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How to serve cunt while struggling with depression, by Mike Schmidt.

Like, the director said "take five" and he heard "change lives" and went with it.

The director said "cut!" and he heard "cunt!" and went with it!

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How to serve cunt while struggling with depression, by Mike Schmidt.

Like, the director said "take five" and he heard "change lives" and went with it.

The director said "cut!" and he heard "cunt!" and went with it!

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The original pride flag and the sewing machine it was sewn on

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AAAHHHH- THIS IS AMAZING- 10000/10

skate to me

pairing: clapton davis x gn!reader

summary: !BASED OFF A REQUEST I FORGOT TO ATTACH THIS TO! clapton was absolutely astonished when he saw that the person who skated right by him in the hallway was right here, next to him, in his science class.

warnings: light cursing, i think?? i’m not fucking sure at this point

word count: 1.0k

author’s note: so sorry it took me like a whole month to get back! 😭this has been crazy ass couple of months, and i just couldn’t get anything out if i tried. i honestly think that i might take a break on writing for clapton and characters like mike, simply because i don’t think i have any motivation to write for them. i don’t wanna let you guys down, but i also don’t wanna write crappy fics, either. i’ll say on a separate post who i’ll be writing for. thanks so much for your guys support! and with that, enjoy ☆

clapton thought he was the only one who skated through the hallways of grizzly lake highschool. it wasn’t like he gatekeeped it or anything, but it was his thing. and everyone knew that.

so when he felt you brush against him in the hallway this morning, he barely got a glimpse of your shoes and purple hoodie before you skated away. it frustrated him—

wait, skated?

he thought he was crazy. he had to have hallucinated those rollerskates. but the sound when you rushed by him, those had to have been rollerskates. but nobody else but him did that. that was his thing. besides his ego being a bit affected, he was more excited than anything. maybe he could make a new friend. he’d never met anyone else who skated, especially at school. but where did you go? no, more importantly, what class were you in? clapton was not famous for being patient, so this would be difficult.

he begrudgingly made his way to science class, upset that he might not see you until passing period, where the hallway would be filled with what felt like thousands upon thousands of people. no way he was gonna see you during that. and if he tried to find you during lunch? he’d definitely look like a total creep. so this was a lose lose situation. he’d never be able to talk to the stranger with the skates.

this made clapton’s walk to class even more frustrating. throughout the whole day, all he could hope for was to hear your skates against the ground. but he didn’t. not once. it was the end of the day, and he was heading to his last class. clapton was just about done with everything when he saw a pair of skates next to a desk. and just above that desk was a purple hoodie. and even more above that was probably the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen.

he was practically just standing and staring in the doorway. of course you weren’t staring back at him, he thought. you were busy listening to music and getting ready for class, getting your notebooks and everything.

clapton didn’t move until another student shoved him out of the way so they couldd get through, muttering something under their breath in the process. clapton couldn’t care less, though. because there was an open seat next to you and what perfect timing was it that he was the only person who hadn’t sat down yet? this coincidence made him believe that maybe there was a god. maybe it was you.

his mood an entire 180 from how it was less than 2 minutes ago, he sat down right next to you, waiting for you to notice him like an excited child.

not noticing someone had sat next to you, you weren’t expecting someone to be right next to you. normally, as far as first days go, people liked to haze the new kid. so someone looking eager to talk to you was not a good sign.

“hi,” you say slowly, going to look at him.

“hey there, gorgeous.” he said. as soon as that came out of his mouth he knew that was a big yikes. (ayo?? 😟)

your eyes widened. what the hell was his problem?

“woah, coming off a little strong there, aren’t we?” you ask.

how could he save this already trainwreck of a conversation? if he could even call it that.

“sorry, don’t know why i said that. i just, uh,”

shit, shit, shit! think of something clapton!

“you skate, right? that’s pretty cool. i do, too.” he held up his skate board.

still suspicious and not at all buying this “no ill-intentions” act, you pull your skates closer to your desk.

“yeah, i do.”

he continues, “well i just thought that since we both skate we could—“

but he was cut off, as class had apparently started while you two were conversing and your teacher was not happy with either of you.

clapton heard the teacher say both of your last names, followed by a very stern “detention!”

this wasn’t anything surprising to him, but one look at you told him that this was not how you were expecting your first day to go.

you rolled your eyes and shot him a dirty look.

