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Michael knows a lot about Mike by now. He knows what Mike likes to eat for dinner when he gets his paycheck in. He knows that Mike washes his hair on Fridays and Tuesdays. He knows that Mike keeps a secret pack of Oreos under the counter where he thinks Abby won't find it. Sometimes when Mike pisses him off, Michael thinks about telling Abby about the Oreos just to be petty.
But he doesn't. Because he also knows how much Mike trusts him.
They are not a couple that is externally demonstrative of their affection. Mike has his pride, and Michael his discomfort. They're not the type to hold hands or press casual kisses to cheeks or sit so closely pressed together they seem to be one entity. Even when sleeping, they usually stick to their own sides of the bed - Michael complains that Mike is too sweaty to cuddle, and Mike complains that Michael is too pointed.
That will never change in public. For all intents and purposes, they might as well just be close friends to anyone who sees them out. But in private is a whole other matter.
Sometimes those barriers come down and sometimes they learn how to love in different ways, skin to skin and breath to breath.
It had taken months for Michael to be willing to stoop to the same levels Mike would. He'd stiffened up at any praise, and any attempts to show more than a scrap of affection were met with stony silence. He'd take any degradation or strike and ask for more, but the softer emotions escaped him. There had been half a dozen, if not more, nights where they'd both gone to bed horny and frustrated, having given up on being able to agree long enough to have sex. Michael was sorry he was disappointing Mike, but he just couldn't do the things Mike wanted. He couldn't take things slow and soft. He couldn't be soft.
That was, until Mike had finally harnessed his frustration and forged it into stubborn determination.
It had been Michael's birthday. Just as he'd requested, they didn't acknowledge it at all through the day. Michael didn't want to think about it, and he didn't want other people to think about it. And Mike obliged…for the most part.
But then that night he'd asked for Michael's trust, while his fingers played with the hem of Michael's shirt. Michael had hesitated, maybe for too long, wary of Mike's plans, but he'd assented. He did trust Mike. His own hangups were just that - his own. Nothing to do with Mike, as he'd tried to stress plenty of times before.
So he handed himself over because he did sincerely trust that Mike would know what was too much, what was not enough.
And Mike had immediately set about pushing that trust about as far it could go without breaking, like pushing a steam locomotive up a hill, trying to reach the downhill rush on the other side.
He'd even gone so far as to tie Michael's hands together, making sure he couldn't meddle. And then he'd ruthlessly destroyed every bit of Michael that stood in the way of accepting Mike's love.
He'd been so gentle, so caring with the way his hands fit on Michael's body that Michael had thought he might actually be sick multiple times at how it made his stomach churn.
Mike hadn't even taken a single piece of clothing off of Michael for ten minutes, at the very least.
Instead, he'd devoted his energies to words that Michael denied, quiet and bored at first, used to this routine, but then more vehement as Mike got more personal, went deeper, found the insecurities Michael thought he'd hidden well enough that no one would find them ever again. Mike had talked and talked and talked and Michael's eyes had grown wilder until Mike had tried to put his hand on Michael's cheek and Michael had turned his head and sunk his teeth in with a noise that was neither beast nor human.
And Mike had let him.
Michael had expected Mike to recoil, rip his hand away, maybe even, if he was lucky, retaliate and fix this entire landslide. If Mike pushed back, then they'd be right back where they started, and Michael wouldn't have to hear the disgusting words coming out of Mike's mouth anymore.
But Mike hadn't moved. Michael had bitten down, hard, and Mike had inhaled, the sound sharp with pain, but he hadn't even tried to remove his hand from Michael's mouth.
That had punched straight through Michael more than anything else could have. Because it meant Mike trusted him. Even when Michael was lashing out, being an absolute asshole, Mike trusted Michael to not hurt him too much.
So Michael had let go, watched Mike withdraw his hand gently, and when he'd met Mike's gaze, there was a hint of confused vulnerability beneath the defiance that still blazed clear in Michael's eyes.
He felt odd. He wanted to apologize, now, to do something to fix the hand he'd just tried to pierce. His teeth hadn't broken skin, but he could see the skin beginning to turn an angry, impending-bruise red. Michael wished he could take that back, and undo all the pain he'd caused, and it wasn't just about the hand anymore, and he felt confused and uncertain and off-balance and so he sought shelter in Mike.
Mike had been more than happy to provide.
Michael had flinched when the hand he'd bitten touched him again, like it was a reminder that inflicted physical pain. But Mike murmured comfort to him and kept going.
He'd pushed Michael's shirt up as far as he could without having to untie Michael's wrists and started there, finally against Michael's skin, where Michael could feel every single breath and every single millimeter of Mike pressed against him. It felt as if they were breathing in an odd sort of synchronization; when Michael's chest sank, Mike's rose, and when Mike's rose, Michael's sank, like they were trading the same air, two halves of the same body.
Mike had taken his time and then more. His fingers traced Michael's collarbones, then his lips followed. Down Michael's chest, following the faint line down his sternum, then breaking off to lap at one of Michael's nipples. Michael had never thought he was particularly sensitive there, but Mike clearly had a mind to revise that, and by the time Mike switched to the other one, Michael's breath had gained a shudder on the exhale.
Eventually, once he'd had his fill of making Michael squirm that way, he'd trailed lower, to the soft, flat plane of Michael's stomach. Michael felt as if each part of his body that Mike touched began to light up with a dull glow, a luminescence that only Mike could see, something that would justify the way he treated Michael as if he was fragile.
Mike's fingers had moved over Michael's ribs like he was reading Braille, down to the angled bones of his hips, and they'd rested there as he set his mouth to work on Michael's stomach.
Mike's saliva had been wet and warm and it should have been so gross, but Michael couldn't even form any words, or thoughts for that matter. He hadn't even been fully hard; Mike had fried his brain in a whole other way. He was just that good at chipping away piece by piece until Michael felt the cracks begin to lengthen and threaten the integrity of the wall he'd been keeping up for so long.
Mike's teeth had clamped down slightly on the left side of Michael's stomach, just enough to anchor into Michael's skin as he'd sucked. When he'd pulled away, there had been a circle of flushed red skin that matched the color of Mike's cheeks when he grinned, pleased. Then he'd repeated the action on the other side, making things symmetrical.
He'd moved a couple inches lower. Repeated the process. Moved. Repeated. Until the skin over Michael's belly, one of the most vulnerable parts on any animal, was covered in proof of Mike's devotion, of Mike's claim to ownership on him. Michael had wished Mike would leave some on more obvious parts of his body, but he didn't know how to say it, and didn't trust his voice even if he had. He was pretty sure the way his erection was now pushing against Mike's body said a lot, though.
He was raw, skinned, and they'd barely even done anything. Michael felt like he was going to pass out if Mike continued to break him down at this pace.
Mike's fingers had finally pulled against the waistband of Michael's pants, and he could have cried with happiness that they were moving things along. Maybe Michael would be able to lose himself in the physical pleasure, ignore everything that had happened prior.
But he should have known Mike would never let him have anything that easy.
Mike had gotten Michael's pants off, but not his underwear. Then the bastard had the audacity to not even pay a single ounce of attention to where Michael's cock was straining against the fabric, an invitation Mike was almost never able to resist. No, instead he'd wormed his way down further on the bed and Michael could have screamed with impatience as Mike kissed just above his ankle and he'd realized that Mike was going to take his time.
"Mike," he'd hissed out through his teeth, half-tempted to start kicking. But then his mind had flashed back to the way Mike's face had tightened with pain when Michael's teeth had sunk in, and the desire to cause Mike any more physical trouble drained out of him in an instant. An unusual feeling - or lack of feeling - for someone who usually took any opportunity to exercise a bit of sadism.
