Our Space - Chapter 4: Post-nut clarity on the inter-web
>>>SMUT WARNING!!!
It hadn’t even been a full day, and Will was already exhausted by it. Its pixelated and washed out interface flickered, it almost had a combative nature to it. Will Byers wasn’t a tech genius, by any means, but he wasn’t an idiot. An idiot was whoever made this website. From Will’s professional, or lack thereof, stand point, nothing was where it should’ve been, tabs were stacked and buried on top of each other, it was just a maze of clunky menus and lag.
The people were worse. Endless and interchangeable, the people he had added seemed cut from the same dull template, incessantly asking about parties and fake IDs, and their garbage music that was so painfully uninteresting it circled back to plain irritating. He couldn’t have cared less if he tried.
This was a stupid idea, and it wasn’t working, it was just a loop of self induced suffrage.
He sighed while he scrolled, “Stupid” he mumbled under his breath as he saw all these people he had friended talking about their dumb movies that they thought were nich-er than they really were.
“Lost in Translation isn’t even underground” he groaned and threw his head back.
He was lying on his bed, his back up against the headboard.
Charlie was out, again, with that girl. So the dorm room was a free for all for jerking off and getting laid.
Or for clicking away endlessly while switching between an essay about art history and theory, the MySpace homepage and a Linkin Park album playing from his computer speakers that was now paused because he couldn’t concentrate on so many things at once.
That worked too.
An art theory book was open on his bed next to him, one that Mike had gotten him that year. For a ‘going away to college gift’ which definitely was not an actual thing if you were going to see that same person at college, Mike was just a sappy loser.
He had drawn little doodles in each of the pages, and currently open was page 114 on the topic of instrumentalism, with a small, crude but endearing sketch, of a goblin in the bottom right corner.
Will ran over it with his index finger, the illustration was etched into the paper, purposeful and telling. He wondered what had gone through Mike’s mind, when he drew it. When he bought the book. When he handed it to him wrapped in brown paper. When he wrote Will’s name bold and big in black marker up the top of the wrapped gift.
He smiled, feeling that familiar buzz in his stomach. He thought about Mike’s hands, the way they must've been tensed, his knuckles popping out of his skin whilst he drew the curves and the edges of the drawings. His long, slender fingers gripped the edges of the book, his fingers taught around the pencil while he had that look on his face that only Will picked up. How he looked when he was focused, like really focused, not thinking about what his face was doing. His jaw would tighten, which exposed his cheekbones, and his freckles that were spotted along his nose and his cheeks. His eyes were dark, the kind of dark that sent a shockwave down to Will’s crotch.
Will’s mouth was parted, his finger still running over the sketch. He felt like his senses were heightened, he could almost feel the grooves in the lead that dug into the paper.
He swallowed, thinking about watching Mike draw, letting himself go and ultimately just watching Mike be Mike, wholesome and undefined by anything at all, as if he was unashamed to be anything but himself.
He was shameless and it was the kind of shamelessness that drove Will crazy.
When he would embarrass himself in public just to make Will laugh in the aisle of Melvad’s general store, and all the old people stopped, stared and scoffed at them.
Mike didn’t care, Will wasn’t even sure he had noticed.
Or the time this week, where Mike got too high before dinner in the dining hall, so he spent an hour in a debate with Will about what foods were soups, and which were sandwiches,
“What about a bag of potato chips?” Will argued
“That’s not even a food,” Mike leaned forward over the dining hall table, and raised his hand, waving it in Will’s face, “Chips are a concept” he said in a whisper.
The joke wasn’t even funny, if he had said it to Dustin or Lucas or Jane, they would've given him a blank stare and an eyeroll. Max would have smacked him in the back of the head and called him an idiot.
But not Will, he laughed so hard the soda almost came out of his nose. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing because he was high from the second hand smoke that he inhaled back in Mike’s room, or because Mike simply just knew how to undo him into the mess that he was when he made Will laugh like that.
