I certainly can. And I did. Well, sort of. I took some creative liberties with this one. Crossposted on Ao3.
Warnings: 18+ Content Vaginal sex, Praise kink, Loss of virginity (both reader and Mike), soft!dom Mike.
Pairing: Mike Schmidt x Reader
Summary: From the name written on your sneakers to the hickey on your neck, Mike had left his mark on you in more ways than one.
Words: 5.8k
According to fandom wiki, Mike is 25 in the movie. The timeline of this story is based on this fact.
In Permanent Marker
1995
Mike has a problem. An even bigger problem than his annoying younger sister, or the bills he cannot pay that keep piling up. That problem is you, his new next-door neighbour.
It all began when he had been unloading the boxes from the car, calling out to Abby as she disappeared to explore the new house. The place was small, but enough for the two of them. More importantly, it was as affordable as it could get, given the savings his parents left behind, the money from the government, and his new job. That was all he really needed.
"Need help, there?"
A voice broke him from his thoughts, a voice belonging to you. He did a double take as he looked to his side towards you, nearly dropping the box in shock. He blinks as if you're nothing more than a hallucination, induced by his lack of sleep, dehydration, and the summer heat. Because there was no way that you were standing there. Someone his age. Someone so attractive. Someone exactly his type and talking to him. You take notice of his shocked expression.
"My folks and I saw you from the window," you point to the house left of his, "thought I could lend a hand.”
"Yeah. Yeah, uh," he nods eagerly, breaking eye contact as he fumbles over his words. He looks back towards the house, "If you could watch my little sister while I unload these. She’s somewhere inside…”
“You’ve got it,” you flash him a smile.
—
He’s sweating and close to passing out as he places the last box down in the front hallway, bracing himself against the wall as he catches his breath. He then looks around. There’s no furniture yet. He couldn’t afford movers to help move the couch or the kitchen table from his parent’s old house, instead opting to sell the furniture and find cheaper options once moved in. That meant he’d be eating on the floor until he had time off work again. This also meant he’d have to take Abby table-shopping and listen to her complain every time she picked something out of his price range, then cry the whole drive back home. He groans to himself, annoyed by his endless stream of thoughts. He supposes that’s just adulthood, now. There’s always something to think about.
He hears giggling from down the hallway, grabbing his attention enough to raise himself from the wall. He creeps towards the sound, peeking past Abby's door. A box was open on the floor, toys and crafts scattered across the carpet. You sit cross-legged in the middle of the room at Abby’s side and she’s pointing to her drawings, chattering away.
He wonders how you make it look so easy.
—
"I don't like it here." Abby tugs on the leg of his jeans, "Can we go back?"
It’s the last thing Mike wants to hear the morning after moving in, his back and arms still sore from all that he carried. He looks down to see her lips were pulled into a frown, her brows furrowed. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking instant coffee from a mug he'd managed to dig out from one of the kitchenware boxes, staring at all the shit he has left to do. And, of course, his sister could never let him do that in peace.
"This is where we live now."
"Why?"
"Because it is."
"I don't want to live here."
And I don't want to work shitty hours for shitty pay just to afford this dump, he thinks to himself.
Still, he can't blame her. The place is a downgrade. The toilet in the main bathroom doesn't really flush, her room is half the size of the one at their parent's old place, and he’d discovered more than a few suspicious stains on some of the walls and carpeting around the house.
"Well, that's just too bad."
"I want to go back!" She shouted, her little fingers digging harder into the fabric of his jeans, now trying to tug his leg. He tries to nudge her off, shaking his leg just enough to make her lose her grip, but she doesn't budge. He sighs to himself.
She's at that age. Five years old, and a complete menace. She was smarter than she looked and had begun to realize that sometimes creating a fuss could get him to bend the rules for her, which now meant she was constantly defying him. Constantly picking a fight. Constantly whining about something. And as much as he loved her he could not stand to hear another tantrum, especially not this early in the morning.
"Stop it, Abby. I'm not dealing with this today."
"Nu-uh!"
She screams when he tugs her away with his hands, lifting her in the air while she tries to kick and shove him away. He knows he's bound to have bruises from where she kicks his torso and scratches where her nails dig into his skin. Had he any energy left in him, he might have been tempted to raise his voice at her. That's one good thing to come out of his restless nights, at least.
The doorbell rings and she's still whining when he places her down on the floor. He kneels to her level, hands on either of her little shoulders.
"We can talk about it later, okay?" He lowers his voice, desperate for her to be quiet. Anything for her to be quiet. "Behave. And quit being such a baby."
His words were enough to render her silent, by some miracle, and so he goes to the door, only to see you standing there. You . He knows he's ogling again and he hates himself for it but he can't help himself, not when you're so pretty. He leans against the doorframe, clearing his throat.
"Hey, uh. What are you doing here?"
"Good morning to you, too. Thought you might need more help," You lean forward, taking a peek inside the place and noting all the boxes, "Judging by all this, I guess I thought correctly."
"Guilty as charged," he holds his hands up, cherishing the sound of your laugh.
The moment doesn't last long. He fails to notice that behind him, his sister is teary-eyed, her lower lip quivering. You furrow your brows, about to say something, but the little girl beats you to it.
"You— you jerk!" Abby finally lets out, and you stand dumbfounded at the door, watching the crying girl. She turns to Mike. "I hate you!"
She runs off to some room somewhere and slams the door, the distant sound of sobs easily heard from down the hallway where you two stood. While you stood there in shock, Mike had grown used to these outbursts, but it didn't leave him entirely unfazed. There was still a tug on his heart like there always was.
"She's just having a moment right now," he sighs, his fingers rubbing his temples, "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"You're not going to go and talk to her?"
"She hates me. Didn't you hear?"
"You know that's not true," you shove past him, your hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment longer which certainly did not go unnoticed, "come on."
"What do I even say?"
"You're going to go apologize, dumbass."
That's how he found himself standing outside his sister's door. He was about to simply walk in, until you stopped him, your hand on top of his as he reached for the knob.
"Knock first."
He would've asked why but he's too distracted by how your little touches keep making his face grow hotter, so he simply nods and does as you say, raising his fist to the door. He hears Abby's sobs halt the moment he does. He looks to you, and you nod, as if to signal him to start talking.
"Abs?"
There's a sniffle. "Go away."
"Look, I'm sorry for hurting you. Just open the door." You toss him a glare, "Please?"
There's a pause.
"Liar," she hisses, "you're only sorry 'cause they're making you."
Mike is about to retort, but you raise your hand to silence him.
"Abby, we both want to make sure you're alright. Could you please open the door so we can talk?"
There's a pause and then a shuffle, the sound of her moving from the floor to go and open the door. She's red in the face, snot-nosed and teary-eyed. Mike's heart can't help but break at the sight. He's an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.
"I-I'm not a baby," she blinks at Mike, lifting her arm to wipe her snot on her sleeve, "Y-you're always s-so mean to me. I hate that."
"I didn't mean it. I just, uh... I say stuff sometimes." He frowns, a trembling in his voice. He speaks softly as if it will compensate for all the harsh words spoken prior, "I promise I won't say mean stuff anymore. Honest."
"Pinky promise?"
She raises her pinky finger.
"Yeah. Pinky promise."
He raises his own, letting her little finger curl around his. She quickly wipes her tears away.
The rest of the day is spent doing whatever Abby wants. Mike discovers quickly that you seem to love spoiling her. You take her to the park, let her unpack all her toys and leave them tossed all around the house. You end up ordering pizza at her request, as well, and by the end of the day, she’s saying she wishes you were her older sibling instead. Though it’s said jokingly, it still pierces him through the heart.
The day ends with a tired Abby curled up in her sleeping bag on the floor of her room. Now he's with you, you sitting atop the counter at his side while he places the leftover pizza slices from the takeout boxes into ziplock bags. If he had it his way, the day would have ended with all the moving boxes being unpacked, but he supposes a happy Abby makes his life a hell of a lot easier than an unhappy one.
"She's a lot easier than most her age."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I'm the oldest ' kid ' in this neighbourhood. I've babysat for practically every family around here," you sip your drink, "she was very quick to forgive you. Not just any kid does that."
Garett had been the same way. Every prank he played, every cruel joke, he forgave him for because that’s just what older brothers do. The difference being that he was a child back then, not an adult. He may be Abby’s older brother by blood, but he needed to be more than that now. She needed him to be more than that.
