red kisses ꫂ᭪݁
mikey gets just a bit too excited when his favorite girl pushes him over the edge…
whole day had been planned.
not the kind of “oh i’ll see what happens” plan. this was intentional. meticulous, even. every detail mapped in your head and rehearsed, and yet it still made your stomach twist in nervous anticipation.
three months. three months with mike wheeler. and somehow, it still didn’t feel like dating. not really. not like the way you’d imagined it in those quiet nights alone, thinking about him brushing your hair back, lips ghosting over your skin in a way that made your stomach churn.
it was sweet.
hands brushing and lingering, shoulders pressing together just long enough, glances that held more than they let on.
him braiding your hair, tongue poking against his cheek as he tried to get it “even,” fingers careful, somehow impossibly intimate.
him doodling dragons and spaceships on your hands, secret little maps only you would notice.
him choosing you over and over, without thinking, without speaking it aloud.
and he was patient. painfully, maddeningly patient.
but that patience.. it made your blood hum in frustration.
because the moment things shifted, even the tiniest shift, he faltered.
the boy who could lean against you for hours, chin pressed lightly to your shoulder, suddenly didn’t know where his hands went.
the boy who could ramble endlessly became stuttering, fumbling, half-formed words tumbling out before he could stop them.
private mike was… different.
shaky fingers, uneven breaths, cheeks flushed in a way that burned hotter than the room. he’d cup your face so gently you almost hated him for it, like you were fragile porcelain and he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch. and every time, just when it felt like it could go further… he pulled back.
and you understood. you really did.
but understanding didn’t stop the tension coiling in your chest. didn’t stop the way your body ached for something more, for him.
so yeah. today was planned.
you timed your shower perfectly. vanilla shampoo, vanilla conditioner. the ones he had quietly mentioned while you two were at the mall, cheeks pink, like it was a secret between the two of you.
you lingered under the water, imagining the warmth lingering on your skin long after, the way it might make him notice, make him want you without realizing why.
dressing took forever. nothing obvious, nothing daring, just enough to make him pause, to make him look longer than usual.
and by the time you biked over, your pulse was racing so hard it felt like your chest would split. you’re not even sure if its from the fact that he lives across town or if you’re that nervous, but you don’t even wanna think about it too deeply right now.
the wheeler house looked the same. warm lights spilling through familiar windows. your bike clattered to the porch floor. a small noise, but loud enough to make your stomach flutter. you realized you could still turn around. pretend this didn’t happen and keep your hormonal wet dreams at bay.
….you didn’t.
the door opened before you knocked.
“oh! hi sweetie,” mrs. wheeler said. “he’s downstairs.”
“thanks,” you said, forcing casual, even though every step down felt like a countdown.
the basement smelled like it always did, dust, detergent, the faint warmth of old couches, but tonight it carried you. vanilla. soft, subtle, impossible to ignore.
he noticed before he even looked up. chest tightening, breath catching. when he did, his eyes widened, pink spreading across cheeks, hands fidgeting with nothing, gripping his knees.
“hey,” you said, stepping closer. your voice soft but teasing.
“h-hi,” he stammered, gaze darting everywhere but you. the tv, the popcorn, the blanket… literally anything except you.
you dropped your bag, fingers brushing the couch. you sat as close as possibly close to him as you could get. your leg nudged his. he stiffened. you smiled inwardly. good.
mike took his arm and tried to wrap it around your shoulders, fingers struggling to find a comfortable position. he’s so jittery.
your pulse was hammering. warmth coiled low in your stomach, sharp and impatient. you wanted him, needed him, and it twisted in your chest in a way that made your hands itch, your fingers twitch. you decided to push the extra mile and move your leg, dropping it between his, you feel his legs tense up at the contact.
the movie barely registered. you caught a few flashes of aliens and explosions, but mostly you were watching mike. every time you pretended to look at the screen, his eyes found you again, wide, full of awe, like he couldn’t believe you were actually there.
he kept lifting his eyebrows that little way he does, like he was asking a question without words, like he was silently begging for permission to touch you, to lean closer, to want you.
it made you fidget against him, every time he caught you watching him, his gaze flicked down for a moment, chest tightening, then back up, almost shamelessly.
you wanted to push him further, tease him, make him break, and it was delicious to see him caught between awe and want. every little glance, every tiny hesitation, made your heart twist, making it harder not to lean in and kiss him right there.
thinking of how else can you tease him.. popcorn.
slowly, you reached for a piece. let your fingers brush his. subtle contact. barely there, but enough. his inhale was sharp. almost invisible. but you caught it.
you lifted the popcorn to your lips, letting your tongue swipe the butter at the corner. slow enough to let him watch. his chest caught. eyes went wider. hands twitched, hovering uselessly.
“mikey, you okay?” you asked, voice almost mockingly sweet.
“y-yeah,” he said too quickly. “i’m fine.”
you shifted closer, leg pressing stronger against his, hand grazing his arm lightly. he tensed, then softened slightly, fingers curling into your side like he needed something to hold onto.
“mike,” you whispered, softer now.
finally, he met your eyes. really looked.
you leaned in, slowly. letting him pull away if he wanted. your lips met. hesitant at first. his hand rose shakily, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers trembling. you pressed closer, teeth grazing, lips dragging. you tugged his shirt, fingers threading through his hair. breaths hot and shallow.
his other hand grabbed the pillow between you like he needed a shield, then slowly let go, pressing closer instead. you weren’t dumb, you knew exactly what he was trying to hide. a part of you adored what a gentleman he was, the other part wanted to rush his clothes off even faster, showing him that there isn’t a reason to hold back so much.
you leaned into him, skin to skin, soft whines escaping. you deepened the kiss. teeth lightly catching, tongue brushing. every reaction from him feeding the coil of frustration you’d been holding back for weeks.
“fuck,” he whispered, voice low and desperate. you laughed softly, letting your lips brush his ear. he shivered violently. his body leaned into yours, letting you swallow the whine he didn’t mean to let out. his hands found you, gripping a little tighter, exploring hesitantly, then more boldly. he was trembling, everything you’d been craving.
and then.. metallic. blood. the copper hit your tongue first, sharp and bitter, and it made something hit low in your stomach, a mix of panic, thrill, and want.
you immediately pull back, opening your eyes. you’re met with the scene of mike, his curls messy, forehead damp with sweat, eyes glossy, his cheeks full of a pretty pink blush that leads up to his ears. but when you look down, you can see a trail of blood starting from his nose down to his lips, streaked red, glossy, swollen from the kiss, and he froze, eyes wide, chest heaving, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. you realize with the way he’s looking at you, it must be all over you as well.
you lean back in, your tongue brushed lightly over his, tasting him mixed with the blood. his lips parted immediately, teeth catching yours in a startled little groan, and you let yourself continue to explore the kiss. his hands found your waist, pressing, trembling, searching for purchase. one slid under your shirt, hot fingers pressing against your ribs, tracing, exploring, while the other tangled in your hair, dragging your head closer. every moan, every gasp, every soft whine against your mouth made your own pulse spike.
you pressed harder, letting your body grind slightly against him, lips sliding along his jaw, tongue brushing his teeth, tasting that coppery tang again. the metallic taste mixed with him, with the sweat, with the heat pooling between your legs, and it made your back arch involuntarily, fingers digging into his shoulders.
when he finally pulled back, just barely, breath hitching, eyes squeezed shut, you stayed, letting him catch up.
“i-i can’t,” he breathed. “it’s too much.”
“okay,” you said, hands sliding down, grounding him, holding him steady.
and when he looked at you again, really looked, something had shifted. and he didn’t pull away.