Mike had just murmured some bullshit about loving every single part of his body, the kind of cringe-worthy lovey-dovey crap that made Michael's stomach curl up and die out of embarrassment. But his embarrassment certainly wasn't stopping Mike, and Michael couldn't deny the fact that he was still obviously, humiliatingly aroused.
Mike had kissed his way up Michael's shin, over his knee, all the way up his thigh, so torturously slow that Michael was pretty sure empires had risen and fallen in the time it took for Mike to reach the divot that led from his hips down into his groin, still not going too close to the place Michael wanted attention the most. Michael bitched and complained the whole way, through lips that felt half-numb, with a voice that shook and cracked with every touch of his skin.
Michael knew Mike too well to even try wishing that Mike would skip the other leg. It didn't stop him from trying.
You already did one, you don't need to do both.
I said every part of you. You don't have one leg.
They're both the same. Quit being such a fucking dick, Mike. He'd been aware he was being rude, but he didn't know what else to say anymore.
No response, just Mike's lips on his skin, driving Michael crazy with both irritation and something he didn't want to acknowledge. He let the irritation dominate, pour through him until it burned through anything else.
Michael still hadn't kicked, though the urge to do so was definitely not leaving. Instead, he'd focused his energy on a flood of profanity, calling Mike every name in the book and then some he'd invented on the spot. He wasn't even someone who swore regularly. He generally didn't feel the need to stray further than "damn". But this was too far, and the energy poured into avoiding a physical outburst exploded outwards in his words. Mike's only reaction had been to counter every name Michael called him with something nice about Michael, words Michael didn't even know Mike was capable of saying, of allowing to escape his mouth and spill over Michael's body like something alien, slick and twisting and painful and good and bad and Michael hated and loved it in equal measure.
Bitch.
Handsome.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
Mmmm, maybe another time. Mike's fingers had rubbed over Michael's skin like he was trying to calm a rabid beast.
Shut up. Mike, I swear to God.
You look so good, Michael. I wish you could see this, too.
I fucking hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I know, you're taking this so well.
(Michael would hate to see what Mike's definition of taking this poorly was.)
You stupid bastard. Motherfucking asshole.
I'm so lucky to have you, Michael.
Cocksucker.
And you've got such a pretty one.
Please, Mike, just stop talking! Stop talking! For once! In your entire life! Shut the fuck up!
But he hadn't told Mike to stop touching him. He hadn't said "get your hands off of me" or "no, stop" or "I don't want this" because he knew Mike would stop. And that, somehow, felt even worse than this ripping, tearing, slicing feeling deep in his gut. Maybe the horrible feeling was partially the fact that he didn't want Mike to stop, and he knew that shouldn't be right.
Eventually, Mike had finally reached that junction of leg and torso on Michael's other side, and he'd just laid there for a moment, cheek resting on Michael's thigh, gazing up at Michael. Michael had hated the adoration in his eyes. He'd hated that Mike was even capable of looking at him like that after the names he'd spat out.
He'd twisted his chin up and away, refusing to look Mike in the eyes, refusing to allow Mike to see the majority of his face. It was petty and immature, but he didn't have anything else left anymore.
Mike surprised him yet again. Michael had expected him to tell Michael to look back, or to reach up and try to make Michael meet his eyes, but Mike didn't say anything. He didn't move. He was just a warm pressure against Michael's leg, radiating calm into Michael's skin that went to battle with the fear in his bloodstream.
Michael had to choose to look at Mike. He had to make the choice to lower his chin and turn his head and meet Mike's eyes, and then he knew that Mike would continue and put his electric hands on Michael again. But Michael had to battle his own pride first.
Mike was patient, far more patient than Michael could expect. Michael had maintained his position until his neck hurt from how he had to hold himself with his wrists tied.
Once the strain became a borderline cramp, Michael had condescended to lower his chin, tilt himself back towards the other, but he'd stared at a point above Mike's head tensely rather than go back to looking into Mike's face.
Until his gaze began to slip lower, lower, lower, down over the mess of curls Mike's hair was becoming (he needed a haircut, Michael had mentally noted to himself absently, even through everything) and down to where Mike's eyes had drawn him in, requesting and not demanding. Asking for Michael's attention, like it was some wonderful gift he could bestow.
"You make me sick," Michael had said, but there was no anger. Only a faint confusion.
Mike had just sat up, moved back to Michael's face, and silently placed his hand on Michael's cheek again, another echo of the moment Michael had bitten him earlier. This time, Michael didn't move, staring up with only a fraction of the defiance he'd had before.
Mike had leaned in, and his lips had been mere millimeters from Michael's, but he kept the hand on Michael's face steady, preventing Michael from surging forward and kissing him.
Somehow this was more intimate than anything else Michael could think of right now. He could feel the heat radiating off of Mike's face and practically smell the desire on Mike - not just sexual desire, but want for Michael, all of Michael.
Mike's breath was soft and Michael had realized suddenly that Mike had brushed his teeth before this; every exhale smelled like mint. He'd laughed, surprised and shaky, imagining Mike in the bathroom preparing for the night by grabbing his toothbrush from the cup. It was sweet of him to think of small details like that, as much as Michael had hated to admit it in the moment.
The next moment, he'd gotten a chance to taste the spearmint for himself as Mike had pressed their lips together, at long last.
Mike still controlled the kiss, moving his other hand to hold both sides of Michael's face and keep him restrained. Mike had been gentle and slow, just as he'd been with the rest of Michael. He hadn't tried to force his tongue in straightaway, and his thumb on Michael's lower jaw had kept Michael from opening his own mouth any farther than Mike allowed.
Mike had seemed content to lay like that for all of eternity, his lips moving against Michael in an orchestrated dance that Michael reciprocated and then silently begged for more, though he'd never say it aloud.
As soon as the thumb holding his jaw shut relaxed, Michael had opened his mouth, slowly, as if he didn't want to, but Mike's tongue moving in against his was sending tiny shockwaves over his skin.
He had perhaps bit down - but not with enough pressure to hurt or even really be uncomfortable. He'd just gripped Mike's tongue in his teeth and internally smiled at the look Mike gave him, which was unimpressed and as intimidating as one can look when trapped mouth-to-mouth to another.
He'd let go after a second, and then Mike seemed to find a small spark of incentive, and now his fingers were pushing at the hinge of Michael's jaw to hold it open, and his tongue was curling over Michael's teeth.
Michael had made a noise that was completely swallowed by Mike's mouth, as if they were in their own pocket of outer space. He'd pushed his tongue back, warring with Mike's for a moment, but Mike didn't respond like he normally would. He just allowed Michael to do what he wanted, push him around, and then returned inexorably to his unhurried conquest once Michael paused.
Michael had never really thought he'd find having someone else's saliva mingling with his attractive. The idea had always grossed him out; it just sounded uncomfortable and slimy and strange, but Mike managed to negate any of those feelings. Mike could spit directly down his throat, for all he cared. Maybe another time.
Michael had forgotten anything existed besides their faces pressed against each other, and Mike's warm weight, until Mike finally pulled back, a string of their spit tying them together briefly.
Mike's fingers had traced down Michael's stomach faster than before and he was much more eager to pull Michael's boxer briefs off - it seemed Mike was not unaffected by what was going on. But before Michael had been able to get his hopes up too high, Mike had paused once again, resting his hands on Michael's thighs, keeping them spread when Michael tried to squeeze them shut in embarrassment.