He finishes packaging the last slice and throws the leftovers in the fridge. He's now fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie— a poor choice of clothing for the midst of a summer heat wave, but he didn't exactly have lots of options. He supposes he should add clothing shopping to his already long to-do list.
“What am I doing?” He says aloud, “I can’t do this.”
“Don’t say that.”
"This always happens. I get annoyed, she gets hurt, and it’s going to happen again.”
"Nobody's made for this at our age,” you gesture around at the house, then at him, “You're bound to fuck up, that's just inevitable."
"Yeah, thanks,” he deadpans.
"That’s not what I meant. You live and you learn, that's what you do. No one's perfect but we can always try.”
“What if me trying isn’t enough?”
“It’s better than not trying at all.”
He looks back down the hallway, at Abby’s door. Does she care that he's trying? Does she know how much he has sacrificed to give her a semblance of a normal life? He scoffs at himself internally. She's a child, of course she doesn't. That's not her fault. It’s not her responsibility either. She’s the kid, and he’s the adult now. It’s unfair on both sides but that’s the way things are.
"Thank you. For all the help, and everything," He finally says, turning to you.
"That's what neighbours are for, right?" You’re hopping off the counter. It was dark outside now, and fair to assume you’d be on your way home. Only, you halt in your tracks for a moment. "Wait, one more thing."
You pull out one of those disposable cameras from the pharmacy. It’s scratched and beaten up, evidence of its use. He freezes up when he feels your arm draping around him to pull him into the frame and snap a quick picture. He blinks from the flash, and you laugh at the way his eyes squint, shoving the camera back into your pocket.
"The hell?" He raises a brow, "that's going to be an awful one, just so you know."
"I don't care if photos look good. It's about the memories and all that." you roll your eyes, "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early. We're going to finish unpacking.”
You're out the door before he can even reply.
—
He starts to learn who you are, piece by piece. He learns that you don't know a single thing about keeping your curtains drawn shut and that you're completely oblivious to how he's seen you in your room in your pyjamas at night, talking on the phone while you twirl the telephone cord around your finger. He learns that you go to college out of state, which is why you're so insistent on taking photos of everything you can because you get homesick so easily. He learns, that because of that, he won't be seeing you after the summer for many months and struggles to figure out why that thought leaves a dreaded ache in his heart.
The ache only grows the more time he spends with you, whether it’s with Abby or one-on-one. He thinks he’s going to die when he sees you packing up your car at the end of the summer, but offers to help you out regardless.
"Have fun," he says to you, hating how disingenuous the words feel on his tongue.
Your car is now packed, and you're on the steps, him standing on the stone path below. You look up at him with a smile while you're lacing up your shoes. It's those damn shoes you always wear, always torn up and dirty and desperately in need of being replaced. He's not one to talk when it comes to proper footwear, but he swears they are only a thread away from being torn apart.
"I'll try."
You finish doing up your laces, and pull out a permanent marker from your pocket, handing it to him. He gives you a confused look.
"Sign it."
"What?"
"My shoe," you repeat, and he takes notice of your sneakers, varying names written along the white rim already, all in different colours and sizes. "It's something I've been doing since high school. Just to remember."
Knowing how you treasure your photos, it only makes sense to him now. He kneels down and signs it in the black marker, his handwriting atrocious, but evidently an effort to make it appear more legible than normal. He lets go of your ankle when he's done and you smile, raising it to look at his handiwork.
"I tried."
"Hey, it's not that bad."
"It's pretty bad."
You both laugh, and you stand up finally, stepping down to his level. He tries not to show his shock when he feels your arms wrap around him, pulling him tightly towards you. He happily accepts the embrace, soaking up the affection like a dried-out sponge.
"One last thing," you whisper to him, and he feels your hand slip something into his pocket. “Look at it later, ‘kay?”
"I'll miss you."
"I'll be back."
And though he wants to believe you will, he can't help but stare into your dark windows that night, counting down every day until your return. Not everyone in his life has, after all.
He checked his pocket the moment you left earlier that day. It was the photo of the two of you in his kitchen, from one of the first days you met. It was blurry and dark but he could make out the sight of your smile and his face of confusion. The back side has the date written.
He places the photo on his nightstand and rolls over on his back, staring at the Nebraska poster on his ceiling. He took his meds not long ago, his eyes drooping, but his mind unable to stay focused, his thoughts drifting towards you.
—
1996
The last time you called his home line, you said you'd be home in a few weeks, but he still hasn’t seen you yet. The light in your bedroom window remains turned off. He wishes the thought of seeing you again didn’t have him so restless.
Today is his birthday. A whopping twenty-one years old. If he were a normal person, he'd be out with friends, pouring liquor down his throat until he couldn't drink anymore. Instead, he went to work, then returned home late to greet the babysitter on the couch, her middle school textbooks sprawled on the coffee table and Abby already in bed. She’s gone the moment he hands her a twenty-bill, peddling away on her bicycle.
Though the house now has furniture, it still feels so empty. He sits alone on the couch, the sounds from the TV turning into a soft humming. He doesn’t want to think about the dirty plates in the sink or Abby's toys and crayons that littered the living room floor.
His heart skips a beat when he hears a knock on the door. He tentatively gets up, swallowing dryly. It couldn’t be you. You would have called him or said something, right? He’s never been so thankful to be wrong in his life because when he sees you standing there on his steps, in those torn-up sneakers with his name on them, with a six-pack of beer in your hands, he’s immediately grinning like a child.
"Where the hell have you been?" he looks down at the alcohol in your hands, "what's this?"
"A gift for the birthday boy," you grin, "twenty-one. That's a pretty big age."
"Are you twenty-one yet?" He raises a brow.
"You want the beer or not?"
"Alright, alright," he looks into the house, the place dead silent save for the TV. "Let's go out back. Abby has school tomorrow. I don't want to wake her."
Sharing the company of another had become so foreign to him at this point that he forgot how nice it feels to be human. To feel the summer breeze through the fabric of his t-shirt, to feel the condensation from the cold can drip down his fingers, to feel the warmth of the alcohol sitting nicely in his stomach. Hell, he doesn’t even mind how shit the beer you bought tastes, though the initial shock causes him to cough the moment the first gulp is downed.
"Don't tell me you actually waited until now to have your first drink," he hears you say.
"I didn't, but I don't drink that much. Especially not this," he eyes the brand name on the can.
"I was tired of college parties and all the watered-down shit alright? I needed something different."
"Must be exhausting . Getting invited to so many parties."
"Oh, shut it," you shake your head, "trust me, college is lonelier than you think."
He stares down at your sneakers, noticing that not a single new name has been written. One part of him wonders how anyone could not want to become your friend. The other part of him is proud that he’s the last person to sign it, his name standing out compared to all the other old, faded-out ones.
"That's one thing we have in common."
"I take it life's not so great, either?"
"Abby has been acting out less but now she barely talks.” He sighs, “It's... another thing to think about."
There’s a pause.
“Then don’t think about it. Not tonight.”
“Easier said than done,” he rolls his eyes.
"Come on, it’s your birthday and we’re out here moping on your back porch. That's no way to celebrate."
"What do you suggest we do?"
"Something. Anything. I dunno, you're the birthday boy. What do you wanna do?"
"I..." his eyes trail down to your lips and stop. He knows he's being obvious but he's tired enough to where he doesn't really care anymore to hide it. He sees how your brows knit together, and he looks away. "I'm fine doing this."
"That's not what I asked." He feels your hand creep over to his, flat against the porch. Your touch is electric. He allows himself to look at you again. Your eyes are determined and your touch is intentional, he's sure. "I asked what you want ?"
Hesitantly, he lets his hand intertwine with yours. He's barely able to meet your eyes, embarrassed by his cheeks which he knew were most likely pink by now.
"I want you."
His other hand raises to your cheek, his cold hand against warm skin. His eyes speak to you, though his mouth says nothing, asking for permission. You lean in yourself, tired of his hesitation. You can taste the alcohol on his lips, his mouth so tender and sweet against yours. He's gentle and endearingly clumsy but above all else, he's desperate and he kisses you like you'll disappear the moment he lets you go. His hand is tighter around yours and the other that had first been against your cheek drifted to the back of your neck. You hear him let out a sound when your hand runs through the back of his hair and you're both pulling away, still craving something more.