He always had a will, and a way.
And it was the will that drove Mike Wheeler to lean down and plant a soft kiss on Will’s lips. And the way he did it.
Will hadn’t forgotten about it, and every time thought about Mike’s lips on his, the taste he got of him even if it was for a second, he felt himself unravel completely as the heat rushed across his lap.
Right now, he thought about it, the way Mike had tasted like sweat and sweetness on his lips in the midst of the Wheeler basement. His stomach had tightened when it happened, and he almost dove his mouth into Mike’s, he didn’t want it to end, he wanted more. He wanted to feel the roughness of the stubble on Mike’s chin, lift his hand up to his hair and grab a tuft of black hair in his hand, and pull Mike further toward himself.
And he hated it. He hated it now and he hated it then.
He felt like a dissipated Ozzy Osbourne, he wanted to overindulge in sensual desires like he was high off MDMA.
Will’s finger still lingered on top of the sketch, he pressed his skin into the page harder, like he was trying to pry Mike Wheeler himself out of the book, conjure him like an undead spirit.
That familiar feeling hit him, the one that was so constantly persistent in Hawkins panging in his lower stomach, and he felt a twinge in his crotch, sharp and warm and immediate. A sign from the gods, to indulge in unadulterated pleasure, to give in and never look back to the life that was before.
Will’s stomach dropped at the sensation like that feeling when you miss a step in the dark, in the middle of the night, going back to your room, and you feel like you might fall down into a well of vast darkness when all you were trying to do was get back to your bed.
His chest tightened, breath catching somewhere halfway between his throat and his lungs, as the thought of a sexually debauched, half naked, whining and glistening in sweat, Mike Wheeler, forced its way through his head. The heat crawled up his neck and down into his lap along with another spike of immediate pleasure. Will’s mind and his body scrambled to reject the feeling, to push it back down to wherever the sexual yearning for Mike had been repressed to.
Will lay there still, on his side now, his finger pressing harder into the page, his nail scraping across, almost driving his finger through all the layers of paper. The light from his computer lit up the side of his face, which was now drowned in the expression and feeling of complete and utter depravity. The truth of this whole situation twisted hard, dragging every past perverted thought about Mike, and every sense of denial he had, into something wrong.
Will Byers had a fucking hard on thinking about his childhood best friend.
He squeezed his eyes tight shut, like that might stop it. He tried to focus on where his blood was flowing, trying to direct it from his dick back up to his heart that was beating a million miles per hour. But that is not how the human body worked, he soon learned. He needed it to stop, needed it gone, ignored, shut down, needed the fucking thing ripped off his body, anything.
He slammed the book shut and threw it off his bed, and it banged hard on the floor. The book sat there, its cover face down on that ugly carpet like it was the one who was self conscious and hiding from reality. He looked down at it, his jaw clenched now, and his hair hung down over his eyes from his forehead, a small pool of sweat collected above his eyebrows. His eyes were wide in shame and shock, his chest was rising and falling fast and hard like he had just completed a marathon, if the marathon was about how fast and how much someone could quell their erotic concepts of their best friend.
Almost cinematically, a sound pinged from his laptop. A sound he’d never heard before. A light, airy chime from behind him, snapping him out of his sexually obsessive trance, almost making him forget about the circumstance in his pyjama pants until he turned back around and faced it.
He groaned, looking away, towards his computer. A notification was in the top right corner of his computer, hovering, floating and teasing like a sign from the heavens above, something he didn’t know he was waiting for, something he could use.
A blue and white rectangle, boxy and sharp at the edges of the pixelated notification. The MySpace icon, bold but grainy, and a notification he’d never received before. He turned his head to the side in confusion, and almost disbelief,
NEW MESSAGE FROM, mitch: Making sure those lyrics on your profile aren’t for anyone specific before i start flirting with U?
