⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹”secret”⊹₊｡ꕤ˚₊⊹
summary // you house sit miles place while while he’s at work and abby is at school. you find yourself in his bed, overwhelmed by his lingering scent. caught up in the moment, you touch yourself using his t-shirt, only for Mike to return home early and catch you in the act.
tags // reader getting caught masturbating, mike schmidt x perv!reader, p in v sex, penetration, yearning, intimacy, sexual tension, smut and fluff, friends to lovers, soft dom mike, mild humiliation
mentions // @stop-talking @janitorhutcherson @lile6969 @whimperly @joshfutturman
authors note // we’re so back guys writers drought it out
you get back from taking abby to school, mikes at work and you have the house to yourself…you think.
you lay down in mikes bed which is normal for you. when he gets home he usually wakes you up softly or carries you to the couch. he’ll never admit it but he loves it.
as soon as you get ready for bed you feel a familiar sensation in your lower stomach. you notice that the room is full of his scent and it makes you loose it, grabbing a tshirt from his pile of unfolded clean clothes and innocently laying down with it.
before you know it you’re touching yourself with his tshirt in between your legs, got the smell of him has your eyes rolling back in your head as you touch your pretty cunt and think of him.
The scent of Mike’s t-shirt, a heady mix of his cologne and something distinctly *him*, clings to your senses, driving you deeper into the haze of your own desire. Your fingers move faster, the soft cotton of his shirt pressed between your thighs, muffling the quiet gasps that escape your lips. The room feels smaller, the air heavier, as you lose yourself in the fantasy of him—his calloused hands, his low voice, the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re so caught up in the moment, eyes squeezed shut, that you don’t hear the faint creak of the front door or the soft tread of shoes against the hardwood. Mike’s home early. The pizzaria let him off sooner than expected, and he’s already through the living room, his mind on you, on the quiet comfort of finding you in his space.
But as he steps into the hallway, he freezes. The door to his bedroom is slightly open, and there’s a sound—soft, breathy, hot. His heart stutters, a mix of confusion and something hotter, more primal, curling in his chest. He should turn away, give you privacy, but his feet don’t move. Instead, he nudges the door open just enough to see you.
You’re sprawled across his bed, his t-shirt clutched tightly against you, your head tilted back, lips parted. The sight hits him like a punch, stealing the air from his lungs. He’s never seen you like this, so unguarded, so raw. His mouth goes dry, and he grips the doorframe to steady himself, torn between stepping back and stepping closer.
Your eyes flutter open at the faint sound of his movement, and you freeze, heart lurching into your throat. There he is, standing in the doorway, his work jacket still on, eyes dark and unreadable. The t-shirt slips from your grasp as you scramble to sit up, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Mike—I—I didn’t hear you come in,” you stammer, pulling the blanket over yourself like it could hide what just happened.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares, his jaw tight. You brace for him to turn away, to pretend this never happened, but instead, he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The air shifts, charged with something electric. “You’re in my bed,” he says, voice low, rougher than usual. It’s not a question, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s trying to piece together what he just walked into.
“I… I was just…” You trail off, unable to find an excuse that doesn’t sound ridiculous. Your pulse races, humiliation warring with the lingering heat in your veins.
Mike takes another step closer, his gaze flicking to the t-shirt now tangled in the sheets. His lips twitch, not quite a smirk but close. “That’s mine,” he says, nodding toward it. There’s no judgment in his tone, only a quiet intensity that makes your stomach flip.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.
“Don’t be.” He’s at the edge of the bed now, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of motor oil and sweat on him, grounding you back in the reality of his presence. His hand hovers near your knee, not quite touching, but the proximity alone sends a shiver through you. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he admits, his voice barely above a murmur, like he’s confessing a secret he’s held too long.
Your breath catches, eyes widening. “huh… what?”
He chuckles, a soft, almost broken sound, and finally lets his hand rest on your knee, his thumb brushing lightly against the blanket. “You think I don’t notice you? The way you fit into my life, into *this*?” He gestures vaguely to the room, the house, the quiet routine you’ve both built. “I come home, see you in my bed, and it’s all I can do not to climb in with you.”