"How much of me do you want?"
"So much," he gulps, "so much more."
There's a grin on your lips as you drag him by the hand, abandoning the half-drank beer cans as you enter the house. Careful not to alert Abby, who was sleeping next to his room, you both tip-toe down the hallway, unable to help the giggles that escape your mouths. Then, the moment you're in his bedroom, you're pushing him against the door, seizing his lips. You feel his abs under his T-shirt, realizing just what he had been hiding under all those hoodies last summer. You feel the warmth radiating from him, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You smile against his mouth when you feel his hand at your waist, slipping under your top to fit right into the arch of your back. He's holding back, you can tell, and it only makes you want to fan the flames and let him burn even brighter.
You tug him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards the mattress until his legs hit the edge and he’s sitting, your body crawling on top of him. And, for someone who had been concerned about not waking his sister, he sure allows himself to make so many pretty noises. He pulls away for air once again and looks up at you like he worships you, his hands on either thigh while you lean your forehead against his own. He then lets out a laugh, still genuine, though hushed.
"What's so funny?" You murmur.
"This is the best birthday gift I've had in years."
"But you haven't even unwrapped me yet," you quirk your brow. "You said you wanted more, didn't you?"
"I did," he hums, his eyes dragging down over your body, shyly. "Still do. If that's what you want, too."
"You already know I do."
He brings his fingers to the hem of your shirt and slowly lifts it, your arms raising to help him slip it off. You feel yourself shudder under his analytical gaze, even though the night is sweltering. You feel the goosebumps rise under your skin as his fingers brush over your body as if to memorize every curve and texture with his fingertips. And though you had done your best to mask your inexperience all night, it became obvious to him, the moment you were squirming before him— topless— the truth.
"I've never done this before," you admit before he can ask you, feeling more vulnerable than ever as he stares up at you, the most anyone had ever seen of you beneath your clothing.
"That's okay," he tilts his head, big brown eyes looking right back at yours, "if it's okay with—"
"I've already told you it is. Everything is okay with me. Please. "
He nods, his hands reaching behind you, and you feel his fingers at the clasp of your bra. There's a flush on his face as he fumbles with it, brows scrunched as he tries to pull it apart. Then, it hits you. The look in his eyes, the uncertainty in his actions, the constant need for reassurance. He's been trying to hide it just like you were. Had your own mind not been so clouded, perhaps you would have noticed it far sooner. You reach behind yourself, hand brushing past his own to unclasp the bra yourself, before letting it slide down your shoulders. There's a glimmer in his eyes as he takes in your half-naked form, mouth parted slightly.
"You've never done this either, have you?" You ask, hands looped around the back of his neck as you seat yourself better in his lap. You try not to make a sound when you feel his erection through his gym shorts, pressed right up against where you need friction the most.
"Never," he manages to say, somehow. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"We'll figure it out."
You're kissing him again, and this time you're the one fumbling to remove his shirt, unable to properly admire his exposed body as his mouth is pressed against yours the moment the garment is removed. You feel yourself start to crumble at every little noise he makes, every little touch and grinding of his hips into yours. Then his mouth is trailing down your neck and his hands are on your breasts, his touch gentle but his lips hungry. You feel his lips suck on a particular spot on your collarbone and hiss, your fingers threading through his hair.
"You're gonna leave a mark.”
He pulls away, not quite sporting a grin, but the look in his eyes tells you he’s proud, regardless.
"Is that a problem?"
"Bastard," you retort.
With that, you're pushing him down until his back is against the mattress, leaving your own trail of kisses down his neck and chest, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach every time you hear his noises, and whispers of praise. You reach down for his shorts, tugging them down, this time you're able to get a better view of him beneath you. Your hand traces the outline of the muscles on his abdomen and chest, feeling your face heat up, again reminded just how built he was. As if he couldn't get any hotter, you notice the trail of hair leading from his belly button, disappearing beneath his boxers. You suck in a breath, your pupils blown wide.
“I'm gonna go insane if you don't touch me right now,” he says, allowing you to realize just how long you had been staring him down.
The words go straight through you, reminding you of your arousal between your legs, and how you were currently sitting right on top of his dick, the only barrier between you being each other's underwear. You rock your hips against him and hear him whine, your hands flat against his chest. It almost scares you how good it already feels, without having done much of anything at all.
"You have any condoms?" You ask.
"Yeah, think so," he stammers, his eyes darting towards his dresser.
You get up, feeling his eyes on your ass as you dig through the drawer, sifting through clutter. Momentarily, you smile when you find the photo you gave him last year— before returning to the task at hand. You find a condom buried at the very back.
"Were you prepared for this?" You tease.
"I don't think that far ahead. They’re free handouts from sex Ed, senior year."
"If you actually paid attention in that class, you'd know that condoms have an expiration date."
"I did pay attention," he says as you settle yourself back on top of him, the foil between your fingers. "They're not expired yet ."
"Yeah? What else did you learn?"
You suppress a yelp when you feel your position forcibly switched, your back now against the mattress with him hovering over you. The condom had disappeared into his hand.
"That you probably shouldn't be on top for your first," you feel his hand at your panties, brushing your clit over the fabric, "and that you're gonna need more foreplay than just dry humping."
You notice how he looks at you for approval before tossing your underwear aside, admiring how your slick coats his fingers. You'd touched yourself enough times before to know what this feels like but somehow, when it's him doing it instead of yourself, you already feel you'll fall apart at any moment. Your clit is swollen and your hole flutters around nothing as his fingers continue to tease you. Fortunately, he slips his middle finger in before you can scold him for being a tease— and fuck it's so much more than you're used to. His fingers reach inside you better than yours ever did you feel your mouth go agape, your hand reaching to clasp over your mouth out of fear your noises will echo through the mostly silent house.
"Mike," you plea, but to no avail, one hand still desperate to muffle your sounds while the other gripped the bedsheets.
“Is it… am I doing it right?”
“Yeah,” you nod, “please, don’t stop.”
You’d heard horror stories before from others, about how aggressive some men were with their first times. But you think Mike is the opposite. So gentle and considerate— uncertain and awkward, sure, but with a willingness to learn and try.
“Doing so well,” he whispers sweetly, “you’re so perfect.”
You're so close to reaching your high that you almost wish you could strangle him the moment he pulls away, leaning down to capture your lips into a kiss. You then hear the sound of the foil being torn apart and the feeling of his dick rubbing against your centre. Despite his smile, you notice the worry behind his eyes. He's terrified. So, you bring your hand to his cheek.
"I want this," you reassure once again.
He nods.
He slips the tip in and your body spasms, the intrusion feeling so foreign. He watches your expression change with each passing moment he spends pushing into you. He loves the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter shut. Loves how your brows scrunch together. All because of him. You’re so soft and warm around him and he’s struggling to cool himself down.
"So much," you comment, your eyes half-lidded when he finally bottoms you out, your bottom lip pulled by your teeth. He tries not to let the compliment get to him, otherwise, he knows he’ll be finishing faster than he wants.
"You're doing so good," he whispers, his hand intertwining with your own, "taking me so well. Can you keep doing that?"
You nod, and he whimpers, taking another thrust. Your nails are digging into his shoulder blades but he doesn't care. It’s another distraction, helping him hold himself together while you take him. He takes another thrust and nearly loses it when he watches you whine, tilting your face to the side.
“More,” you let out.
You feel every inch of him inside you, pressing against your most sensitive parts and though the initial discomfort hadn’t fully yet faded, you start to feel yourself getting lost in pleasure the more you accommodate him. You continue to drag your nails down his back, the knot inside of you growing tighter. You reach down to touch your clit, aching for more stimulation, but he’s quickly replacing your hand with his own, rubbing circles into you.
“So good.”
“Yeah?” He stammers out, finding it difficult to string words together in the moment.
“You feel so good, Mike.”
He didn’t realize how fucking hot it would be to hear you say his name while you’re fucked out like this until you do, and he feels himself losing a grasp on himself.
The feeling inside of you starts to snap and your body is thrashing around as you approach your high. He feels you grasping onto him like he’s your lifeline, shaking through your cries, which are muffled by your hand on your mouth. He, too, reaches his limit, and he’s burying his face into the crook of your neck in the hopes that he isn’t too loud.
