentlesslyâfor pining over a âplastic hallway princessâ as according to dustin, and tell him he has more chance of âpassionately tonguing down steve.â he ignores them all, because why would he let you go? instead he marvels, as you sit. speak. eat. youâll bite an apple and heâll find himself wishing it was the skin of his neck. even the cafeteriaâs sickly lighting canât dim you, in factâeven it seems to work in your favor, cradling your features in a burst of artificial fluorescence that mimics the sheen of heaven itself. but maybe heâs biased.
â± he watches with unhideable fascination as you cram your dark eyelashes into some medieval looking handheld device and depart from it with them looking even loopier and gravity-defying than before. nancy never desired barbies, but if she had, heâs sure youâre the splitting image. freshly torn out of a plastic box, and gracing the world with your doll-like, delectable presence. he tries to tell himself he wonât spend another empty day dwelling in his mental movie reruns of fantasies of you. itâs a lie, of course. he couldnât even convince himself.
â± alas, mike would learn to grow content with his routine of sideline piningâor as close to content as he can with this you-shaped hole knocking around in the rhythm of his heartbeat. he canât ever truly ignore it; but he can keep it at bay, like a moth concussing itself as it bounces off the walls of a mason jar. heâs caged in the boundaries of his own longing. youâre everywhere he tries to run.Â
â± youâre in history class, and youâre laughing your way through a tragic civil war presentation, sunlight in human form, notes half-wrong, grin fully right. heâs in the front row, breathing projector dust & vanilla & fabric softener. your eyes catch the light and they gleam like stars. he knows those stars. heâs studied those stars. he stuck those stars, glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling in the second grade, stared at them until he memorized every shape. yours are the grownâup, dangerous version. they are alive & they are moving & they are warm. you scramble through terrible descriptions of the battlefields & the bloodshed, and all he can think is that the galaxies would sell their big solar system souls to match the black-hole pull of your pupils. thereâs enough space in them to swallow planets, to cradle universes, to ruin boys like him. and now heâs fallen into your orbit once again. & again. & again.Â
â± youâre in the gymnasium, sneakers squeaking on the lacquered wood floor, manicured fists clutching green tinsel, shaking it at some mandatory pep rally, captain of the cheer team &, (god help him), captain of his heart. heâs brooding on the bleachers, perverse as he admires the curvature of velveteen skin as it peeks from where the uniform rides too high, how it flashes like a dare. you shake your pompoms & try to conjure enthusiasm out of the bored classmates that inhabit the bleachers alongside him. he doesnât believe in school spirit, but he believes in you.Â
â± youâre there when he tries to walk home. his sneakers scuffing along cracking concrete curbside, just to give his lanky limbs something to do. head low & heart lower. he watches as you and your flock of brain-dead aquaintances pile into an offensively magenta camaro and zoom off into the mottled gray hawkins horizon, exhaust pipe spitting ash like halos in your wake. sigh. sigh. sigh. heâs been cursed; heart of a yearner, confidence of a cornered mouse. heâs spineless. heâs hopeless. heâll never have you. heâs completely convincedâheâll never have you. so imagine his surprise when he ends up with you in the janitorâs closet.Â
â± he doesnât know how he landed himself here. wedged between mopheads & dirty buckets & the gravity of your body tumbling back into him. heâs drowning in daylight, in the faint reek of lemon disinfectant and subtle mildew & yet this tiny ugly little room becomes a cathedral when you step inside of it. heâs the only thing in hawkins thatâs strong enough to hold your light. still, itâs a place for dirty things, forgotten things, like all the filth & grime thatâs accumulating in the stale air, thatâs webbed between every mopâs bristle. he supposes that whatever happens between the pair of you here will soon too become dirty & forgotten in quick succession. the bulb above you sputters to life in a single golden gasp and traces the slope of your cheek, the arc of your mouth, the sugared gleam in your eyes; you are a comet skimming low, roaming the bleach-tainted surroundings, scattering impossible miracles. you are his impossible miracle. how is he in here right now? with you? his luck needs to be studied by scholars.Â