He gulped, looking around his room as if there might be some prank TV show host hiding in his closet, ready to jump out and expose his degenerate self. But, there wasn’t, of course. The room was silent, any sound that was there was drowned out with the rush of blood Will could hear in his ears. His heart thrummed, almost pounded out of his chest so hard it might break his sternum.
His breath quickened, and the ache of longing as well as overpowering sexual yearning was building up in not only his chest but also his pants.
He let his mouse hover over it, tantalizing himself with the possibilities of what might become upon the opening of this message. Filled with the infatuation of an extreme and almost unlawful sexual desire for anything at all, he clicked on the notification, opening up a new window on his computer.
He felt like he was stepping into a fucking Chippendales with 100 dollar bills coming out of his pockets.
The chat room was all white, with mitch’s name bold and blue. The message stood clear as day.
Making sure those lyrics on your profile aren’t for anyone specific before I start flirting with you?
He read it over and over in his head, his hands shaking with perverse intent, hovered over the keys.
Was he really about to do this? Who even was this guy? He remembered friending him back earlier that day but he hadn’t even looked at his profile. He thought he’d take a glance at it before considering starting a conversation with this guy.
Stranger danger, he thought, which was silly, because the guy’s entire goddamn account was anonymous, which didn’t make much of a change to the situation at all.
He liked music, books, had black hair, didn’t like blondes for some reason, a DnD nerd and of course, had the word ‘single’ plastered in the most eye-catching spot of the profile page. Will rolled his eyes. He looked closer at the picture. The guy was on a bench, his face turned away from the camera, with black hair covering most of what you could see of his face. He looks like Mike. He sounds like him. The profile, the likes and dislikes, his favourite song, his least favourite music and his distaste for poetry.
Depravity was filling up inside of Will, a perverse feeling of need. Maybe, just maybe, he could talk to this guy, use Mitch as a replacement for Mike. A harmless, and sexually explicit distraction he could use to get over him. Something he could use to take his mind off what he actually wanted, who he actually wanted.
In other words, Will Byers was just desperate to get his rocks off. He hadn’t jerked off in awhile, a couple weeks maybe. He wasn’t one to do it every goddamn night, maybe once a week but he'd been busy with packing for college and now he was constantly sharing a room. And the showers were a no-go zone.
And if this guy was willing, and able, then Mitch could fill the Mike shaped hole in Will Byer’s heart.
Will clicked back to the chat room, he started typing, with intense and un-thought provoking need, he wasn’t being logical about this, and he’d probably regret it right after.
mitch: Making sure those lyrics on your profile aren’t for anyone specific before i start flirting with U?
wilby: they could be for you if you try hard enough
Will ugh’ed at himself, rubbing his forehead with his hands and closing his eyes. But the reply was immediate, another ding rang out, causing Will to lift up his head like the sound he heard was a gunshot.
mitch: forward, I like it
Will looked at the reply, he felt lewd, knowing exactly what to write next, was this actually happening? Was Will Byers sexting with a stranger on the internet on the basis of needing a discreet sexual release regarding the carnal desires between him and his best friend?
wilby: what else do you like?
He gulped at the typing bubble, awaiting a reply,
mitch: there's too much to name, i like the way you began this conversation, for starters. Now your turn, what do you like?
wilby: fair play, stranger…
Will thought, what did he like about this guy
“I like that you look like my best friend who I want to have sex with”
wilby: i like the way you’re talking, your turn
mitch: hmm.. I like how well you're taking the way i’m talking
Will recognised this pattern of speech from the text on that stupid porn mag, the ones that read,
“You’re taking me so well”
“Take it like a good boy?”
“Will you take it well for me?”
He typed, his hands curling into fists above the keys before he sent what he was about to send. He felt almost embarrassed, like there was someone watching him, he leaned and looked around the room, making sure Charlie hadn’t magically appeared silently.
wilby: i can usually take things pretty well ;)
Which was a lie. He’d never taken anything, but he lied, this way, Mitch wouldn’t know he was such a loser. Maybe he couldn’t take anything well, maybe he was bad at it, maybe he’d freak out and get scared or maybe it would hurt and he wouldn’t like it. The virgin-panic was replaced with a feeling of another surge toward his dick, excitement and pleasure and a feeling of eventual final release building up into one big feeling.
mitch: i figured you probably could, wish i was there so i could see you take something of mine?
wilby: oh yeah? like your wallet?