All that’s left is the sound of both of you breathing when it’s over, and you hear him get up, throwing the rubber away. The bed dips at your side and you feel him on top of you again, head buried into your neck as he holds you. You can’t help the smile that forms on your lips, your fingers raking through his brown curls.
It's different from all the times you've touched yourself beneath your sheets in the dead of night. Instead of coming down from your high and laying your head against a cold pillow, your head is against him. You can feel every beating of his heart, every rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. You can feel the stubble on his chin and jaw tickling the crook of your neck. You're shaking, sweating and your whole body aches, yet you want nothing more than to lay here with him. And though you could have given yourself to some other person in college, you know it would not have been the same with anyone else other than the messy-haired brunette who lay atop you.
"Missed you so much," he whispers, "please stay?"
You stare at your house through his window, choosing not to think too hard about the view he has into your bedroom from this angle. Your family wouldn’t care.
"I'm here," you respond, pressing a kiss to his head.
tags fem reader. mike’s pov. established relationship. mentions of blood. male masturbation. cunnilingus. mike being put into silly sexual situations + 1.8k words.
unintentionally perverted mike who cannot seem to catch a break from weirdly calculated sexual situations, but ends up going along with it — was it god’s plan? he doesn’t know. all he knows is that it began to unravel when you recently moved into his humble home, though it all seems like some erotic coincidence.
mike hated laundry duties. he’s always done them himself, sluggishly tossing a mixture of dirty clothes while abby plays with the cheap detergent and the sweetening softener. half that time he’s at the verge of toppling over the washer because a good night’s sleep seemed to be his enemy. now with you around, he found himself peacefully lounging on the couch cushions beside you — admiring your delicate hands folding each garment with precision and neatness he couldn’t emulate.
night shifts were less stressful. mike would find his security vest freshly ironed and laid perfectly over his bed. his nightly meal was already packed in his work bag, containers of his favorite food tucked in a orderly stack. you would be at the front door, peppering kisses all over his face while saying your hushed goodbyes — giving him a natural energy booster. despite working gruesome hours and the paranormal nature of the abandoned children’s pizzeria making him rethink all his life choices, mike was thankful you’ve put so much effort into taking care of him.
the office was eerie, darkened and covered in disheveled merchandise. the white noise from the bulky monitors began to irritate him. he could never seem to stay awake, despite the wavering feeling of death — other pairs of eyes stalking his movements, although mike convinced himself it was just all in his head. but restlessness weighed heavier than the feeling of danger, so he decided to steal in a few hours of sleep. tucking his hand in his pocket, the cassette tape he brought felt weird, like thin fabric? mike tugs out the foreign object in curiosity and immediately sputters in embarrassment.
it was your underwear. wrinkled from being confide by his jean pocket — seemingly lost when it was tussled in the dryer. mike was no stranger to seeing you in underwear, but he’s never held them before. damn, it was cute. made with white lace and silk fabric, a pretty little bow hemmed on the waistband. his first instinct would be to put it aside and give it to you probably in the next five hours. but then there were lingering thoughts, not-so-innocent ones.
mike halfheartedly folds the intimate garment until he stares at it for more than a few seconds — so pretty, just like you. he’s imagining you wearing it, how it wraps around your plush waist, how it looks when you bend down. ever so slowly, mike brings it to his face. the silky material felt gentle on his skin, perfumed with floral detergent that you picked out. he pressed it harder on his face, desperately taking in any remnants of your natural scent — even when he knew that wouldn’t be the case. but mike still blindly smelt you, like how would when you’re spread apart in front of him — those quiet nights. his face was completely submerged in the fabric, every audible sniff made him feel a little shameful, but he couldn’t help himself. your heady scent kept him awake that shift.
it was morning, the night shift only hours past him. mike huffs a curse when he guiltily pinches at the hem of your underwear — tainted with his own seed. his face grows hot at his unusual pastime. did he really jerk off with your underwear? in the middle of his job? mike knew he was pathetic, but he didn’t know he could even stoop that low. what’s done is done, he thinks. nervously fiddling with the lock, the sudden sound of a whirling car engine made the keys in his sweaty grasp collapse to the ground. it was a cop car and that really only meant one person.
the tinted windows slid down, a peek of blonde hair made him stumble just a bit.
“hey mike, the shift okay?” vanessa asked with a small smile — blue eyes watching him carefully.
with your underwear still in his grasp, mike suspiciously tucks it in his pocket as he feigns a cough — hoping that could draw away attention from it. he shrugs with attempted composure, keeping his slightly sticky hands deep in his pockets.
“yeah, didn’t sleep this time.” mike was honest, but not too honest.
vanessa squints her eyes, the nervous tone in his voice setting off alarms. it didn’t help that she saw some weird object in his hand, how much more messy his curls were, a weirdly placed lace print marking his flushed face, or the white stains that blotched against his unzipped jeans. actually, she knows exactly what’s going on, but she’ll spare herself from having such an awkward exchange.
at least he hasn’t figured it out yet.
“that’s good, make it back home safe.” vanessa disregards the relieved exhale from mike, quietly amused at the fact that he really thought he was even subtle in his nightly activity.
“thanks, i will.” mike waves as he watches the car drive away, zipping up the fly of jeans with one hand.
that was two days ago. he’s never really told you what happened out of guilt. your soiled underwear was immediately washed twice and dried when he got back home, right before you could even greet him from the kitchen — wafting with the hungering scent of buttery pancakes and sizzling bacon. he even tried to fold it the same way you did to draw away your keen eyes.
it was funny enough that the next day, a blurry photo of your nude body was planted in the folds of his leather wallet. he was lucky to fish it out at a secluded gas station rather than a grocery store. mike stared at the photo for a while, completely enamored by your misted curves and the hazy, lustrous gaze at the camera. of course he saved the photo, tucking it back in his wallet as he patted down the hardened tent on his pants.
then his night shift came along. though, it was much worse. the time looping nightmare kept him shaken, pints of sweat falling from his brow bone. it felt like he was mindlessly holding his breath, choking himself in his own sleep. the jagged cut on his arm bled, stinging with every shallow movement — a deep slash that managed to cut through the thick fabric of his jacket. mike has no idea how he got it, but he didn’t care enough to figure it out, at least for now. it was bandaged rather poorly, done with a trembling hand and limited knowledge of medical attention. all his muddled brain could process right now was the directions back to his home and the desperate feeling to be splayed on his warm bed.
he was an hour late when he got back home, nearly collapsing into a permanent sleep once he sat on the driver’s seat. it was a miracle that he made it back home — with the road being a complete blur and the traffic lights floating behind his eyelids. abby was at school around this time and you were … where were you? despite his worry over your absence, mike promptly darted towards his room — hoping that he could soothe the sores penetrated deep into his muscles, to keep his mind away from the smell of rot that haunted him in his familiar dream.
flinging open the door, mike senselessly tosses his work bag towards the side — bumping into the legs of his littered nightstand with a loud bang. he falls face first on his bed, a comforting warmth instantly washing over his aching body. it felt so soft, much more different than sitting on a hard, freezing chair for hours on end.
“mike?” your soft voice ringed in his ears, you were here.
“hey baby, i’m sorry. i’m tired … really tired.” mike apologetically mumbles, knowing his absence must’ve been unusual — maybe the crash from his bag startled you so early in the morning.