"Are you fucking kidding me," Michael groaned out, tipping his head back as far as he could, trying to ignore the way his dick bobbed between his legs. "You're gonna kill me, Mike."
"I'm sure I could think of a couple ways to resurrect you," Mike quipped back, but his voice was distracted as his gaze moved over Michael.
Michael tilted his head back so he could see what Mike was looking at. The answer was him, obviously, every inch of him. Mike was like a X-ray, probing through Michael's very molecules.
Michael looked down at himself and tried to see what Mike saw. Skin that was too pale, stretched too tight over bones. A build like a rectangle, no muscles or curvature to speak of.
Top to bottom, Michael only saw his flaws. His flat chest, ribcage unnervingly curved beneath that, a stomach that was only pretty because it was covered in Mike's hickeys, an average-sized dick that served to embarrass Michael into thinking with it more often than not. Not much body hair besides his legs. Dry skin. Greasy hair. There was nothing here that would ever remotely interest Michael, and he'd never understand Mike.
"You don't get it, do you?" Mike had asked, catching Michael's disgusted look, and Michael shook his head before he could stop himself.
Mike had chewed on the inside of his cheek, visibly trying to string his words together, and then he'd leaned forward to place his palm flat above Michael's heart, fingers spread.
"It's…you're beautiful. To me. And I wish you knew it, I wish you could see it. All of it. I like laying on your chest and hearing your heartbeat."
His fingers pressed into Michael's skin gently, rubbing and shifting like he was trying to wear away enough to get closer to Michael's heart.
Michael hated it. He didn't like that Mike was willing to go this low. To say these things. He'd rather Mike screamed in his face.
"You make a good pillow, actually, even if I always complain about your elbows or shoulders or whatever. Even if you're a little pokey."
The words weren't particularly romantic, but it was the very fact that they weren't that slowly began to get to Michael, the fact that they were authentically, awkwardly Mike Schmidt.
Mike had moved forward, reached around Michael, fumbled for a minute, and then Michael realized his wrists were no longer tied together. Circulation rushed to his fingers as he shook out his arms slightly, relieved at the sensation, but Mike didn't intend to allow him any distraction for long.
He'd continued straight on.
"And I like these-" his hands went to squeeze Michael's arms, then he'd raised one of Michael's hands to his mouth, kissed his way down Michael's fingers, "-because you use them to help other people, even though you say you don't. Helping with Abby's homework. Getting me things from the fridge when I'm cooking."
A crazy thought about punching Mike in the face had crossed Michael's mind. Apparently every instinct he had that night was violent.
When Mike pressed his lips to the fragile skin at Michael's wrists, Michael drew in a sharp breath at the feeling of Mike's tongue lapping softly over his pulse point, then following the vein up to the crook of Michael's arm, where he withdrew his tongue but switched back to kissing as he moved over the white lines that littered Michael's upper arm. Michael almost wrenched himself out of Mike's grasp, but something kept him still.
At the time, they hadn't talked about those much, yet, or the ones on his upper thighs. It never seemed a good time. Mike knew what they were, and had a vague idea of why, but they hadn't discussed further. Michael was happy to keep it that way. They were far faded, and didn't show if he wore a t-shirt. Out of sight was out of mind. But he knew Mike burned with curiosity that he was afraid to express sometimes.
Mike had been quiet for a moment and Michael had practically seen the gears in his head turning.
His voice had been barely a murmur when he said, "I love these because they mean you survived yourself."
Michael could have happily jumped off a bridge.
"You're so cheesy, Jesus Christ," Michael had almost spat, volume matching Mike's. If anyone besides Mike had said that, Michael would have run out of the room before the sentence was finished. But it was so stupid and so corny that it was, once again, authentic Mike Schmidt, and so maybe it sank in a little more than it should have.
A smile fluttered across Mike's lips. "Believe it or not, you're not the first person to tell me that."
Michael had wanted to come up with something snarky and pithy and devastating, but he couldn't find anything.
After a second, Mike had repeated the process with Michael's other arm, praising him, complimenting him, until Michael felt like surely Mike was thinking of someone else, was closing his eyes and seeing someone else's body, because he was none of these things. He was just…Michael.
And yet, Mike's eyes had been wide open when he sat back up and nestled his hands into the hollows of Michael's hips.
"And…" Mike had continued, and then finallyfinallyfinally his fingers were creeping towards Michael's dick. It had softened a little, but Michael could swear that all the blood returned to it tenfold as soon as Mike's fingers encircled him loosely, jerking in the grip.
Mike had smiled and Michael had hated how his body betrayed him once again.
"…I like everything you have," Mike had finished. The touch on his cock disappeared and Michael could have howled, but then Mike's hand was on his balls and oh, okay, that felt nice too, in a way Michael hadn't really expected from someone else. He'd shuddered with the soft pressure Mike had applied, then again as Mike's fingers had dipped to his taint, rubbing softly while his thumb rested against the line of Michael's ass, pressing in like he was implying something with that, too. If Michael had about three quarters less pride, he knew he'd practically be begging for Mike to finger him, to fuck him, to make Michael feel just how much Mike loved him.
"And I like this," Mike had gone on - and suddenly his hand had darted back up, stroking Michael once for emphasis, catching him off guard and forcing him to bite down hard on his lip to muffle a moan, "because sometimes it tells me more about how you're feeling than you do."
"Traitor," Michael mumbled, and he wasn't sure if he was talking to his cock or to Mike.
"Not to mention that I like your dick because I know how you feel about anything that feels good. So I love when you let me take care of you."
His traitor dick had twitched again.
Mike's grin had grown wider.
"I love when you let me talk dirty to you, to tell you all the ways I want to show you how good you can feel. It's hard to keep my hands off of you sometimes."
"Yeah?" Michael had asked, almost against his own will as something small and crumpled unfolded a fraction in his chest, reaching out one tendril to beg for more. More attention. More Mike. More.
"Yeah." Mike tightened his hold but didn't indulge in the hint Michael was trying to throw Mike's way with each small jerk of his hips. "Michael, if you knew half of the thoughts I had about you. Fuck, I've fantasized about doing you over every surface in this goddamn house. Table, counter, in the shower, on the floor, against the wall, every single way you could think of. Missionary. Doggy. I'll fucking invent new positions if it makes you feel good, Michael."
And there was a Mike Michael was more used to, with the way his eyes had a spark of fire that blazed brighter with every word. Everything he'd said was charged with the energy he'd been holding back while treating Michael so softly.
"Tell me more," Michael had whispered and the look in Mike's eyes had shifted to triumph, but not an arrogant triumph.
Mike had told him everything.
How he loved getting to suck Michael off. How he loved seeing Michael's reactions from the lower angle. How he loved Michael's hands in his hair. How he loved when Michael tried to warn Mike he was about to cum even when most of his brain was fried out. How he loved to leave marks on Michael's thighs that got him going before Mike even touched his dick.
When Mike paused to take a deep breath, Michael had been red as a firetruck, pushing up into Mike's hand as subtly as he could despite Mike's adjustments so he never quite got the right amount of friction. He'd hoped, in the brief pause, that maybe now Mike would let him chase his satisfaction, before this strange knot of emotions inside of him broke. But then Mike just kept talking.
How he loved getting to be inside Michael. How he loved that Michael was always perfect and tight and warm, like he was made for Mike's dick.
Michael choked out a noise that was half-pain and half-pleasure, at the idea of ever having the honor of being made for Mike. He'd wondered vaguely when Mike had gotten so good with words - or maybe Michael was just weak now, for anything Mike told him. It didn't matter. Mike continued on ineluctably.