“thanks a lot, davis.”

so instead of a trainwreck, his attempt to talk to you was a total and complete fuck-up.

great.

——————

the end of class came painstakingly slow, and he saw you hurrying to head out so you didn’t have to walk to detention with him. i mean, could he blame you. he practically screwed over your entire day.

clapton always took himself as an optimist, so maybe he could still save this. right?

as you put on your skates, unaware that this might land you in even more trouble, you felt someone tap you on your shoulder.

there was nobody else left in the classroom besides you and the person who you did not wanna see. so you turn around, and with no surprise, there was the douche who landed you in detention.

“oh, are you here to get me suspended, too?” you ask.

he couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

“yeah, i deserve that. sorry about all…this, by the way. i really didn’t mean for you to get in trouble.” he said.

damn, you thought. he’s not a bad actor.

you smiled a not-so-friendly smile back at him. “sure, you didn’t.”

you try to skate away and out of the classroom, but he catches up to you on his skateboard.

“no, seriously! i just wanted to talk to you. i’ve never met anyone who also skates, and i just thought you were really cool and pretty and—“

you stopped skating ahead of him a while ago, but he didn’t notice that, so he kept skateboarding right into an open locker’s door.

you let out a laugh that definitely let every teacher in the vicinity know you weren’t where you were supposed to be right now, but you couldn’t help it.

clapton got up, rubbing the side of his face.

you walk up to him and pat him on the cheek.

“okay, i believe you.” you say, crossing your arms afterwards.

he lets out a smile that you’re pretty sure you’re gonna have to get used to.

“anything i can do to make it up to you?” he asks.

you take off your backpack and shove it in his arms.

“carry this for me?” you say.

“that’s the least i can do.”

#josh hutcherson #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #clapton davis #clapton davis x reader #josh hutcherson x reader #josh futturman x reader #peeta mellark x reader #i literally skate everywhere i go #and everytime I meet another skater I always say hi- bc What- you skate too- wow- #its the best feeling #instant bonding time #and we get there faster than everyone else-

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RIP Velvet Thunder

“Everything is garbage, never love anything”

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tw: mentione of finnick’s canon sexual trauma

finnick odair is experienced in the bedroom, but not experienced with true, genuine intimacy. he knows how to end a sexual encounter fast, how to find all the right spots and get it all over with. but he isn’t quite sure how to be slow, to savor it. you have to teach him, kiss your way down his body, be gentle. you tease him, make it last.

he knows how to seduce, how to be charming. but he isn’t good at vulnerability, real connection. he will grin and smirk, but covers his shy smiles, his genuine laughter. he doesn’t blush, except how he does when you’re involved. you teach him how to date. you hold his hand, cuddle him, kiss his cheeks.

the capitol has taken so much from him. he’s had sex more times than he can count, but he’s never made love. he’s been on dates, but he’s never dated. he’s been adored by people who will never truly know him, but never been known and loved at the same time.

you know him, and you love him, even with his flaws. he is not just the hot victor to you. he’s just finnick, who snorts when he laughs too hard and loves when you kiss down his chest and belly, who ties knots when he’s nervous and hates kissing with too much tongue.

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Tomska going hard on Twitter again.

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Snow always comes across as cold and unbothered when he’s dealing with Katniss and the rebellion- but knowing how actually delusional and unhinged that man’s inner monologue is and with all the Katniss/Lucy Gray parallels I know when he was alone that man was probably ripping his hair out and screaming trying to figure out how the two are connected and assuming all of Katniss’ actions had ulterior motives that were directed at him. Just raving in his room alone like:

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"Every time someone steps up and says who they are the world becomes a better, more interesting place." 🫶🏳️‍🌈

My tribute to Andre Braugher, thank you for Captain Raymond Holt ❤️✨

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finnick odair who was never in the games but instead is your average man who lives in a coastal city in california. he’s rough around the edges still, gruff, sarcastic, and cocky, but he is happy and free. he’s more soft spoken and his guard is let down more, but only around specific people. mostly only around you.