He tried to joke, breaking the tension that only he was feeling.
mitch: you could take that too, you can take anything.
He checked the time, it was 9:04, Charlie said he’d be back at 10:30. He had time. With one final survey of the room, Will’s hands desperately drifted to the waistband of his pyjama pants, brushing over the obvious bulge and his hips bucked a little at the sensation, having not had been touched in weeks.
wilby: if you were here, what would i be taking?
He egged on, but he felt a slight sense of sickness within himself. There was a paralysis happening to him, not knowing when to start touching himself and when to keep talking to Mitch, when to start moaning over text. Was that a thing?
mitch: my dick, yeah? I hope that’s what we’re both thinking
The words kick started it, and he dove his hand into his pants without thinking. His fingers twitched, and he wrapped his hand firmly around his dick. He let out a low moan in reaction to the feeling, the tightness of his own hand made his hips stutter, and forced himself upward into his own fist, expelling another moan. He’d have to be typing with one hand now.
wilby: and how exactly would i be taking that?
He urged him, he wanted to get to this faster, the obscene imagery and the raunchy offers of blowjobs and sloppy makeouts
mitch: hopefully on your stomach, bent over the edge of the bed
He gripped his dick even tighter, a breathy moan escaping his lips,
wilby: please keep going
This conversation had gotten too horny too quickly, but neither of them seemed to care, both obviously looking for an immediate release late at night.
mitch: i’ll keep going, bunny. i’d have to prepare you first though, don’t get too eager too quickly.
The name triggered touch down, Will started a firm pace on himself, going up and down in his pants. Bunny, he’d never been called that, or any sexy name for that matter. He’d never even thought about it, but he liked it, a lot.
wilby: yeah
He didn’t have the ability to even type a sentence by this point, he was infatuated with the feeling he was bringing upon himself,
mitch: just keep doing what you’re doing, okay? don’t worry about talking. I’ll do it. I know it's hard for you. I know you’re hard for me.
It was like it was meant to be, he already somehow knew the way Will liked being talked to, before Will himself even knew. Like Mitch knew he was touching himself on the other side of the screen. A horny mess of a match made in heaven.
Will moaned louder now, quickening the pace on himself, he threw his head back. He vividly imagined it being bent over on the edge of a bed by this guy, Mr. almost Mike. He imagined turning around, and sliding down, pushing him backward. He’d kneel between the guy’s knees, taking his dick into his mouth,
He looked back toward the computer to gain more sexual encouragement,
Another message pinged,
mitch: you’re doing so good, bunny, just keep going, i love making you feel good
He imagined more, sucking gently after taking it into his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft. He imagined looking up, and feeling a hand on the top of his head gripping a tuft of his hair in the man’s hand, tightly. He would moan onto his dick, and press his head down a little further,
mitch: just like that, just keep going like i tell you to, okay? you get to come when i tell you that you can
Will groaned, biting down on his bottom lip. He wanted to quicken his pace, go faster and harder, if he did he probably would have come by now, but he held himself back. Like he was being told to. He thought more, being brought up to stand, and then turned around and pushed on the bed, he imagined a firm, hard slap on his ass, one that would leave a mark. He imagined another tuft of hair being pulled, pulling his hair and his neck back uncomfortably but god it felt so good when it was done like this,
mitch: you can go faster now, just a little faster. you're so horny aren't you? not even a minute into our first conversation till you started wanting me to talk to you like this, you’re so pathetic. you should be glad i think your cute, if only i could see how cute your face could be, all red and sweaty, panting under me and begging me to keep going the way you want me to
He sped up, just a little bit, but it was enough to make him moan again, louder this time, high pitched and compliant to the orders he was receiving. He kept asking himself if he was really doing this, but the lust was blinding, he wasn’t even thinking about anything but being the most submissive he could be, he had never felt like this before, practically wanting to be used, wanting to be smacked and thrown around with his hair pulled and his skin bitten raw, and sucked red. A whine escaped his lips,