â± and heâs all panicked, hiked breathing & eyes large & wide & so impossibly brown. theyâre coffee colored, cappuccino-lit foamy mornings, caffeine in a chipped mug, warm & slightly burning. theyâre a forkful of mudcake, cravings of cocoa crumb scraped off the roof of a mouth. whatever he is, itâs almost edible, itâs indulgent, itâs all-consuming. maybe thatâs why youâd set your sights on himâyou wanted to see if you could swallow him whole. heâs concerned that heâll combust before you get the chance, though. because heâs scared. heâs nervous. heâs never done this before, heâs never done this before. he is a panicked little virgin with a tight throat & tighter jeans, sandwiched been rusted shelving and an angel with a flirty gaze & a goal, a goal which involves a performance that he maybe canât give you.Â
â± the air carries the scent of your perfume & the stuttered gulps of his nervous breath. the dust flickers welcomingly around your face in a soft bokeh, glinting in the severed beams of wilting afternoon that creep in through the slats of the blinds. once again, the sun answers to illuminate you. âiâve never done anything. like, anything at all.â he mumbles. you nod, not minding, of course. he is still struggling to comprehend the gravity of this situation. you are an inch from his face, at best. he could fashion a home in the space between your steady inhales & exhales. the rise and fall of your chest beneath the lilac cardigan embracing your body. the distance that journeys between your mouth and his own. itâs getting increasingly smaller. heâs getting increasingly harder.Â
â± âdonât care, mike. i can show you the ropes,â you joke. heâs more surprised you know his name than your eagerness to have sex with him. he says, âyeah?â and you go, âyeah,â and thereâs a silence which doesnât make him want to blast himself out of a canon, which is a welcome change. the quiet isnât fully quiet because heâs breathing so heavy; a little ambience to the scene about to unfold.Â
â± he catches a recirculating inhale of your fragrant aroma beneath the notes of stale, recycled atmosphere in the room; some nectar-sweet whisper that reminds him of summer, of fresh berries, of vivid indigo juice staining fingers at the corner of mouths. he wants to stain his skin with you, also, but he doesnât wanna act on it, so you have to do it for him.Â
â± the first kiss is hesitant on his part because there is too much thinking & not enough enjoying. heâll register everything & nothing all at once; the burn of lips under his mouth, the flavor of spearmint & honey, the fingers which thread in his hair and his own which stay awkwardly stiff barring either side of his equally as rigid torso. his first kiss & itâs stolen in a janitorâs cupboard with the schoolâs precious nymphette, a dream of his; day dream, wet dream, surely just a bedtime dreamâhow is this happening? he is going to wake up any moment. youâre all smeared over his mouth. lipgloss will forever taste like you.Â
â± he stands utterly still, bewildered to the point of complete rigidity. a wooden plank under your coaxing hands. when he doesnât reciprocate, you pause, and tear your lips away from the warm sanctity of his own chapped pair. you blink with feathered eyelashes and cheeks pink like strawberry syrup & bubblegum & anything sugared. cavities already line his gums and he welcomes them with pride. âdid i read this wrong? shoot, sorry mike. i thoughtââ and he cuts you off. he scrambles at the idea of messing this up. he will not lose this miracle due to a failure to act upon it.Â
â± it takes a moment for him to find his voice, cause heâs got to actively detach himself from your eyes. when he does manage to find it, its fragile and not quite solidified, tense around the edges like shattered glass. âno.â he blurts. âno. god. no. thatâs notâi didnât meanâi didnât not like that. not at all. trust me.â his breath catches on every second syllable he sputters. a faucet of trembled incomplete sentences. âi like you.â you raise a brow. âi really like you. i have for ages, its sorta really embarrassing, actually. iâve just, yâknow. never⊠never done any of this stuff before. especially not with someone like you.â