How he loved how many positions he could take Michael in. How he loved having Michael stretched out on his back. How he loved the way Michael's hair fanned across the pillow. How he loved the way Michael would wrap his legs around Mike's waist. How he loved the way Michael left marks on his back with his fingernails, and marks on his neck with his teeth and tongue. How he loved getting to press their bodies together, like they could merge into one.
Michael had wanted that. He'd wanted to merge into one, because then maybe he could understand why Mike would ever want to say all these nice things to him. He tried to say it. He couldn't. There were a lot of things he was leaving unsaid tonight, and he hoped Mike could feel them even if Michael didn't say them, even as Mike went on.
How he loved getting to take Michael from behind, to press his shoulders into the bed, forcing him to spread his legs until he was at the perfect level for Mike's cock. How he loved the way Michael would moan, like he was something straight from Mike's teenage fantasies. How he loved the way Michael would fuck himself back on Mike's thrusts, returning as good as he got, lighting up the both of them. How he loved watching the muscles in Michael's back roll and flex every time Michael tensed and relaxed. How he loved the way Michael would whimper, breathless and wet-sounding, when Mike hit his prostate at just the right angle. How he loved that Michael would get so desperate he'd hump the sheets until Mike touched him, or gave him permission to touch himself, or he came like that. How he loved the way Michael would yell Mike's name into the pillow when he came. How he loved the way Michael got so much tighter when he orgasmed, and how it never failed to push him over the edge. How he loved getting to wrap Michael in his arms afterwards, how he loved rolling them both over so Michael was splayed across Mike's chest, fucked out and putty under Mike's fingers. How he loved these things about Michael, and loved, and loved, and he wanted Michael to feel every single ounce. Mike wished he could pour it into Michael's body, the body he liked so much because it housed Michael.
Michael had been very confused when he realized one side of his face was faintly wet. Then Mike's hand on his dick let go, resting on his thigh instead and the knuckle of the other hand had brushed against his cheek, and he'd realized his eyes were blurry with tears. He hated that, more than anything. Crying was weak. Crying wasn't something he did, and certainly not during sex. Not from a handful of words.
Except it hadn't been just a handful. It had been a flood, deluge, inundation of words that swept Michael away and held his head under until he had no choice but to breathe in, and take everything in with that breath.
Michael had reached for Mike's hand; Mike gave it to him willingly. He'd tangled his fingers with Mike's, hoping that Mike understood, because Michael never initiated this sort of contact, and because he was doing it now.
And of course Mike had; his eyes had widened just a fraction, and his grip squeezed tight over Michael's, and Michael could have sworn for a split second his eyes looked misty, but also he'd probably projected that. Of course Mike had understood, because that was why Michael cared so deeply for him. Because that was why he'd given Mike his trust, and hadn't thrashed or kicked or bitten until Mike gave on him and left him for a lost cause like he deserved. He trusted Mike and everything Mike would give him.
Michael hadn't even known how, but he was still hard, even if it had once again flagged. Mike's touch brushed down his thigh, asking permission with his eyes, and Michael had nodded, and then mouthed, please.
This time, he'd let Mike do what he wanted, instead of immediately trying to fuck Mike's fist like he usually did. He'd kept his hips pinned to the bed of his own volition, no matter how much his body told him to do otherwise, to chase that pleasure that he wanted so badly. But he knew if he did it this way, Mike's way, it would be so much better than anything he could bring himself.
Mike kept up the theme of time and patience, every movement slow and calculated and horribly almost-there-not-enough, and his voice rolled over Michael's body like melted caramel, telling him how good he was. How good he looked. How perfect.
Michael was so sensitive at that point, both physically and mentally, that each bit of praise Mike fed him went straight to his dick and made his body move of its own accord, involuntarily begging for more, more, more, anything and everything Mike was willing to give him.
Mike had soothed him by rubbing his thumb over the back of Michael's hand where their fingers were still intertwined.
When Mike finally sped up a bit, brushing his thumb over the head of Michael's dick and using his precum to ease the slide, Michael didn't even recognize the moan as his own voice.
There was still no real speed involved, just the tightness of Mike's hand, the warmth, the wetness that came from Michael himself, but Michael had been through enough that this would be enough.
He used the hand still linked with Mike's to pull Mike forward, not as a demand, but as a request. Mike followed him easily, pinning Michael's hand at a point just above his shoulder while his warm gaze traced over every angle and curve of Michael's face, even as his rhythm on Michael's dick never faltered.
Michael wanted to be surrounded by Mike when he came; he wanted Mike to be on him, in front of him, beside him, everywhere that Michael could possibly get him.
Mike had clearly picked up on the fact that Michael was reaching that crest, but he still didn't move faster, and that was exactly what Michael wanted, he wanted to fall over the edge with an effort, he wanted to achieve that himself, to reach for the reward Mike was offering him.
And Mike's lips had connected with his, and Michael's free hand was scrabbling against the sheets, pulling a fistful of the fabric taut, and he was saying something, he didn't know what. Asking to cum, maybe, or thanking Mike, or begging for more, but it was drowned out by the roar in his ears as the slow buildup began to become not so slow, and oh God, yes, Michael wanted this, and it felt so good and he felt loved and it scared him and that fear somehow worked with the arousal and threaded through him and pulled his balls tight and made his dick throb and Michael told his body yesyesyesyesnownownownow and Mike had sped up just a bit more and that had been it.
If Mike hadn't been kissing him, Michael wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have woken the neighbors with the way he broken-voice screamed, like something out of a porno. And he looked like something out a porno as his back arched and his eyes rolled back and his dick jerked, as cum spilled out of him, coated Mike's chest, his own, and Mike was working him through it, for everything Michael was worth, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuckfuckfuckfuck Michael had never felt better in his life; the pleasure center in his brain was short-circuiting and wiping out senses with it, making his vision turn into a mosaic and his hearing dissolve into nothing.
When the ringing in his ears had died down, Mike was murmuring to him, sweet nothings, mouthing at Michael's neck gently, his hand relaxing off of Michael's softening dick.
Michael had said something that was probably Mike's name, and his vision had finally focused on Mike when the other had pulled back and smiled, self-satisfied and pleased in general.
Mike had lifted his own hand to his mouth, the one splattered with Michael's cum, and he'd licked it off of his fingers without looking away, and oh wow, okay, Michael's dick did in fact still have feeling in it.
After he'd regained some of the feeling in the rest of his body, Michael's hand had tried to slip between Mike's legs and meet the hard-on he could feel against his skin through Mike's pants, but Mike caught his wrist gently and pushed it back.
"Tonight's about you, Michael. I mean it."
Michael frowned. "What if I want you to feel good too?"
"I do feel good," Mike laughed softly. "Are you kidding me?"
Michael had fidgeted, not quite sure how he felt about taking and taking and taking, even if it was what Mike wanted. He liked giving too, and not out of guilt or fear of being rejected if he didn't.
Mike saw the turmoil in his eyes, and he pushed Michael's sweaty hair off of his forehead and said, "What if I say just wait until tomorrow, tomorrow morning even? Then you can do anything you like, and I'll be more than down."
A fair compromise. Michael nodded, and Mike pressed another kiss to his neck, settling back down against Michael like he was a weighted blanket. Michael could have died right that instant and he would have been okay with that.