mitch: you’re so good, you’re so close i know you are, just think about me behind you, how i’d feel inside of you. probably so good, yeah? you’d take it so well, nice and slow just so you can get used to it, but you’d probably beg me to go faster even if it would hurt. you like it when it hurts
He said it like a fact, it was a fact. He did like it. Will had recurrently thought about having his ass slapped and his hair pulled in the past when he had jerked off, but never to this extent. Never to deliberate pain that was bigger than an ass slap, an actual hit, something that would leave evidence the day afterward. Something that would send a sharp, stinging pain through his body that he liked, that he craved. Will sped up again, without permission this time, but it was almost like Mitch knew,
mitch: speed up more, keep going, god you probably look so hot right now, you probably sound so whiny and pathetic, you want to come so bad, i wish i was there to help you, and touch you, and do all the things to you that you’ve only imagined
Will moaned, a breathy moan, a desperate one, he was so close, teetering on the edge of complete nirvana and a climax that had built up for weeks. He wondered if the guy on the other side of this conversation was also jerking off, or if he just gained pleasure from talking to strangers like this, if it was Will’s turn to beg and whine over instant messenger afterward.
“Fuck” he moaned under his breath, he pulled his dick out of his pants now and the cold air hit the sensitive exposed skin. It was sweaty and sticky and obscene.
There was something so alluring and exciting about not knowing who it was, what the guy looked like. A tantalizing feeling about the whole ordeal, secret anonymous internet sexting. Will could say anything, and it wouldn’t matter, because whoever was on the other end didn't know anything about him, what he looked like, his real name, or age. He didn’t know Will was a loser kid back in Hawkins, or the fact that Will had never actually kissed another guy except for his best friend, or that he’d been stuck in an agonizing loop of self suffrage about even having sex. He didn’t know anything except the way Will liked to be talked to, like he was compliant and obedient. And he liked it that way.
mitch: alright, focus really hard for me now, alright bunny? you’re gonna go faster, and i want you to be loud, i dont care who hears you
“Okay” Will muttered out, replying to the request on the screen like anyone could hear him. He worked his hand faster and faster, moaning louder, an open mouth full blown moan, like he was having sex, maybe it’d deter his dorm neighbours from thinking he was a sad virgin,
mitch: you’ve been such a good boy, i want you to come now. go faster, i want you to come all over yourself like a pathetic horny mess, i wish i could see it all over you and kiss it all better, and clean you up, but for now you have to do it yourself, okay?
He was so close now, a solid 10 seconds away from complete climax, that sweet tickling tingle sensation was building up in his groin, he threw his head back and squeezed his eyes in pleasure and he moaned loud again, and again, and again, getting higher pitched and more whiny as he went on and as he got closer. Will opened his eyes and looked at the screen for one more nudge of sexual encouragement to send him over the finish line,
mitch: come for me, bunny
With those simple words, Will’s hips stuttered into his own hand and his vision practically gave out due to the immense pleasure, he couldn’t tell if he’d closed his eyes without thinking or gone blind from lust. He whimpered a high pitched moan out, his hips bucking up and down off of the mattress, overwhelmed and sexually overstimulated with the imaginary sensations of being thrown around like a ragdoll. He came, a shuddering orgasm that felt more like full body convulsions. He felt the muscles in his lower stomach shake, his body was rinsing out the few weeks of pent up pleasure that was bottled up inside of him.
He panted, his head thrown back on the pillow, with his hand still gripping himself.
He lay there, for five minutes, maybe twenty, he couldn’t tell, with his eyes closed and his hand limply around himself, like all the strength he had in him before had given out. He breathed in deeply, before his eyes shot open and he realised what the fuck he had just done.