â± âsomeone like me?â you ask. heâll become perpetually more stammered, expressive brows colliding with each other, pinching the skin above his forehead, creating ripples that crease all the way up to his scalp. âshit, god, okay that sounded awful. i didnât meanânot someone like you as in, a bad thing. i meant, yâknow, someone like youâpretty. popular. you should be, like, stuffing me in a locker, or something.â he laughs, awkwardly, his breathing textured like sandpaper.Â
â± youâd snort at him. âi donât think youâd fit in locker. youâre tall.â you mutter, hands spanning along the expanse of his elongated pale limbs. heâs wiry but not emaciated; enough meat on him to portray his masculinity without looking stiff & muscular & inflated. you like it. and he blushes, red hot & melting. âtall.â he echos. what else can he say? his tongue is ribboned around itself. tied up.Â
â± âyouâre pretty,â he mumbles in the gap between exchanged metallic oxygen, souring softly. afternoon is dying like a star but it doesnât matter because heâs got his own one right here, cradled in his arms. you send him a syrupy smile. âoh yeah? you think?â and he shakes his head. âno, fuckâi know it. everyone does.â he mumbles. âyouâre so flustered,â you giggle. âiâm not flustered.â utter lies. âjust, uh, just sorta tryna process this.â he mumbles. you frown. âprocess? process what?âÂ
â± and heâd say. âyou. mostly just you.â thereâs shrinking distance wedged between your two faces; like magnetized metal drags you right back to him, right onto him. his eyes get browner, darker, more swollen with lust or longingâyou canât discern which one it is but right now it doesnât really matter. you act on the imprint of desire moulded in his irises, you pull him in again for a better kiss. a real one.Â
â± now heâs more grounded. he kisses like heâs trying to suck you into his lungs, trap you in his ribcage under where his heart stumbles over the rhythm of its beating, thumpthumpthumpthump is the melody that grows in him. his tongue wedges under your own, you have no choice to swallow every breath that he spills into your throat. he hopes you donât pick up on the whiny little wounded noises he emits, like some animal down the barrel of a rifle, like something pleading for mercy. can you blame him? heâs on the cusp of catharsis, right here. on the edge of a cliff, tasting the smile heâs lusted after for months. he doesnât fall, he floats. heâs so fucking dizzy.Â
â± youâve still gotta guide him through it. heâs sloppy, and each tactful glide of your tongue puts his own slobbered efforts to shame. you thread manicured fingers into the spiral of his chestnut curls, you tug a little, and he whimpers. not a debatable matter, sorry. heâs already panting into you, sacrificing all oxygen for serotonin instead, canines gnashing with your own. one yank really rips the sounds out of him, head craning to try and conceal it within your own mouth. it doesnât work.Â
â± every action of his would seem like question; the gentle hand that braces your hip, or the other one which cradles the satin waterfall of hair that leaks down your shoulders, protecting your skull from the metal of the shelf that looms behind you, the one your pressed into. heâs considerate like that. and it doesnât haltâthe further you go. the less you wear. itâs dizzying; the breadth of his palms carefully prying fabric off your respective figures, clothes shedding like wilted rose petals and collapsing with a mellow sag on the floor. you appreciate the pale & freckled plains of his boyish torso just as he marvels the sight of not just any pair of breasts, but yours.Â
â± and heâd just have to tell you how heâs feeling, announce it in case youâd read it on his face before he had the chance. a sort of make-the-joke-before-someone-else-does mindset he never really shook since childhood. so itâd be all, âholy shit, youâreâmy god. i mean, i thought youâd be pretty, but i never thought, like, this was evenâpossibleâŠâ heâd traipse off. staring, mentally preserving a polaroid of supple skin cupped in subdued cream lace. itâs perverted the way heâs banking that vision, folding into the forefront of his mind, for later use.Â