Then, after a long moment, they'd both realized how uncomfortable it was to have cold, sticky cum drying between their stomachs, and Mike had set to work cleaning both himself and Michael off. By the time they'd settled back into bed, Mike's hard-on was basically completely gone. Michael fought the devilish urge to grind back against Mike as Mike wrapped him up tight, pressing his face against the crook of Michael's neck and murmuring how glad he was that Michael trusted him. Michael supposed he was glad too, even in his own distant way.
The room was quiet and dark, and Michael was exhausted after all of the physical and emotional turmoil. It didn't take long for the darkness to sweep over him, and the last thing he heard was Mike murmuring, "Happy birthday, Michael."
That had been at least a few months ago. Now, in the present, Michael has, in fact, internalized some of that night. He didn't wake up the next day and instantly feel like he was worthy of Mike's love and his body was perfect and he loved being alive, but he felt at least like he deserved to live at all, and that was a good start.
And Mike's taken every opportunity to drive his message home. He still praises Michael at every chance he gets, and oftentimes when they have sex, it's slow and easy, and Michael's learned to get used to that.
But Michael's noticed something, and it bothers him.
Mike seems so perfect, like he's got it all together and he knows exactly how life works now, but whenever Michael tries to help Mike for too long, or tries to talk about something he admires Mike for, Mike deflects if it goes on for more than a few minutes. He does it so cleverly and so casually that Michael hadn't even noticed at first. But the way Mike would suddenly be interested in looking around the room, or discovering some chore he had to finish, or "just remembering" something he meant to ask Michael about eventually triggered some faint alerts in Michael's head.
For some who loved to pretend he was the put-together, capable partner and big brother, Mike sure didn't seem to believe it himself.
It doesn't really seem fair, to Michael, that he has to learn how to be all sensitive and feel emotions and all that bullshit that he's still not fully aboard with, when Mike gets to dodge it. If Michael's going to have to do this and suffer, he's going to make damn sure Mike doesn't fall behind.
But everything he tries doesn't take off.
They're still not really affectionate besides occasional moments of emotion during sex, that's always a constant. Mike's taken to linking his pinkie with Michael's, and it's like a death-grip handhold for them, but that's about as far as it goes.
The lack of casual physical affection means it's hard to find ways for Michael to casually force Mike into hearing nice things about himself. The first time he'd tried to wrap his arms around Mike in the kitchen, Mike had jumped so hard that the top of his head had cracked Michael in the chin, and then the next few minutes had been Mike apologizing frantically while Michael wiped the blood from his lip where he'd bitten his tongue. Not very romantic. Besides the blood.
When he'd tried to do a second time, he'd managed to avoid being viciously assaulted, but Mike had given him a look of pure bewilderment and asked Michael if he was feeling okay. Michael wanted to pick Mike up and throw him through a wall sometimes.
He'd tried scooting closer in bed at night and starting a conversation, but Mike either fell asleep too fast, or was too good at baiting Michael into doing other activities that usually put a stop to any deep thoughts Michael was trying to have.
Michael had even tried luring Mike with food and small gifts and things of that ilk, but all of his efforts to use them as bait for a demonstration of how much he cared for Mike had been summarily rebuffed, not callously.
So Michael had been out of ideas for a while.
Mike had noticed that Michael had been a little off sometimes, and had asked, but Michael knew if he came straight out and said it, Mike would shut down fast and put on that tight fake smile Michael hated. Then he'd be wary of any additional advances Michael made. So, no, that wouldn't do at all, and Michael always told Mike he was okay, or he just ate something that didn't agree with him, or he was thinking about something from his past, and Mike left it alone.
Though he was pretty sure Mike was beginning to suspect Michael was developing a brain tumor of some kind, what with all the strange behavior.
He'd stalled there for a while, frustrated, debating how to do this. He wasn't going to give up. No, if there was one thing that could be said about Michael Afton, if he thought he could achieve something, then he was going to goddamn achieve it.
And then one day, he'd realized Valentine's Day was approaching. And with it came an opportunity.
Mike had asked him if they wanted to do anything for Valentine's Day, and instantly a connection had sparked in Michael's brain and the cogs had begun turning, but he'd done his best to keep a straight face and shrug, saying that he didn't really have anything in mind. Mike agreed, said maybe they could watch a shitty romcom or something, and that was that.
But the day before, Michael came to Mike with a request, telling Mike that he had, in fact been working on a little something for Valentine's Day. He told Mike that it would happen around bedtime, quirked his eyebrows, smirked, lowered his eyelids, and generally gave Mike the impression of exactly what would be happening. Mike had looked eager, and when Michael requested that Mike go along with what he did, he'd readily agreed.
Michael had done absolutely everything he could to prepare for this. He'd planned out his moves step by step, accounting as best he could for Mike being a wild card. He'd chosen the perfect outfit to wear, a pair of sweatpants that would be easy to shed, boxer briefs tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination without being too ridiculously tight, and one of Mike's shirts because he knew it drove Mike crazy to see Michael wearing his clothing. Even though Michael could only steal shirts that were over-sized on Mike lest the shirt become a crop top. Which Michael was sure Mike would like as well, but Michael did not feel all that interested in about parading about with his stomach out.
And so now here they are.
Mike's grinning and his body is relaxed and pliable against Michael as Michael kisses him standing up in the bedroom, trying to ease Mike into the mindset he wants. He wants Mike receptive, interested, with his guard down. He wants Mike to listen to the words Michael is saying.
So he presses a hand against Mike's chest, moves him back gently, with one hand in the small of Mike's back so Mike doesn't fall over if he trips, and Mike allows Michael to push him down onto the bed in a sitting position. The taller man climbs onto Mike's lap, straddling Mike's thighs with legs long enough to easily accommodate it.
"Hi," Mike says fondly, with a silly smile on his face. His hands move to bracket Michael's hips.
Michael loses himself briefly in the grin and in the way Mike tilts his head to look up at Michael. He looks so trusting and adoring; even though he usually takes control, he's allowing Michael to puppet him around with zero trepidation.
"Hi yourself," Michael murmurs after a brief moment, and then returns to kissing Mike, a little filthier this time, more spit swapped, more pressing and sloppy and breathless. His fingernails scratch over Mike's stubble, not hard enough to hurt, down Mike's trachea, following one half of the V in Mike's throat, playing with the neck of Mike's T-shirt.
He wants to keep Mike off-balance - that will make Mike more receptive. Whereas Michael had to be taken apart slow and easy, Mike will require a bit more force.
So after only a couple minutes of making out, he begins to rock his hips forward against Mike, and not even a minute passes before he feels a hardness beginning to swell underneath his own rapidly growing boner, until Mike is breathing more heavily into his mouth and his hips are matching Michael's pace.
"Like that?" Michael purrs, low as he dips down to nip at Mike's neck, letting Mike feel the vibrations of Michael's voice against his throat.
"Do you really need a verbal answer to that?" Mike laughs a little, pushing his hips up harder for emphasis, already slightly unsteady. Michael loves how easy Mike can be sometimes, and he means that sincerely. He likes how much power he feels he has when Mike gets hard so quick and his voice cracks within minutes.
Mike probably figures this is what Michael meant by "go along with what he did"; Mike doesn't bottom often. He doesn't hate it, in fact he enjoys it, but he enjoys topping Michael more and Michael enjoys being topped more often. It just makes the moments where they do swap all that much more rewarding. But Michael has something planned for Mike besides getting railed, though he does think wistfully of spearing Mike open on his cock and fucking him until Michael's cum marks his insides as Michael's property.
Another time, he sighs to himself.