“m – mike.” your voice was much more pitched, you probably didn’t hear him.
the second his mouth fell open, a soft whimper escaped your lips — the magazine you were once browsing through was thrown to the side as your grip on the sheets were tight. mike blinked in confusion, but then he suddenly smelled it. your dripping arousal, his nose buried so deep into the source. from the moment he laid on the bed, he must’ve accidentally fallen his face between your legs without even realizing. was he that tired? why does this keep on happening? the underwear situation only happened a couple of days ago, the nude photo, and now this? he couldn’t tell if he was lucky or not.
the energy that was initially sucked out of his body rushed back into his veins. your body always kept him awake, even in his most restless days. lifting his head slightly, he peeks at the sight of your adorable pout and your watery gaze that could draw him away from the endless nightmares. it was still so early, everything under the sky was filtered blue, the sun was nestled beneath the morning shadows, the biting cold fighting against the whirling heater. but then again, these opportunities kept on falling on his lap, fantasies that mike never realized he had. it all centered around you, like the universe neatly wrapped you in silky ribbons and made you appear in his grayish moments — all the sexual repression he put himself through this week was somehow rewarded.
maybe he could indulge in this gift, thanking whoever is scattering your intimate belongings in his presence and letting him nuzzle between your legs without even having to open his eyes.
with this new epiphany, mike mouthed over your clothed mound, lapping his tongue on the thin fabric with much enthusiasm. he remembered the texture fairly well, how the silk tingled his skin, the press of cotton threads forming floral designs on his cheeks — it was the same underwear he used to masturbate. but now he was blessed with the source of your slickness, not washed away from artificial scents. his jaw moved in fervor, licking and suckling at the dampening fabric. each desperate groan that fell from his lips vibrated into your core — a rush of heat creating goosebumps all over your skin. your moans sounded so pretty, like a sweet tune. the call of his name echoed the empty halls when he finally pushed aside the soiled fabric and latched his mouth eagerly onto your soaked pussy.
something new seemed to happen everyday, all these freakish manifestations of his perverted fantasies.
i have a feeling. JUST A GUT FEELING. that mike is big on fingering like idk bout you but i SWEAR. (this came to me in a dream and now i want to share it with u all)
— mary
A DREAM?1!!!>? A FUCKING DREAM?!?!?!?!?! WHAT MELATONIN ARE YOU TAKING SO I CAN GET SOME
no he SO is though!!! fucking gets off on the way he can perch himself at your side and completely get you undone with his fingers alone!!
his kneeling position beside you feels a bit embarrassing on your part, given that his cock his inches from your eager mouth, and he can observe every twinge of a reaction from you. there's no darkness to obscure yourself into, no shadows to properly pose yourself in, just unadulterated observation on his part. but there's nothing to embarrassed about, as he's reassured you many times, too wrapped up on his own pleasure at the moment that he couldn't comprehend your mild trepidation.
your fingers are curled around his forearm, anchoring your quivering body from moving too much as he swats at the inside of your thigh for the second time. "open them," he grits through his teeth, and your legs part once more.
"thank you," he slips once in his effort to slide his fingers back in, but he gets the second time around, easily gliding the middle and marriage finger of his right hand into your warm cunt. he starts up a gentle rhythm before he's absolutely jackhammering into your spent pussy.
he groans, and the sound mingles with your desperate trill of a whine, back raising off the surface of the bed to meet each rough thrust of his fingers. "there we go, there we go, huh?" he scoffs in exaggerated bewilderment. "that's the spot, isn't it, baby?"
you nearly choke on the flood of saliva that fills your mouth, and you gargle a strangled affirmation. "mike!" however, is another yelp that follows it, nails nearly carving crescent moons into the flesh of his forearm as he continues his assault.
every movement is calculated, and with each squirm of your hips, mike is following, chasing after your squelching pussy until he can properly get you to your high with his fingers alone.
"i know, baby, i know," he feigns, bending at the hips to drag a hot tongue over the mound of one of your breasts, until he's taking the hardened nipple into his mouth. he rolls his teeth over the sensitive bud, sucking at your breast until you're overstimulated in all modes of possible stimulation.
"gonna cum," you whine, angry flames licking up your abdomen. "gonna cum, mike!"
mike releases your swollen nipple with a long sigh, shaking free of your hold so that he can use his free hand to grapple at the sore muscle, kneading it around until you're groaning out with mild discomfort. "you wanna cum?"
your thighs tighten around his hand for the third time, but he's still working your cunt, thumb now drawing lazy circles against your clit. "then cum. do it, i know you can. i'll give you a kiss too if you're loud too."
tags fem reader. enemies to ( ? ). mike is mean + angry. 2-3 year age difference. sexual tension. oral fixation. semi-brat taming + 1k words.
mike was staring at you funny, it made you feel weird — annoyed, actually.
“what?” your voice was harsh, muffled by the sweet frozen yogurt coating your mouth.
he raised a brow at your tone, a little vexed from your sudden attitude. it reminded him of the bratty kid he happened to escort out of a toy store just an hour ago. he’s in a bad mood already, but there was no reason to get mad right now.
“don’t talk with your mouth full.” mike tiredly mumbled. an honest suggestion, but half of what he really wanted to say.
you rolled your eyes at his critiquing words. he always seemed to lecture you about the littlest things. how you’re not as productive during your usual security checks or even that one time he was finding the mall keys during your shared nightly protocols — making sure to make a sly comment and sprinkle in an unneeded suggestion about how untidy your bag was. exactly how an obnoxious parent would.
it was annoying. being treated like a child and especially by someone like mike. so what if he was a few years older? slightly more mature than you, much more responsible, and definitely not hot. just a little bit tho, but you’ll never admit that.
but ninety-percent of the time he pisses you off, and this is one of those times.
you swallowed down the yogurt that melted from your seething irritation, brows furrowed at the snarky comment he had to make about your dining etiquette. it’s a fucking mall food court, not a fine dining restaurant.
“do you always have to be a dick to me?” your words were laced with venom, all the suppressed anger managed to bubble out your throat.
his calloused fingers suddenly stopped twisting on the volume of the two-way radio, usual soft hazel eyes darken to a muted brown, stubbled jaw clenched. mike swallowed back the urge to say a few fighting words at your childish retort.
your tone wasn’t a big deal. well, until now.
his day has already been ruined. parents weren’t so attentive when it came to their bratty children, that meant he had to parent them himself — awkwardly standing until their tantrums fall silent or escorting dozens of children that happen to run off for some ridiculous toy. he didn’t need anymore whining from you, especially about something he’s done without the intention of malice — you were childish, immature.
“i don’t need to hear this right now.” mike was too tired to argue. a heavy sigh escaping his lips, his rough hands brushing away the tired feeling in his eyes. “you’re acting like a kid right now, you know that?”
you swore your blood pressure just went up.
“see that’s what i’m talking about! you treat me like a kid and you have to be a total asshole about it. why?”
passing families and teens curiously looked towards your table, the sudden blast of your agitated voice drawing unneeded attention. just what mike needed.
he turns away from their prying eyes, flustered that he was a victim of your grownup tantrum. mike continues the silent treatment as he listens to your incoherent babbling, colorful words like “old man” and “asshole” passed through his eardrums like a sour tune. the grip of his arm was deadly tight. yet, your pouting made his heart skip a bit. it was adorable, it always has been. but not when it’s accommodated with your high-pitched whines, your brows knitted with all these negative emotions, cheeks redden from breathless insults. the angry look in your face looked so familiar — it was the same look everybody seemed to give him.
all this over a smudge of frozen yogurt on your mouth. he would laugh if he wasn’t at his breaking point.
“fuck, i hate yo – !“ with sudden force, mike grabs you by your chin, the pouring insults latched shut with a firm grip.
the reddish hue on your face that was once from your vexation became brighter from mike’s unusual forcefulness — he has never been this angry with you before. weirdly enough, you don’t hate it.
the chocolate remnants blotched over your cheeks, dribbling from your unwiped mouth, was he pointing this out the whole time?
“watch your mouth.” you didn’t know if he meant the mess you made or your little tantrum session that set him off.
maybe both, you can’t tell anymore.
you both stare at each other for a second, the tension so thick in the air — the invasive looks felt like a blur in the background, or rather, seemingly drawn away by this peculiar exchange. hazy eyes slowly peered down at your mouth, deliciously glazed with chocolate yogurt. it was tooth aching, he could imagine the taste on his tongue. if only he was a little closer, he never had to daydream about this ungodly sight for weeks.
his thumb slowly drags over your pinkish flesh, gathering the sweet residue that coated your quivering lips. he reached over the corners of your mouth, studying every hitch of your breath and the way you nervously fiddle with the plastic spoon. someone so loud, bratty, could be silenced with a single touch.
pushing past your pursed lips and clenched teeth with ease, his sweetened touch swirled all over your taste buds — the subtle hints of sweat somehow tasted sweeter than the chocolate goodness. mike watches you closely, his slacks suddenly feeling tight. you’re letting him do this to you, without a protest or your usual dirty look.
for another second, his fleeting touch brushed against your wet muscle, mesmerized by its softness. the darkness that looked in his irises vaporized into a soft green, lured by the sight of an obedient mouth. he finally draws away, a string of saliva connecting his cleaned off thumb and your glossy lips. the rigid grip on your chin loosens as mike huffs in mild irritation, mostly out of astonishment from this predicament.
mike stands from his seat, hiding his hard-on with his bunched up security jacket — hand still soaked from your dribbling saliva. awkwardly, he picks up the trash splayed over the table, making sure his car keys were stuffed deep in his pocket.
