Hi Blair 💜 heard you're looking for some Takemitchy content so i'll write something short for you:
tw/cw: nsfw, written in like less than an hour/poorly-edited, smoking (cigarettes), dacryphillia, riding (or cockwarming? dunno depends on the interpretation), melancholic (angst) in nature
takemitchy thinks you're cool.
not in the same way as mikey when he carries the weight of his own name in the stitching of his uniform jacket, or in the way chifuyu throws him a smile over his shoulder, a fire behind him and his future written in those ashes.
he had never been cool, only lucky and quite possibly lost.
you, his lovely neighbour, is cool because you're undeniably unfiltered. you had shown up a few times in a different timeline, but never as an illusion that may disappear, at least maybe not yet.
you offer him a puff of your cigarette as he stands a few steps away from you, tears dotting his eyes as his mind strolls into a place where he regrets a decision. you don't know much about this onyx-haired man, only seeing him around your apartment complex a few times, but you know whatever he's going through - whatever is written on his face - you hope you could offer some solace between your occupied fingers.
it's the first time you've ever interacted with him.
"dude, this won't kill you any less than whatever you're already thinking of." your chuckle slices through the tension swiftly, beckoning him closer.
he's moving before he even realizes, thinking fuck it, feet dragging dazedly at the way your cherry-stained lips wrap around another dart. he's a footstep away now, and you pinch his chin, tugging his jaw open as you nudge the stick in. your fingers ghost across his jaw tenderly and makes a home in his locks as you pull his face closer, until the ends of your cigarettes touch. he can't look at you, not with the way you're sending tingles to ripple across his scalp, and you think it's cute. the flame flickers underneath, a warm, orange glow emitting between you two.
it's all smoke and mirrors when you're both ushered into your apartment thanks to the spitting sky.
his tears drop in globs as you sink your heat on to him, the pelting of the rain competing with the squelch of your slick. your thumbs are pressed gently into the glossy streams, trying to wipe them away as his fingers press dimples into your hips.
his crystalline orbs are so pretty, reflecting the over-casted light from your window, and what you saw earlier has almost disappeared, replace by the need to be consumed by you. perhaps it's true: you can offer him some solace, maybe something he can call his own, even if it's only for a little bit.
he thinks he's actually really lucky, and maybe that will draw him to find you again in another life.
.
.
what the fuck.