Instead, he pulls away, hooks his fingers under Mike's shirt, and tugs up when Mike raises his arms. The fabric slides over Mike's head and Michael tosses it to the side. His gaze turns hungry, and then he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the meat of Michael's shoulder, provoking a cut-off cry and shudder from the man beneath him, but Mike didn't complain verbally.
Michael uses his hands and his hips as an apology, fingers rubbing up and over Mike's nipples - because he knows for a fact that Mike does already like that - while his cock rubs against Mike's erection, and it appears to be sufficient enough to distract Mike from the fact that Michael is leaving more imprints of his teeth on Mike's skin. Michael wished he had sharper teeth, teeth that could easily draw blood from Mike, that he could lap up and rub his face in until it coated his mouth and nose and all he could smell and taste would be the metallic salty blood that ran through Mike's veins. Alas.
Eventually, he clambers off of Mike, who chases Michael with his hips seemingly almost against his will.
Michael wastes no more time, eager to get things moving, and directs, "Take off the rest of your clothes."
Mike, ever eager, obeys, shuffling his jeans over his legs and then following that with his underwear, and Michael can finally see all of Mike as intended, the hair that covers Mike's chest besides his nipples and sweeps downwards, into a tantalizing happy trail that culminates in the more wiry hair that Mike keeps trimmed in contrast to the rest of his body. And of course, that stare brings him to Mike's dick, which is definitely a good demonstration of just how eager Mike is, already flushed a dark color with the amount of blood pumping through it.
"Are you just going to watch?" Mike tries to tease, but it just comes out more desperate than anything else.
"Maybe, if I wanted to," Michael banters back. "Now get all the way on the bed. On your back."
"Wow, someone's demanding tonight," Mike says under his breath, but Michael chooses to ignore it because he knows Mike doesn't mean it, and the other is doing as asked anyway.
Yeah, it's way hotter when this is so rare; Mike following Michael's orders is a treat and the taller man delights in it as Mike follows his instructions.
Michael tugs down his pants, leaving him in his own underwear, but that stays on when he climbs on top of Mike yet again, sitting so that Mike's dick is pressed against the slight curve of his ass. Mike's eye twitches, but he doesn't move.
Michael licks his lips, trying to suppress any nervousness he's feeling at the possibility that what he's about to do next could completely backfire and burn a whole lot to the ground. Mike can be more erratic than expected. Not on Michael's level, no, but Mike didn't forgive easily, if ever. If Michael somehow fucked this up, he might as well just go run straight into Freddy's and hope he died a quick death.
Mike picks up on the new tension in Michael's body, and he raises an eyebrow, questioning.
Michael's touch is featherlight as he returns to Mike's chest, absentmindedly kneading at Mike's pecs as he tries to formulate his thoughts into coherent words.
Eventually, he chooses to speak an echo. "Do you trust me, Mike?"
Mike's answer is much quicker than Michael's was. "Always."
"Good," Michael murmurs, and he leans forward to kiss Mike again, simultaneously rocking his hips back so Mike's cock slides along the fabric of his boxer briefs; it draws out a noise that Michael swallows greedily.
After Mike begins to exhibit a bit more arousal, Michael separates from Mike barely millimeters to whisper, "You always talk so much about me, Mike, it's got me thinking recently."
Mike nods, an indication for Michael to continue, his gaze open and curious.
"Do you know how much you're worth, Mike?" Michael's voice is barely audible.
Mike freezes for a half second, then laughs, but there's a new wariness in his eyes. "You make sure I do."
The worst cop-out Michael has ever heard.
"Mmm," Michael hums, making it sound neutral, maybe even positive. Then his fingers tighten and twists one of Mike's nipples until Mike makes a strangled half-pain noise and his body convulses slightly. "Don't play games with me."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Mike does sound genuinely bewildered, and Michael would believe him if he didn't know Mike well enough to hear what lay underneath, an uncertainty that has nothing to do with the overtone. An uncertainty as to his position here.
Michael's hands soften again, stroking down over Mike's stomach in apology. "Have you ever noticed, Mike, that you take care of everyone besides yourself?"
"That's not true," Mike argues instantly. "I take care of myself plenty."
"You only sleep when everyone else sleeps. I've never seen you take a nap. You'll keep going until you're falling asleep in the kitchen with a knife in your hand. I'm almost certain if I wasn't here, you wouldn't sleep more than four hours a day. "
"Okay? That's one thing, and it's not really uncommon for most people to function that way."
"First of all, quit lying. You know damn well that's not the baseline for human functioning." His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of Mike's stomach. "Second of all, that's not the only thing. When Abby isn't eating with us and you don't have to pretend like three meals a day are important, you barely eat one meal a day."
He cuts Mike off when Mike opens his mouth to argue. "I know it's not intentional, but that doesn't matter, because how have you survived this long? Surely you know how to place Post-It note reminders around the house? Or do you just choose to ignore the ones I leave out for you?" It was one of the few domestic things Michael would do readily, and yet Mike never really seemed to actually use any of his reminders to eat lunch, to drink water, to generally maintain himself.
"You know where I've seen that behavior before?" Michael goes on.
Mike knows. Michael doesn't need to point at his own chest, but he does it anyway, and says, "Haven't you been telling me that it's important to listen to what my body needs? To know that I'm worth the resources? To know when to take a break? Mike, you never take a break. You never let anyone else take care of you. Even when you had that food poisoning-" Mike grimaces at the reminder, "-you were still trying to persuade everyone that you were doing great and so totally capable of going to work. In between trips to the bathroom every five minutes."
"What's your point, Michael?" Mike sighs, and his eyes are more jaded, more amused now, but Michael isn't fooled.
Mike does, in fact, like this. He likes that Michael's noticed. Michael had expected a lot, but he hadn't expected to physically feel the blood pulse in Mike's cock when Michael called him out.
Oh, Mike is an attention whore, and he's been trying so hard to deny it.
"My point is that you're not as slick as you think. And if I have to learn how much I mean to you, I wish you'd learn how much you mean to me," Michael says with a softness that he doesn't usually use, a softness that makes him want to gag, just to emphasize his point. "Which is a lot, Mike. You're…a lot. A lot of my thoughts. And my wants. And part of that is that I care enough to not want to watch you throw yourself into burnout over and over and over again."
"I won't throw myself into burnout." Mike's voice is petulant.
"Do you really believe that?"
And Mike's gaze slides away.
"That's what I thought." Michael gets Mike's attention via his dick and where it's pressed against Michael, pushing back more and more until Mike finally meets his eyes again, and Mike is so very pleased, but there's also a pain in his eyes that Michael recognizes from when he used to look in the mirror. Mike isn't as bad as Michael was. But whereas Michael externalized what he felt, forced everyone to feel the repercussions of his own emotions, Mike internalized them (for the most part, besides a few incidents). Every bad thing he thought and felt was tucked back in against his skin; Michael could feel them wherever his fingertips touched.
Mike wets his lips and doesn't respond to what Michael said, but he also doesn't look away, and his dick doesn't get any softer.
"Even when you allow me to have you like this," Michael gestures vaguely to their positions, "you're always keeping some part of yourself in control of me, and you think I don't notice."
Mike clearly tries to make what should be a sheepish smile, but really it just looks like a grimace.
"But I know. I know you better than you know yourself." Michael allows his tone to dip into possessive. Mike is too used to what's soft and nice. He knows how to hold himself together. Michael needs to uproot that, and so-
"Do you want this?" Michael asks abruptly, and he grabs Mike by the throat, sudden and shocking to jolt Mike free from his own head. "Is this what you like?"
Mike's shudder is full-body and all-encompassing, forcing Michael to roll with him.