The confession hangs between you, raw and unguarded, and suddenly the embarrassment fades, replaced by a rush of boldness. You shift, letting the blanket fall slightly, revealing the curve of your thigh. His eyes follow the movement, darkening. “Then why don’t you?” you ask, voice trembling but steady enough to hold his gaze.
Mike exhales sharply, like the question physically pains him. For a moment, you think he might pull back, retreat into the safety of his usual restraint, but then he leans in, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Because once I start,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends heat pooling in your core, “I’m not sure I’ll stop.”
You don’t give him the chance to second-guess. You close the distance, pressing your lips to his, and it’s like a dam breaking. His kiss is hungry, desperate, all the pent up tension of months, spilling over. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you climb into his lap, the t-shirt forgotten as you lose yourself in the reality of him, no longer just a fantasy.
Mike’s kiss deepens, a slow, searing thing that steals your breath and sets your skin alight. His hands, rough from years of manual labor, grip your waist with a tenderness that belies their strength, pulling you flush against him as you straddle his lap. The weight of his confession still lingers, raw and electric, and every touch feels like an extension of it, a promise, a release, a claiming. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, igniting the heat coiled tight in your core.
“God, you have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with want as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and the way he’s staring—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your heart stutter. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, lingering as if he’s memorizing every detail. “How long I’ve wanted this. Wanted *you*.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, and you press yourself closer, feeling the hard planes of his body through his worn t-shirt, the warmth of him grounding you even as your head spins. “Then show me,” you whisper, bold despite the nervous flutter in your chest. You lean in, brushing your lips against the stubble along his jaw, and the low, rumbling sound he makes in his throat is enough to make your thighs clench.
Mike doesn’t need more encouragement. His hands slide under your shirt—*his* shirt, still tangled around you from earlier—his calloused palms skimming up your sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You lift your arms, letting him pull the fabric over your head, and the cool air of the room contrasts sharply with the fire building between you. His gaze rakes over you, reverent, hungry, and when his hands find your bare skin, it’s like he’s worshiping you, mapping every curve with deliberate care.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, almost to himself, and before you can respond, he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, like he’s pouring everything he’s held back into it. His lips trail down your neck, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp, arching into him. Your hands fumble with the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, and he chuckles softly, helping you tug it off. The sight of him—broad shoulders, the faint scars from years of hard work, the way his muscles shift under his skin—makes your mouth go dry.
You pull him closer, your lips crashing into his as you rock against him, the friction sending sparks through your body. He groans, hands gripping your hips to guide your movements, and the tension that’s been building for months, maybe longer, snaps like a taut wire. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice strained, and the raw need in it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
He flips you gently onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovers over you, one arm braced beside your head. His eyes search yours, checking for any hesitation, but all you can do is nod, reaching up to pull him down to you. “I want you,” you say, the words spilling out before you can overthink them, and it’s like a key turning in a lock.
Mike’s restraint crumbles. He kisses you like he’s starving, lips and tongue claiming yours as his hands explore, teasing and stoking the fire in your veins. When he finally presses himself against you, the slow, deliberate way he moves makes your eyes roll back, a soft moan escaping your lips. Every touch, every whispered word, is laced with the weight of everything unsaid—every late-night glance, every moment you’ve both pretended was just an arrangement.
The room fills with the sounds of your shared breaths, the creak of the bed, the quiet gasps and murmured praises. He moves inside you, for you, each thrust a blend of passion and urgency, like he’s trying to make up for all the time you’ve both wasted. Your nails dig into his back, urging him closer, and he obliges, his lips finding yours again as the world narrows to just the two of you, the heat and rhythm building to the upmost pleasure.
When you finally unravel, it’s with his name on your lips, your body trembling beneath him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He follows moments later, a low, broken sound escaping him as he buries his face in your neck, his breaths hot and ragged against your skin. For a moment, you just hold each other, the intensity giving way to a soft, almost fragile quiet, like neither of you wants to break the spell.
Eventually, Mike shifts, rolling onto his side and pulling you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, warm and steady, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your cheek. “Stay,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t say it.
You softly smile, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhales, a sound of relief, and tucks you closer, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. The room is still heavy with his scent, but now it’s mixed with yours, a quiet testament to what’s changed. As you drift toward sleep, tangled together in his bed, you know this is only the beginning—messy, complicated, and undeniably yours.