â± and because youâre in this cramped claustrophobic closet and thereâs minimal time and somebody may enter at any moment, he doesnât have time to do anything he really wants toâno time to work you open on those fingers that seem to go for miles, no time for you to train his mouth to trace the nectar that is smudging between the bracket of your honeyed thighsâbut he wants to. maybe next time, he thinks greedily.Â
â± itâd be a fast endeavor. his hands would scope & seek, searching each slant of skin for something, anything, everythingânothing at all. he looks perfect; sweat pricked from the temple down, bony angles and broken breath, his collarbone stretched like wings out before you, his sentences failing to fall out of the confines of his tight throat. it doesnât really matter; youâre not here to talk.Â
â± you scour his boxers, seizing his cock from the superman patterned fabric cage. itâs impressively long, pale and flushed at his tip, all rufescent & dribbly & the second your gentle fingers make contact everything tenses, and his puppy-gaze only further congeals into every feature. his brows, which kiss animatedly and draw upwards, folding lines into his forehead, and his big eyes which struggle to stay trained upon you as they flutter. his dark eyelashes feather & frolick, the weak bulb-light overhead melts through them, drips into the concave dip of his pronounced cheekbones, glistens over his pale skin, accentuates a freckled galaxy that settles across the bridge of his nose. heâs as angelic as you, even if nobodyâs told him yet.Â
â± admittedlyâheâs sickeningly nervous. the first person seeing his cock is human artwork; from the brushstroke outline of your celestial figure, to the watercolor smears of everything thatâs packed into it; eyes, lips, lashes, supple skin & tender heart. but youâre encouraging. admiring. a thumb pawing the slit of his pinkish tip, the coo of your voice all, âsuch a nice cock, mike. all for me, huh?â and all he can do is nod. its nod or bust violently all over you, like, right now. so count your blessings.Â
â± without anything to do with himself, he resorts to another kiss which is very him heavy. hiccuping & stuttering like a roadside dying creature, little animal noises spewing out of him and into your throat, your lungs. its slower than before because heâs indulging, extracting any flavor he can from the arch of your lips, the roll of your tongue. he kisses you because he has nowhere else to put this shaking.Â
â± youâd guide his cock right into you hastily, so hastily that your panties wouldnât even join the rest of your clothes in the polyester graveyard youâve created below youâinstead youâd haphazardly glide them to the side, lacy thong out of the way to reveal the slickened-honey spew of wet & warmth that sheens between your thighs. the lush scent of you is killer; melted amber drooling right before him. a filthy alcove thatâs tumbled straight out of his sickest fantasies. and he gets hard all over again. his dadâs old playboys are one thing, but this? this is art, this is something he feels sorta guilty for even looking at.Â
â± âyouâreâ youâre soâŠâ he swallows hard, words molten on his tongue. âwet.â and you say something corny like, âall for you, mikey,â and nobodyâs called him mikey since second grade and itâs such a predictable line but heâs falling for it all anyway, throat creaking with the effort as he tries to grip himself at his base to prevent anything from erupting out of him too soon. itâs fumbled and adolescent; the condom and the way he struggles to sheathe it, the way he apologises between gasps.Â
â± he slides in with minimal frictionâthe shared concoction of his own pearlescent precum and your slick aids in an easy entrance. he grips the shelf behind you. clamps it so hard his knuckles bleach white to the bone with the strain, and his other splays across your exposed hipbone, kneading little circles into the dough of your flesh, which stabilises himself maybe more than youâbut its a sweet gesture all the same. he narrates the entire process, painfully chatty.