He sat up almost electrified, a spasm of anxiety and the utter realisation of whoring himself out hit him. The sticky substance was cold now, on his stomach and his pants. “Shit” he muttered, taking his pants off and wiping everything down with them, and basketball hooping them into the laundry basket by the front door.
Now naked and afraid, he turned to his laptop, slowly, to make sure the beast wouldn’t be spooked.
The last message was plastered on the screen like some kind of ridicule against him, a conversation that might haunt him and ruin every single plan of future employment.
He stared at the bolded text, re-reading over and over again what the last message said, what he had done just 10 minutes ago. He was practically panting, and stood still like a statue, stuck in time not knowing what move to make.
The feeling encapsulated him, an ugly purple feeling that was regret mixed with nervousness and a depressing wave of post-nut clarity. His typing bar blinked teasingly at him, urging him to continue the conversation, maybe help out the other guy, or have a simple conversation about DnD and music,
“Hey thanks for helping me come, anyway what's your favourite album?”
Will rolled his eyes, feeling disgusted with himself, he held his head in his hands, pressing the edges of his nails into his scalp, a small but deliberate way of punishing himself for being a whore. The revulsion only grew, and he slowly became more aware of himself, the same way one becomes aware of their bad BO. Slowly at first but then all at once, bitch slapping him in the face. It was an unavoidable self loathing, something bigger than regret; the word regret felt too dignified, too simple. This was something stickier, heavier, it clung to every surface area of his skin, the kind of shame and utter distaste that made him want to peel off his skin and leave it somewhere, maybe roll it up and basketball it into the laundry basket along with his cum-my pants. Then he’d just be lying on the bed, muscle tissue and all, though, the shame would probably creep its way deeper, ending up in his bones.
A moment ago he was driven by an impulse, in that dim corner of the brain, a primate, caveman-like need for release, that had never learned proper manners and just grunted and yelled whenever it needed a moment of sexual liberation. Now he was back to square one, conscious enough to regard his actions like a sober man revisiting drunken dick pics he sent to his coworker, while he was married with a wife and kids. Except he was stone cold sober, and there was no drunkenness, no coworker, no wife or kids and no dick pic, and somehow without a dick pic it was more intimate. It was more telling and knowing, that the guy on the other side of the screen knew everything and nothing about him at the same time. There was no wife he could apologise to and beg for forgiveness, and no meeting with HR for workplace harassment, just acceptance. He had to marinate in it, sit in his shame and punch himself in the gut or rip out one hundred pieces of his own hair so he could force himself to learn a fucking lesson.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, his voice shrouded with the hollow clarity of someone who had just, and will be forever, fumbling their own dignity.
Another ding cut through the room, sharp and insistent, somehow louder than the ones that came before now that he had been sitting in a pool of his own humiliation. His head snapped up again, with the speed of a guilty conscience desperately wanting to be pulled from itself.
On the screen, another text blinked into life,
mitch: now that that’s out of the way, what’s your favourite food?
The shame of the past twenty minutes didn’t vanish all at once, but the more he stared at the words, the more he was able to make sense of them, and the shame only loosened; like a rope tied around him in a knot, finally giving way and then it slipped and fell off of him entirely, cascading down to the floor before he even had the chance to realise it was gone. Melted clean off of him like frost from the night under the early morning sun, leaving a steady warmth in its place that made everything feel completely and utterly ordinary again.
A brute force of ridiculous and captivating relief.
It was the same feeling that only one other person could have him encircled in. A feeling he’d always thought belonged to Mike, almost proprietary. But it was here again, stirred to life by someone else entirely, and the shame didn’t stand a chance against it.
wilby: :) i love pasta. i make a mean red sauce.
wilby: U?
author note: please let me know what head canons you want to see in this fic!! also this fic is available on ao3, and it is linked in my intro post!! happy bylering!