“i’ll see you tomorrow.” he steadily spoke, seemingly unbothered.
you nodded, mouth still slightly agape.
mike walks off, leaving you with your own muddled thoughts.
out of complete horror, you hover your nimble fingers over your mouth — the taste of his skin still permeates on your tongue. even with how intimate that whole situation was, mike made sure to clean the remnants of frozen yogurt off your face.
the gall to leave you utterly confused, edged by this new side of your usual grumpy coworker. there was a line between guilty attraction and burning hatred towards mike, you were stuck in the middle of it. but your racing mind seemed to linger towards the shadows casting his tired eyes, the focused look on your compiling mouth, the demand in his voice animating your body like a toy. fuck, yeah okay, he was hot.
the ache between your legs seeped arousal through your pants, you thanked your employers that your uniform was black. gosh, it’s been so long since anybody has touched you like that.
you nearly break your skull when your head falls defeatedly on the table — a heavy groan vibrating in your chest.
you don’t know if you could come to work tomorrow.
a/n: aka i wrote this right after i saw fnaf for the first time and it wont collect dust in my docs
When Mike pushes the front door open, he's hit with familiarity. The soft lull of music from the living room, one song fading out to the next with a succession that lets him know it's a mixtape of his own creation. The pungent smell of shampoo, enough strength behind it to make his eyes sting. At first, he thinks Abby has spilled the entire bottle in the shower again, and he’s already starting to resign to a state of frustration that stems from having to budget money for yet another bottle of hair care.
Then, he hears the combined laughter of you and Abby. Everything melts away from his body to make room for the overwhelming happiness that instantly takes over.
It all feels so good that it's dizzying. It makes him feel a little sick, even when a smile spreads to his face and he enters the house, throwing his keys into the bowl and instantly bending down to untie his shoes.
Now made aware of his presence, your laughter stops first, tapering off into a little "oh". He stands (a little dizzy for real this time, he needs something to eat), and is met with your face, a pleased expression that seems to mimic his feeling painted onto it.
"Mike's home," you say, most likely to Abby, but your eyes never leave his. Plus, it's not like Abby can hear you over her own singing.
He approaches you, hands twitching at his sides with the eagerness they have to finally touch you. And just when he's a few steps away, about to pull you into a hug or maybe a kiss, he has to remind himself that you're not that close. His dreams aren't reality.
Instead of embracing you like he wanted to, he steps to the fridge and pulls out a coke.
"Hey," punctuated by the sound of the can popping open. "What're you two doing?" Mike gestures to his little sister who stands with her head in the kitchen sink, voice bouncing off the metal, two small hands pressed into the counter, her body elevated by her stance on her toes.
Your smile widens even more just before you turn to the sink. For a second, Mike's upset that he can't see your face, then his eyes flit down to your hips and ass and he can't help but stare as he brings his soda to his lips.
"Abby requested a haircut," comes your explanation, which rationalizes the pair of scissors he sees sitting on the counter beside you. They're sleek, and definitely not his, so Mike assumes you'd brought them from your home.
Something about having an item from your house in his makes his chest feel all fluttery. Mike gulps another swig of sugary soda down, pushes the thought from his mind and turns his gaze away as you turn the sink water off.
He stands in silence against the fridge while you direct Abby to the kitchen table, sitting her in a chair and sweetly correcting her posture before he can. The conversation between you two is soft and swift, it flows naturally, unforced, and Mike both envies and admires you.
He feels like he has to try twice as hard to have a conversation with his own sister that doesn’t feel manufactured. Like something he’d seen on TV and put to the test. You talk to Abby like you’re meant to be in her life, and Mike wishfully thinks that you are.
You move around Abby's smaller frame, snipping at the ends of her hair, lifting it up vertically and cutting it diagonally. When you get to the front of her face, holding a comb in one hand and the scissors in the other, he catches glimpses of the two of you making faces at the other, both shushing each other once a fit of giggles breaks out and Abby can’t sit still.
It feels incredibly domestic. And Mike doesn't want you to leave.
Which is why he's barely upset whenever Abby suggests you cut his hair too.
"You said your hair is too long now, right, mike?" Two heads face him and Mike feels his face get warmer.
"Uh ... I–uh–"
"Really? I can cut yours too, if you want." You say it so casually, and Mike supposes that it is casual, he's just the one harboring a little crush on you.
He takes a breath, takes a swig from his can, and shrugs.
"Yeah. Sure. If you don't mind."
Your lips turn up, your eyes twinkle a bit, and you nod. "I don't mind."
Refusing to cause further discomfort to his back from bending over the sink, Mike comes out of the bathroom an agonizingly long 20 minutes later, newly cleaned, a little more relaxed, and still ruffling his wet hair with a towel.
You and Abby are still at the kitchen table, Abby's hair now mostly dry and maybe an inch shorter (Mike truthfully can’t tell). She seems satisfied with your handiwork, head turning a little more exaggeratedly when Mike steps on the creaky floorboard, hair moving in the created wind.
"You ready?" Your words are spoken with a certain mischief that makes Mike consider that he should be worried.
His eyebrows furrow playfully and he takes a seat in the chair you have pulled out for him.
He ends up a little more fidgety than he should be, sat listening to Abby excitedly tell him about her day, his ears continuously perking up at every little mention of you even when you’re standing right behind him.
He laughs with you when you hint that his hair is curlier than Abby’s, and she gets incredibly defensive. He accidentally matches his breathing with yours as you cut around his hair. He can’t help but look up at you with lovesick eyes when you’re standing to either side of him, bent down just enough to further inspect his strands.
He listens to Abby's stories, humming when he should at moments that require them, even when he’s barely paying attention. It’s not like he can really pay attention when he can smell your perfume and your voice is so close and it’s so sweet and smooth and he wishes you would bend down and peck his temple and head between snips like couples would do.
When Abby tells him that you have plans to take her shopping after Thanksgiving, Mike has the urge to invite you to spend the (usually lonely) holiday with them. Instead, he swallows the invitation with fear as a chaser and tells you that you don’t have to do that.
“It’s fine, really. We’ll have a girls day.”
Feeling a little left out, Mike can’t help but ask, “Without me?”
Abby chimes in. “It’s a girls day, Mike.”
“Yeah. Besides, we’ll be using your money so it’ll be like you’re there in spirit.”
And that’s when Mike is reminded that he pays you. You’re Abby’s babysitter, the one who lives a block over and babysits an arrangement of kids. Even though he’s heard you admit to Abby that the Schmidt household is your favorite, somehow despite the missed payments and familial drama. Mike can’t help but selfishly wonder if you like them the best because you like him.
Eventually, you end up standing in front of him, hands on your hips and tongue poking out just a little. “Almost done,” you promise, but it feels more like a threat to Mike. Still, he nods, and continues fisting the fabric of his plaid pajama pants.
You nudge his feet apart with yours. “Spread your legs, please” you whisper.
Fuck.
Mike knows you’re whispering because of your attempt to not disturb Abby who has been asleep for the past couple of minutes, her head buried in the opening of her folded arms on the table. But his mind is instantly in the gutter.
He’s imagining you saying those same words in a different context, one where you’re on your knees and looking up at him expectedly.
It takes Mike a second to comply, a second where you smirk and narrow your eyes a little, and he’s embarrassed now. He clears his throat and does as told, eyes down at his lap as he absolutely refuses to look at you in this position.
It’s entirely too silent, but Mike mentally curses when you speak again.
“Look at me.” Your hands sandwich his head and you manually make Mike comply this time.
He feels like he’s burning at this point, entirely too hot in all the wrong places.
His temperature only gets worse when you attempt to take a step back, and almost trip, leaving Mike to place his hands on your hips and steady you.
The touch he’d wanted.
It's simple, platonic, really, but his heart soars in his chest. He feels hopeful. He craves you. He wants to touch you more and in other places. He wants you to want him to touch you.
You mumble a small thanks and continue cutting his hair, and there’s no reason for Mike to continue touching you, so his hands fall to his thighs once more.