"Huh, Mike? Mikey?" Michael's voice is half-taunting and half-caressing. "I can see it in your eyes, did you know that? I can see your answer, and I'm still going to make you say it."
Mike opens his mouth, but a brief tightening of Michael's fingers has nothing coming out.
"You can have this," Michael smiles, voice low as his hand relaxes again. "If you ask nicely. If you beg me to let you submit."
Because he knows that will break Mike. Because having to beg for something he doesn't think he should want will twist something deep inside him. Michael knows Mike inside and out.
But because he knows Mike so well, he also knows there's a chance that Mike will refuse altogether. That he will tell Michael to get off of him, and the night will be ruined, and everything will be awkward when they sleep on their opposite ends of the bed. And Michael would oblige without protest. He doesn't ever want to let that pendulum of positive stress swing back into negative stress.
Mike doesn't answer. He doesn't assent, but he also definitely doesn't protest. His hands raise slightly, as if to grasp at Michael, but he clearly thinks better of it and pushes them back down to the sheets, instead fisting his hands into the soft fabric. Mike so clearly wants to be good, but he doesn't know how to allow himself that luxury.
"Do you like this?" Michael asks and once again resumes the motion where their lower bodies meet each other.
Mike nods immediately, until Michael raises an eyebrow, and then he flushes and mutters out, "Yes."
"Yes…?"
Mike scowls and tightens his jaw. Michael immediately stops.
Mike blows out a harsh breath. "Fuck! Okay, yes, I like that, keep doing it."
Michael was going to start again, but then Mike had tacked on that command at the end, and Michael catches it just in time. His eyes narrow, and he can tell Mike knew exactly what he was doing from the way he avoids Michael's gaze again.
"Try again," Michael says, voice like honey laced with venom.
Mike gives in easier than Michael expects. He doesn't look at Michael, and his voice is below a whisper, but he still says, "Please keep doing it."
"Good," Michael hums, and he once again feels Mike's body tense against him.
He cocks his head. "You really like that, huh?" Before Mike can answer, Michael reaches back and does Mike one better than just grinding against him, curling his fingers around Mike's aching cock. A breathy moan splits the air and Mike slaps one hand over his own mouth.
"No, come on, you know better than that," Michael sighs, using the hand not occupied to pry Mike's fingers away. "Don't you want to keep being good?"
After brief moment of clearly trying to readjust his brain, Mike nods, just once. Oh, he's trying so hard for Michael, and it makes his blood sing.
But Michael presses in verbally even as he starts pumping Mike, fast and sloppy, just riding on the edge of too much to be comfortable. "Is that why you do all the stupid shit you do? In the hopes someone will notice and tell you you're doing well? Are you trying to beg for attention by pushing yourself too far?" Normally, maybe he wouldn't be so eloquent or analytical, but he's had months and months to reflect on Mike's behavior and the odd way he conducted himself.
Mike scrunches one half of his face up, as if it'll help him think, or maybe it's in direct reaction to Michael's words.
"You want to be good enough?"
"Yes." Immediately the word is torn out of Mike's throat, like he'd been waiting for Michael to say exactly that, his dick twitching where it's surrounded by Michael's palm and fingers.
Michael changes tack again, always moving, forcing Mike to adjust with him, darting back to his earlier question. "Do you like this?" And Mike nods immediately, just as before.
Michael regards Mike with as cocky of a smile as he can muster. "Imagine how much better you'd feel inside me. If you let me use you. If you give in and admit that you'd feel so much better if I was fucking myself on your cock. You try to be so big, and strong, but you don't have to be to feel good. You don't even have to be the one getting fucked to give in. You can be something I use, to my satisfaction, something that trusts I'll know how to make it feel good."
Mike pants out, "yes," pleading and wild, and it's another thing that seems outside of Mike's control. Just like how Michael wants everything to be in a few moments.
"Then tell me how bad you want it."
Mike makes a noise, like he's trying to start a sentence, but it dies in his mouth, against his tongue. He squeezes his eyes shut as Michael picks up the pace a little faster, relaxes the over-tightness a little, generally bombards Mike with enough pleasure to hopefully overcome his own blockades.
Michael can't help but think sardonically that they're a perfect fit for each other as Mike squirms beneath him, reminding Michael of his own time spent sweating through his issues on this bed. Two fucked-up weirdos guiding each other through their weird, fucked-up heads.
Mike fusses for a minute longer, and then he finally allows the words he'd swallowed to come spilling out, "Michael, Jesus, okay, okay, I want it, I want it. Want t-to, to- mnh," making a visible effort to organize himself again, "to be. Good. Good enough. Yours. You can have me, have all of me, have it, take it, I don't fucking care, please, please, please," and Michael is more than happy to indulge.
He raises himself off of Mike so he can shed the last of his clothing, finally, sighing faintly as the colder air of the room hits his dick at the same time as Mike whines at how his own cock throbs against his stomach from the lack of stimulation.
Michael catches Mike in the act of reaching for it, looking to soothe his own ache, and he fixes Mike with a stare that is apparently convincing enough to make Mike immediately pull his hand back and return it to its original position of gripping the blankets.
"So good," Michael mutters idly as he settles back onto Mike after grabbing the bottle of lube from the bedside table. He'd already prepped himself beforehand, so hopefully there wouldn't be much stretching needed. Mike was thick, though, and sometimes Michael ate his own words when it came to his relative readiness.
Mike looks stupid now, as in a little mindless, as in very good. His eyes track every movement Michael makes religiously, from the way his slender fingers pop the lid of the lube, to the way Michael wrinkles his nose at the sensation of cold slimey goop against his hand.
Michael allows the liquid a brief moment to hopefully dispel some of the chill before he brings that hand to Mike's dick again, stroking Mike a few times, spreading the lube over every bit of his cock, ensuring the best experience for both of them.
But he wasn't done with Mike quite yet.
He makes it seem like he's going through, he rises up on his knees, positions himself above Mike's dick, and then grins as if his own obvious arousal doesn't bother him in the slightest. Which is a lie, Michael is desperate to cum, but Mike doesn't need to know that right now.
"Do you think you deserve this?"
Mike hesitates.
"Do you want this?"
"Yes, of course, yes, yeah."
"Then you deserve it."
"Okay," Mike whimpers, in the way that means he's just agreeing with whatever Michael says.
"Say it," Michael insists.
Mike tries to push himself up instead, against where he knows Michael's hole is, and where he wants to be most of all, but Michael just moves with him, until he's kneeling at his full height above Mike, and there's no way Mike can buck that high.
"Mike. Say it."
"Ideservethis," Mike scrambles out, rushed and unthinking.
"Mike." Michael's voice is almost a snarl.
Mike makes a sound like a dry sob. "Michael."
Michael doesn't respond. Mike knows what Michael wants, and no amount of pathetic squirming from Mike will get him what he wants right now. He has the key. He just has to unlock the door.
It's almost beautiful in a way, watching the way desperation is so capable of weakening Mike's resolve. And, Michael admits to himself, the fact that he's so desperate for Micheal. That Michael has managed to bring Mike Schmidt this low, to the point where his hair is damp with sweat and his entire focus is getting to be inside of Michael's body.
The thread frays, and then snaps.
"I deserve this! Michael, please, I deserve this," Mike's first exclamation is almost a shout, all the pent-up energy in his chest exploding out of him through his voice. "Let me, please, let me."
"That's it, that's right," Michael sighs, partially encouragement, and also a lot relief that he's finally going to be able to fill his own need.