â± âokay, okay. iâm just gonna go in, i guess, right? thatâs okay? right? youâre okay with this, with me, with⊠everything? you totally wannaââ and you just have to cut him off. âmike.â and he blinks. âyeah?âÂ
â± âbreathe. i want this, câmon. donât leave me waiting.â he flounders a bit. lips covered in the residue of peach kisses, swollen and syrupy. he stutters his breathing and pushes in, bit by bit by bit because heâs struggling to tamp down the desire that is stacking up fast. youâre tight. youâre tight and youâre warm. youâre here with him. in his arms. under his hands. his fingerprints live upon you now. in the cavern of your cunt, heâs now nestled. your body welcomes him with a clutch that makes his entire structure shudder. his breath knotting. his spine arching. his sanity thinning to a sweet, fragile thread. and he is very loud about it. âohmygod. shit. shitshitshit. oh jesus christ. i canât do this, oh shit. holy crap.â
â± you laugh at him as his moon-pale cheeks warm. his fingers carve into the flesh of your waist, the dip and crest of it. heâs really trying to swallow all these embarrassing cries but they are slipping through the gaps in his teeth. he needs a hot hot minute. his forehead bows to you, he rests it, sweat-salted on the top of your head like heâs praying into your skin. damp curls & heavy panting heat your scalp up as he tries and fails to maintain a shred of his masculinity. but he never really had a shot at that, did he? youâre here, half-naked, all-his. even if its just for this severed moment. you droop dreamily towards him. mike wheeler, youâve officially peaked, he thinks for a second.Â
â± you moan into his skin & it blooms there. âis it okay? iâm not hurting you or anythâanything? tell me if i do, yeah? tell me if iâm too much, or, i dunno. not enough. i justâi just wanna make it g-good. for you. so good. mm.â his eyes roll back and white creamy sclera greets you. âshoot, you feel insane.â he croaks. aw, bless his heart. he has no idea what heâs in for.Â
â± youâve gotta ground him. you press a hand between sweat-slick shoulderblades, that flex like wings beneath your feathered contact. you stroke the vague divot between them in circular motions. âis it okay like this? i canâi mean, i can move if you want, orâi donât know. guide me. tell me what to do, i wanna get it right fâyou.â he slurs. cuntdrunk & cross-eyed before youâve so much as slid up and down, yet.Â
â± when he does move? yeah. itâs a little proddy. he needs a few scattered minutes to get his rhythm going, exploring the walls of your chamber with an expression like heâs been struck across the face. he looks teary, he looks as though heâs rooted in a visceral, aching agony. in a wayâthatâs you. you are his agony, his undoing. his first time & his only timeâthe only one thatâll matter, in his opinion. it feels like heâs flying. soaring. you rake nails down his vertebrae as he stumbles upon the good places all deep up inside of you; g-spot, cervix, any little clusters of nerve his fat cockhead manages to stab. his flesh gets beneath your french tips as you dig at his back; but the pain makes everything more raw. he laps at your neck, drinking your pulse, shackled to you, in you, around you. fused.Â
â± he sullies the slot between your neck and your shoulder with ripe indigo bruises. he doesnât really know how to do it right the first time, the second, the third. theyâre not proper hickies; itâs more consumption than claiming; his teeth whittling away at any exposed skin just to give his mouth something to do. a terrible attempt at muffling his cries, or getting himself to stop fucking talking.Â
â± because heâs all, âmmngghh, am i doing it right? shitshit, its so good, youâre so good,â and âi canât even think,â and âyouâre, ffffâ, ungh, youâre so fucking warm.â his words are more scrambled with each thrust, sentences dissolving to salt & soft sobbing right against your skin. thereâs something sacred about the way youâve managed to rewire him. his smears another messy kiss against the canvas of flesh he can reach. whispers, desperately, âyouâre perfect, youâre perfect, youâre perfect.â
â± you snicker at him. heâs stupidly endearing; a slowburn disaster with a heartbeat in his throat. his skill is questionable but his cock, oh, itâs big enough to mask any lack of coordination on his part. you feel good. you tell him, in a drooled murmur into his face and itâs all the positivity he needs to keep his act up. âfeels good, mikey. youâre a natural,â you inform him. âyeah? sâgood for you too? iâm not totally humiliating myself?â he jokes, panting. you promise that he isnât. one praise-soaked murmur is all he needs to believe you. thatâs the sin of it.Â