By the time you leave that night, Mike is down another forty dollars, has neatly cut hair, and a thick ball of longing in his throat.
Warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex (M receiving), breeding kink, praise kink, Fem!reader. Very minor mentions of injury & blood.
Description: He had never considered himself too fond of domestic life until you came into his house and made it feel like home.
A/N: crossposted on my Ao3 and Tumblr.
3.7k words
18+ content! Minors and ageless blogs dni!
You remember the first time you came over to babysit for Mike all too clearly. You remember the way your eyes went wide when the door opened, and how your jaw nearly dropped to the floor. More importantly, you remember thinking that Mike Schmidt was far too hot for his own good, a clear image in your mind of how he had greeted you with tired eyes, messy hair, and a hand gripping the doorframe.
"Mr. Schmidt," you had blurted, ignorant to how his nose scrunched at the words leaving your mouth, "It's nice to—"
"Don't tell me I look that old?" His tired expression tried a smile, and you found yourself standing there, unable to formulate a proper response as you were already convinced you messed up the job before you even started. "Just Mike is fine.”
Back then, the only thing you knew about him was that he was hot, overworked, and clearly exhausted. So you did your best to make his life easier, even if those things were small, like cleaning all the dishes before he came home, tidying up all the clutter left behind on the table and kitchen counter. It wasn’t much, but you figured he could use whatever help he could get. He came home the first night, too tired to even notice before collapsing on the couch. Suppressing a giggle, you threw a blanket over his sleeping form, lingering a moment longer than you should have just to observe his face. Even in his sleep, you weren’t sure you could find even an ounce of peace in his expression.
—
Mike remembers the first week of your babysitting, when he returned home at some ungodly hour that Friday. While most babysitters in the past opted to lay on the couch, sleeping or watching TV, he had discovered that you preferred to be a bit more proactive. That night, in particular, he recalled your humming in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes before placing them in the dishwasher.
A strange feeling filled his chest at the sight, the smell of dinner still lingering and the radio playing some old song from his childhood. It was a feeling he shouldn't have been feeling towards the babysitter looking after his little sister. You had jumped when the floorboard creaked beneath himself shifting weight, still shy and jittery around him at the time.
“I didn’t see you come in,” your voice is still shaken from the scare. You turned to the oven, “Oh! I kept the food warm, in case you wanted some. Are you hungry?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said, blinking a bit to shake the thoughts from his head, “Ah, you don’t have to do all this, you know. The cooking and cleaning stuff.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not like I have anything else to do,” you returned your gaze to the dishes in the sink, “Besides, you work hard. It’s the least I can do. Just let me take care of it.”
Just let me take care of it.
A phrase he hadn’t yet forgotten, either. When was the last time anyone had taken care of anything for him? He’d taken on the role of being Abby’s caretaker the moment his parents were out of the picture. He had made countless sacrifices, dropping out of school to work full-time, losing his social life. His old friends preferring to go out partying rather than hang out with the guy who has a kid sister and a full-time job. Every day was work, only to mess up at work. Then go home, stress over a dirty home. Drive Abby to school, stress over her education and development.
He didn’t have it within himself to deny you, not when you were so kind and helpful. Even if the guilt ate away at him, reminding him how he couldn’t even afford to pay you close to what you deserved.
His eyes wandered to an image on the counter. There was himself, a familiar stickman with brown hair. There was Abby, of course, given the height difference. And then there was another figure, the hair undeniably similar to yours. All three figures were holding hands together inside a square home.
“What’s this?” He picked it up.
“Abby told me it’s us,” you had laughed, placing a dish in the dishwasher. “Cute, right?”
There was a thumping in his chest as he looked at you, before looking back down at the paper. All he could manage was a smile as he pinned it to the fridge.
You soon felt his presence at your side, his hand picking up another dish while you rinsed yours.
“Let me help with that,” he said.
—
You’ve fallen into a routine. Every day, when he returns home, he is met with the same thing. You, in the kitchen, humming. You, greeting him with a smile. You, sitting down to eat with him. You, always asking him about his day even though you know by now that he has nothing interesting to say. He prefers to hear you talk instead, to listen to you ramble about your shitty college professors and annoying roommates. He likes it like this. To be able to pretend that he’s not some deadbeat who can’t hold down a job to save his life or some traumatized freak haunted by the memories of his dead brother and parents. With you, he gets to pretend like he’s normal.
But, of course, just because he can pretend things are normal, doesn’t mean they are. Reality soon hits him when he’s sitting in his boss’s office, asking Mike for his badge and ID. It hits him when he’s driving home, remembering how he beat an innocent man, his knuckles still bloody as he grips the steering wheel tight. He walks through the front door, hearing you greet him from the kitchen, a sound that would have been music to his ears any other day.
“Mike?”
He doesn’t have the energy to reply. No, all he can do is walk over to the chair in the living room, sinking into it with a sigh. He loosens his tie and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of dishes clattering in the sink followed by your footsteps against the hardwood floor.
“Hey, you okay?” Your voice is soft and gentle. His eyes shoot open when he feels your even softer touch against his forehead, laying the back of your palm flat. “You’re not sick, are you?”
In all the time you’ve been babysitting, neither of you had done so much as touch each other at all. The few times he could remember was how your fingers brushed when you reached for the same dish in the sink or the innocent hand you placed on his shoulder that one time you laughed so hard you couldn’t hold yourself up. He had always made sure to keep his hands firmly placed in his pockets or at his side. Now, you were touching his face, and he thinks that’s the first time anyone has touched him like that in years.
“Don’t worry about me.” He pleads, his body betraying his words when he leans into your touch, your hand drifting to caress his cheek, “You don’t have to.”
You ignore him, and your eyes scan over his form, before landing on his bloodied knuckles. A gasp escapes you, followed by the scolding of his name. He hears you stumble towards the bathroom, rummaging through whatever you can find and returning with a washcloth and disinfectant. You kneel beside him, cleaning the dried blood from his wounds and he winced from the sting of the alcohol.
“I know I don’t have to,” you finally break the silence. “I worry because I care.”
“Why?”
You avert your gaze.
“I just do.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.” He presses. There’s another pause.
“Because this feels like home.”
The answer is enough to render both of you silent, you out of humiliation, and him out of shock because he hadn’t realized you thought the same way.
You finish wiping the last bit of dried blood from his knuckles and there’s a lingering feeling left on his skin, where your fingers held his hands. Soft. Familiar. You’re still kneeling in front of him, but you’re wearing an expression he hadn’t seen since the first week he met you. It’s that look of shyness, the way you used to squirm under his gaze or shrink your presence out of fear of overstepping a boundary.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?
“Let me take care of you. Please?”
He knows it’s wrong. He knows that “messing around with the babysitter” has never been a good idea in the history of ever, but when he sees you gazing up at him like that, sitting on your knees between his legs, your eyes wide like that. Well, what the fuck else is he supposed to do?
The chair isn’t too high from the floor, so he easily finds himself at somewhat your level when he leans forward, his hand lifting your chin to look him in the eye. He pauses, analyzing your face just for a moment. Your lips are parted, so prettily, and your eyes are filled with a look of lust and desperation.
“Please,” you repeat, this time in a whisper.
Any semblance of self-restraint he had before was all lost the moment his lips met yours. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he got a taste, a groan escaping his throat when he feels your tongue in his mouth. And you, you are so pliant. So eager to please. Still timid, hands hesitant as they rested on his knees, but so willing to let him handle you however he pleases, moaning when he tugs on your hair, whimpering when his hands grope your chest through your shirt.
“Quiet,” he mutters between kisses. You feel him pull away, the ghost of his lips at your ear, “we gotta be quiet, yeah?”
You nod, and he kisses your forehead, a tender change from his rough kisses shared only moments prior. He looks down at you, a flustered mess, but knows he must look the same. He couldn’t even remember the last time he let himself indulge like this. He feels your hand slither up his thigh, fumbling with his belt, groaning when you feel him through his jeans.
“You’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes as your hand dips into his boxers.
“You have no idea,” he says, his hand caressing the side of your face, making circles with his thumb against your cheek. He can feel your skin heat up under his touch. Your hand wraps around his hardening cock, and he has to stop himself from bucking into you. You’re just so gentle and sweet and he knows you’d let him take his frustration out but he just cannot allow himself to do that just yet— not without a little guilt.