He sinks back down, slow as he presses his hole down against the head of Mike's cock, the lube and precum smeared between them making the process easier. Mike, to his credit, didn't try to shove it in again, even though Michael could feel Mike's legs shaking. Probably afraid Michael would try to make him say something humiliating again.
Inch by burning inch, Michael made his way further down, to where Mike's body promised a place to rest. He glanced up, making sure Mike was doing alright, and he was quickly reassured by the sight of Mike's half-lidded eyes and heavy breathing.
Once his ass finally rested against Mike's thighs, Michael allowed his upper body to sag forward, steadying himself with both hands on Mike's chest while he adjusted to the feeling. No matter how many times they did this, or in what position, Mike's cock always managed to punch the breath out of him.
Usually when Michael rode him, Mike was running his mouth, telling Michael about how he felt, urging Michael to move, or starting the process himself. There was none of that now. Mike looked sort of happy to just be here, beneath Michael. It was almost heartwarming. Almost. If Michael went for that sort of thing, which he didn't.
After a deep inhale, Michael gathered every last bit of core strength he had and began to lift himself, working his way back up until just Mike's tip was positioned inside him, and then sinking back down in one fluid, drawn out motion that had Mike wriggling beneath him.
He'd almost, almost forgotten how good this was, and it was ten times better after so sweet a victory, with Mike splayed out before him, a visible demonstration of the power Michael had learned to wield.
His pace picked up quickly from there as his own need surged through his body, and then he managed to find just the right position, and his cock jerked against his stomach as a flash of pleasure blew through his mind, making Mike whine at the way Michael clenched down.
"Right there," Michael panted out, as if he wasn't the one controlling this entire situation. He leaned forward, gripping Mike's shoulders to steady himself as he fucked himself on Mike's dick, over and over, relishing in the sound of their skin meeting and the soft breathy noises Michael had never heard from Mike's mouth before.
Mike's gaze grew more distant and pleasurably absent while his noises got equally louder, some of it words and some not, and Michael could lose himself in this, in this feeling, and so he did; he let it all sweep over him and drown out any background thoughts.
He wasn't sure how long they remained like that, rutting together like animals, grunting and huffing and moaning, but Michael felt like it simultaneously was too long and too short before he was slamming his hips down hard enough to turn the slow waves of stimulation into quick, short bursts that weren't leaving his body any time to cool down, pushing him onward and upward, into that vast expanse that he could float through, that he knew Mike was also approaching.
"Michael," Mike gasped, and Michael squeezed Mike's shoulder briefly, too out of breath to do much more.
One of Michael's hands went to his dick, and he started working in time with his thrusts, doubling his pleasure, tripling it, and Michael couldn't imagine a better way to spend this day, or night now, than like this, with Mike pliant and finally allowing himself to relax into being used and loved and cared for the way he deserved, and that familiar rigidity in Michael's body hurtling towards snapping.
He zoned into that feeling of using Mike's dick. He wasn't riding Mike like Mike was a thing to be used and forgotten about. No, he used Mike like the other was something precious and valuable. Like he was something Michael couldn't wait to feel over and over again. Something Michael would never, ever let go of.
"Michael, Michael, I- Michael, I l-" Mike was chanting, and the sound of his name rolling off of Mike's tongue had Michael teetering right there.
But in that thought, he realized only a split second before it happened that Mike had passed the point of no return, and with a slam upwards, Mike cried out, "fuckfuckfuckiloveyouiloveyouiloveyouMichael-!" The words sent a pulse of pure shock through Michael; he'd never heard those words fall from Mike's lips before, no matter how passionate their sex had been.
But that was all swept completely aside as Mike's whole body tensed, his mouth snapped shut and Michael felt Mike's dick throb inside him, pumping his guts full of Mike's cum.
"Oh, fuck yes, fuck yeah, Mike, holy shit," Michael panted and then he zeroed in on himself, working his cock with practiced ease, desperate to cum before Mike got too sensitive.
It wasn't very difficult. Mike hadn't even reopened his eyes before Michael's fist tightened and then he was dropping all the way down to the base of Mike's dick, grinding down as he milked his orgasm out of himself, surrounded by and filled with Mike, covering Mike's stomach in proof of his own devotion.
Michael remained there for a second until Mike was shivering erratically with the overstimulation around him, and then the taller man pulled himself up just enough to free Mike before half-collapsing onto Mike's chest, draping himself over every inch of skin he could reach.
As soon as some bit of clarity reached him, Michael's brain immediately played back Mike's words just before he had cum. I love you.
Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just something to say when he came. Maybe Mike meant it, but not in any major way.
But Michael hoped not.
They didn't really love in the same way everyone else did, at all. But he did love Mike. He'd just thought they'd never say those words, and yet Mike had, and they'd sounded so right. A lot of the things they said to each other, the way they tried to perform like a normal couple, felt like exactly that - a performance. A routine they were expected to practice and know by heart.
That "I love you" had rung true, crisp as a bell, not sullied by the expectations that sometimes crushed down on them.
So he leaned closer, to Mike's ear, where the world would never know what Michael had said, and whispered at his absolute lowest volume, "I love you too." It felt wrong on his tongue, heavy and thick and embarrassing, but it felt right in his stomach.
Mike stirred at that, rousing himself from what Michael had begun to assume was going to be a coma, and he opened one eye blearily.
"Holy shit," Mike slurred. "Think I died. And went to heaven."
"I'm flattered," Michael replied, rubbing his thumb over the hollow of Mike's neck.
Mike wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders and drew him down, against Mike's warmth.
Mike sighed out a "thank you", pressing his lips to whatever of Michael was easiest to reach, which happened to be the bottom of his jaw.
Michael didn't really know what to say that, so he kind of just muttered awkwardly, "I should be saying that to you."
"No, not that - well, that too, but-" Mike blinked hard as if trying to clear his mind. "For what you said. Just now."
I'm flattered? Michael's brain recited, but immediately Michael realized his stupidity because of course Mike wasn't talking about that, Mike was talking about "I love you too".
"Oh," he said by way of a response. "It, um. Felt right. I do, y'know. I do…love you." Oh, ew. It was still weird. Michael wasn't really one to trip over his words like this. He felt like a bit of a fool, and the fact that he'd just readily said…it…again was strange.
"You're perfect," Mike sighed into Michael's skin, and it sank through the flesh and entered Michael's bloodstream, and pumped those words directly into his heart.
Clean-up was leisurely, both of their bodies feeling soupy and amorphous, until finally they were no longer splattered with cum and lube and whatnot, dry and clean and warm underneath the blankets.
Michael had never imagined a domestic life for himself. To be frank, if he'd ever imagined a long-term relationship for himself, some kind of future and goal after his family and his father, he'd expected it to be largely miserable and probably almost completely sex-driven.
And obviously, obviously, he and Mike did have sex. But it wasn't everything, and the relationship as a whole wasn't miserable. So far from that.
It was interesting to Michael, and not in a bad way, that his notion of his future had been turned on its head. Michael had never been happier. He hated to say it, of course, he'd harped on that point enough that he was even getting tired of thinking it, but he knew by now that Mike did feel what Michael didn't say in other ways. They cared for each other, and they didn't need the words "I love you" to communicate that just as clearly, but Michael grudgingly admitted that they didn't hurt either.
Michael knows a lot of things about Mike by now. He knows that Mike is better at letting go than he thinks. He knows that Mike is the strongest man Michael knows. He knows that he loves Mike, and he knows that Mike loves him too.
He also knows he still hates how weak it sounds. But weak was good when it came to the two of them.
Michael knows that Mike is his.
He's never, ever letting go.
I love you, Mike Schmidt.