â± and so he speeds up. glassy & glossy eyed, lashes damp with tears heâll die before admitting to. puncturing you from the inside out with shallow, shaky efforts. âare you okay? are you close? mâgetting close, i think, thats okay, right?â he stammers. thrust. thrust. thrust. the metal framework behind you is shuddering & trembling. a bottle of clorox has fallen to its death, joined by a roll of duct tape and one ripped rubber glove. he pushes a little further into you, his pelvis knocking against yours. skeleton on skeleton.Â
â± âyeah, mike. mâclose.â and you take his hand, press it onto your clit. âis thiâthat the spot? whaddo i do? tell me what to do.â he quivers. fingers clumsy for it, stroking & teasing, coaxing your orgasm to its inevitable debut. he pouts at you, pleading for your summit so he can at least say he held out until you did. unfortunately, that doesnât happen. itâs just so much, so much for him. heâs choked around from all angles, suffocating inside you, all air robbed, all smoldered heat heâs absorbing straight out of your skin. your curves hit off his angles, your cunt gulps him in further. youâre completely joined. and heâs completely fucked. he sobs as he comes, embarrassingly riskily loud. youâre sure his whimpering bleeds out from under the slot of the door.Â
â± âmâgonna cum, shit, iâm sorry, i canât stop, shit, iâi canâtââ he trembles like electricity is frying him from the inside out. youâre lost in the eclipse of his dark eyes, growing impossibly wide as the wave hits him like a knock to the teeth. fist to the chest. kick to the sternum. itâs strong. itâs so strong; if he was in his rational state of mind heâd fear heâd snap the condom with the strength of his own spunk, spilling into the rubber cage, hands scrambling for purchase on your shoulders as he keeps you locked in place. the tears that had been dwelling but not yet shed, the ones pricked in his corneas begin to dribble down his freckled cheeks, licking at his features which are all screwed up as he comes & comes & comes. âsâso good. sosogood, youâre perfect, my angel holy shit, thankyouthankyouthankyou, youâre perfect, ahââ seismic quaking wracks his spine. he bends over you, bows in half. twitches like a beetle on itâs back. reduced to whining & white-noise, mouth falling apart around thank yous.Â
â± he doesnât have enough time to be mortified before youâre tumbling down in a heap of fragility right with him. you come softer, gentler. he holds you as it happens, captures the moment, cups the light you emit in his palms, preserves it in the lines there. admires you, shamelessly, as you moan; lips swollen and eyes fluttering backwards. eyelashes blinking like moth wings, aftershocks jolting you in sparks. heâs too sensitive to ferment in you for any longer; once heâs sure itâs over, he tugs himself out of you. comfortably flaccid, completely ruined for anyone other than you. hesitantly, he scatters stray kisses onto your briny skin like dandelion spores. breathes in the sour-sweet scent of sex, of seduction, and still the remaining vestiges of amber-vanilla & natural musk that cloaks your body even now, even though heâd assume youâve sweated all that off.Â
â± he inhales a wavering breath. âuh. wow.â he croaks. âwas⊠that okay? for you, and not just me?â heâs so earnest itâs sickening. tooth-rottingly sweet. you reassure him. âi liked it mike.â he blinks. âyeah? i, uh, wow. youâreâshit. look at you.â his brain is gooey. his stare sticks to the crevices of your face, melded to you. especially now. the afternoon continues to bleed across you, showering you in heaven-yellow gold. you wear a mantle of sweat, a halo of light. draped in a post-ecstasy glow. âno wonder everyone canât shut up about you.â he sighs, dreamily.Â
â± heâs more in control of the after than the duringâhelping you back into your abandoned outfit, peeling sweat-curled locks off where theyâve fused to your temples. hesitantly offering pecks to cheeks, to forehead, to lips. stumbling over what he reckons aftercare should be. âuh. water, right? we should get you some water. reckon the canteenâs still open? probably not. oh, i could get you some gatorade from the vending machine. shit. wait, i have no coins. maybe like, a few quarters in my bag, but that probably wonâtâŠshit. iâm tryna be helpful but i think iâm just making noise.â he rambles. and he shuts himself up with a groan, dipping his head onto your shoulder. âthanks for everything,â he mumbles.
â± he lets himself rest there. his own little hollow home, sanctuary in the sliver of skin between collarbone and jaw. a hand to yours, mellow skin on skin. he doesnât know what this means, now. if youâll forget about him, if his short time in your attention has expired. but he wonât ever lose this memory. he frames it mentally, hangs it on the plaster of his mindâs wall. evening swallows the day, you head home on wobbled legs.