“Then talk to me.”
“Got, ah, fired,” he chokes out, feeling your thumb swipe over his tip, gathering his pre-cum and helping you stroke up and down with more ease. “Was my fault, too.”
“You started a fight, didn’t you?”
“Something like that.”
He looks down at you, his cock now fully hard in your hand. He can’t hold but admire the sight, how you hungrily stare at him, or how you press your thighs together to relieve yourself of your own desires. He feels his breathing become heavier with each passing stroke of your hand on his dick, and he forces himself to look away, his hand that had previously been caressing the side of your head now digging his fingers into the back of your scalp.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” he leans his head back, in an attempt to stop himself from busting in your hand before you’ve even done anything. He swears he’s not usually this sensitive, but the fact that it’s been so long, and the fact that it’s you, had him feeling like he was a teenager getting his first handjob all over again. He tries not to think about it. “I’m already behind on bills. I don’t think I can even pay you. Probably won’t even get another fucking job after what I did.”
“You don’t need to pay me.”
“You’ve got to stop saying shit like that,” he shakes his head, almost in disbelief. He looks down at you again, and you’re pressing your lips to kiss the underside of his dick, then kissing his tip. He shudders. “You’re too good for this. For me.”
He’s about to continue, but your lips wrap around him and he can’t think of anything. Curse words slip from his lips, feeling your tongue work around him, your hot mouth taking him. He still has his hand on the back of your head, tempting him to force your head down, but he’s more curious about whether you’d try to take him all yourself— which you do. He feels your throat contract around him as you try to push yourself down his cock, determined to take it all. Sometimes, you really were that predictable. Sure, you were a timid little thing, but you were equally if not more stubborn. He grips the back of your head to pull you off, a cough rising to your throat as you catch your breath and he smiles lazily.
Your quick to take him back in your mouth, and he cherishes the feeling of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and your hands that reached for the base of him to stroke whatever you couldn’t take. He gives an experimental thrust and he’s in bliss when he hears you moan around him. And as much as he wishes he could do this forever, watching you take him in your mouth, he knows his own limits and he knows he won’t last any longer. Besides, he’s neglected your needs for far too long.
He pulls you off of his cock finally, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, your lips puffy from their earlier actions. Then, he’s lifting you to the couch, hovering over your form as your back hits the cushions. Mike is thankful that you chose to wear a skirt tonight because with your legs spread like this, he gets a full view of your white cotton underwear, as well as the wet patch your arousal has created. He brings his hand down between your legs, feeling you through the fabric. He can hear your breath hitch and he watches you bite down on your lower lip to suppress your noises. And as much as he wants to tell you not to, he is reminded by the fact that you are both doing this in the living room, and the last thing he wants to do is traumatize his little sister, who is sleeping a few doors down the hallway.
“Didn’t know you wanted me this bad,” he whispers, finally slipping his hand past the fabric barrier to gather your slick at his fingers and rub your clit with his thumb, his other fingers prodding at your hole but not yet entering.
“Wanted you for so long,” you admit, sucking in a breath when you feel his thumb circle around your clit again. “You’re really fucking hot.”
“Yeah?”
Two of his fingers finally sink into you and you’re gripping the fabric of his uniform at his shoulders. Rough, long and so much bigger than your own— you have to grit your teeth even harder to stop any sinful noises from escaping you.
“Always thought you were real pretty, too.” He continues, “You’re prettier right now, though.”
He continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, the wet sounds making you burn up in embarrassment. He’s obsessed with the way your eyes roll back, how your pretty lashes flutter open and closed, and how your hips buck to meet his rhythm.
“More, please,” you finally let out, your eyes going down to his cock, which was still very much hard. “Need you inside.”
You whimper at the emptiness you feel when his fingers leave, but quickly forget about it the moment your panties are removed and you feel his cock rub against your cunt, the tip resting at your entrance. You expect to feel him push in, only to see that he has paused.
“I don’t have any condoms,” he says, a pained look on his face. He had no reason to keep any around any more, not since providing for Abby had become his number one priority. He mentally kicked himself for it now.
“Mike,” you whine, trying to roll your hips up, but his hands remained firm against you, keeping you down. “I don’t care. Just pull out or something.”
You feel like a pathetic idiot for saying it, and he feels even more of one for considering it at all. All he can manage is a sigh. He’d already crossed so many lines tonight that he shouldn’t have. What difference would crossing one more be?
He hesitates before pushing in, but once he feels your tight walls around the head of his dick he can’t find it within himself to have any regrets. You’re so tight and warm and wet and he loves the way you stretch around him, gasping with every inch he gives you. He pauses when he’s buried at the hilt, mentally trying to cool himself down because the fact that he’s fucking you raw and you’re taking him so well is driving him mad.
“So good,” he coos, his hand on your face, thumb on your lower lip, “so fucking good.”
He pulls away until he’s nearly out again before thrusting into you fully, and he has to slam his hand over your mouth to stop the moan that would have escaped you. He continues to fuck you like this, slowly, and deeply, before it’s not enough, and he finds himself taking you faster, harder, wanting to see how much you were willing to take.
You feel every inch of him inside you, and you can’t help but clench around him every time the tip of his cock hits the spot inside you that you can’t reach with your own fingers. You feel so full and it’s everything and more that you’ve needed for so long.
He pushes up your shirt, revealing your cleavage. Your breasts are still covered by your bra, but he pinches your nipples through the lacy fabric anyway, content when he hears you make a sound, muffled by his other hand which remains on your mouth.
He can tell you’re close from the telltale sign of your pussy clenching harder, and how you start to freeze up, too fucked out to do anything else. He, too, starts to feel himself approaching his limit but knows he has to hold out long enough to let you reach your high first. He finally removes his hand from your mouth and uses it to rub your clit.
“Such a good girl,” he breathes.
“I’ll always be good for you,” you keep your voice a whisper, “Always waiting for you when you come home.”
Your words ignite a desire within him he never realizes he had. He had never considered himself too fond of domestic life until you came into his house and made it feel like home. Now, as he’s fucking you, the only thing he can think about is how deeply he wants to cum inside you, over and over again until he gives you another kid to take care of. He doesn’t care if he can’t afford it. He’ll pick up as many jobs as he can get just to take care of you.
He feels your back arch and your walls clench around him, immediately going to kiss you to swallow your cries. He ruts into you, over and over again and though there’s a sinful voice in the back of his head telling him to fill you up until he’s dripping out of you, he knows he should stay true to his promise to pull out. That is, until you tell him otherwise.
“You can do it inside,” you choke out, still fucked out from your orgasm, “I don’t mind—“
Before you can finish your sentence his hips come to a stop and he’s finishing inside you, as deep as he possibly can, as if to not waste a single drop. When he finally pulls out, he can’t help but watch in awe as his seed drips from your cunt down to your ass, ruining the couch cushions beneath you both. He tries not the think about the consequences that will bring. Instead, he’s pulling you close, catching his breath while laying his head against your stomach. Moments later, he feels your hand running your fingers through his hair and he sighs, leaning into your warmth.
“I don’t want you to be Abby’s babysitter anymore,” he starts, his voice hoarse and worn out. He can feel you tense up when he says it, before immediately continuing, “I want you to be my girlfriend.”
He hears you laugh.
“Does that mean I won’t get paid anymore?”
“I’ll repay you in other ways,” he flashes you a suggestive smile, earning him a snort and a flick on his forehead. Still, the guilt gnaws at him from within. “Seriously, though. I will. I’ll take care of you, too.”
He doesn’t care what job he picks up next. He’ll take any job in the world, so long as it means he can provide for you and Abby.
—
You wake up the next morning, the scent of pinewood and campfire surrounding you. You don’t remember exactly how, but you remember, after being fucked mercilessly, being carried to his room, cleaned up, and falling asleep in Mike’s bed. Now, you find the place next to you empty but can observe Mike standing at the door, speaking in a hushed voice while holding back the door.
You stand on shaky legs, still wobbly from your earlier affairs, approaching the argument.
“Abby, go away!”
“No! Let me—“
“What’s all this?” You interject.
Mike loses his grip on the door and Abby opens it wide. Her arms are crossed, adorning a frown while Mike is bringing his hands to his face.
“Abby, I can explain—“
“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were having a sleepover?” She fumes, “We could have built a pillow fort!”