finnick odair who owns a fishing company called ‘odair fisheries.’ he spends most of his time out on a little sailboat he’s made up. he’ll spend hours out in the ocean, just him, a cooler, and his fishing rod. his golden tan skin is sunburnt in some areas from long exposure and lack of sunscreen, something you’d gotten onto him about ten times too many. his body is covered in little tattoos of seashells, sea turtles, boat anchors, small outlines of fish. a seashell necklace sits around his neck, homemade from your delicate and loving hands.

finnick odair who’d practically BEG for you to come fishing with him. you weren’t the biggest fan. something about sitting out in the searing heat all day on a rocking surface didn’t seem all that appealing to you, but when finnick would look at you with his big blue puppy dog eyes, his bottom lip sticking out, you couldn’t resist. if you were determined to deny his suggestions, he’d go even further, throwing in a desperate, “please, sweetheart, you know i hate being without you as is.” as always, you’d give in, not particularly loving the sweat dripping off of your forehead but loving admiring your partner in front of you. you loved the way his face scrunched up in focus as he cast the line, his eyes perched on a particular spot. you loved the way his muscles tensed as he reeled the line in, or the way he huddled over you when attempting to teach you how to fish for the hundredth time (once again unsuccessful, though you know he’d try again tomorrow).

finnick odair who also taught children to fish as a part of his company. on weekend mornings, he’d have different classes that would last about 30 minutes. at the beginning, he’d take a group of kids out to a dock near his boat and he would teach the basics. by the end of the block of classes, he’d have even kids as little as 5 out fishing on his boat with him. he loved the kids like his own, growing attached to each and every one of them. you loved watching him teach, seeing how he’d sweetly hug the little boy gripping onto his leg back or how he’d soothe the crying little girl who fell and scraped your knee. he’d get you involved in helping to wrangle the kids, too, watching you intently as you’d braid a little girl’s hair for her or cradle one of the youngest ones on your hip. finnick wanted kids more than anything and he wanted them with you, his mind going crazy, desperate for a little family with you every time he saw you with children. it’s safe to say finnick’s baby fever is crazy.

finnick odair who spends rainy sunday mornings with nothing else to do playing guitar hero and other various video games. as rain would pelt down heavily on the roof of the house, the waves rocking the boat a little too much for him to even dare to attempt the seas (although he had in unsafe weather one too many times for your liking), you’d be awoken far too early in the morning to the smell of freshly baked muffins (from a box) and the sound of some rock song on the tv mixed with plastic clanking. you’d trudge into the living room, fuzzy blanket wrapped around your cold shoulders, and plop down onto the couch where a muffin already awaited you with some warm coffee on the side table. you couldn’t help but laugh as you nestled into your corner on the couch, turning yourself into a nest of blanket. finnick would be going crazy with the guitar strapped around his neck, resting at his somewhat bare torso. he’d be jamming out in his underwear, hair tussled, eyes still puffy with sleep. his nimble fingers would click through the red, blue, green, yellow pieces as his piercing blue eyes focused on the screen. you couldn’t help but fall more in love with him as you begin to doze back off in your corner.

finnick odair who loves intimacy. it was something that didn’t come easy to him. although things were much simpler for finnick odair in this life than in the hunger games, he still had his guard up. you’d taught him how to be intimate, how to love and to feel love, how to share his feelings with more than just ‘i love you.’ at night, he would spoon you to sleep, hand always resting on your stomach from behind, nuzzled up as close as he could get. if he was holding you the other direction, he’d hold you close into his chest, resting his nose in your hair, taking in your scent. “you are my entire ocean, the sea breeze that makes the waves move, the crystal blue water, all the way up to the glisten in the sea, sweet girl,” he’d mutter into your ear. even when you were fast asleep, he’d still whisper sweet nothings into your ear. when you’d take showers, he’d carefully sneak in and slip in behind you, almost always causing you to fall, but he’d be prepared and catch you. he’d then tenderly wash through your hair for you, pressing little kisses to your shoulders. finnick loved and adored you and he’d do anything possible to show that.

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I think the most radical thing the hunger games does is tell young people that the most revolutionary thing you can do is have unconditional love for humanity. Katniss throughout the entire series is guided by a deep sense of compassion for the people around her. It is what causes her to volunteer, to bury rue, to mercy kill cato, its why she tries to save peeta, why finnick telling her to remember who the real enemy is works, and even though her compassion for the larger world falters when peeta is kidnapped, it comes back when she visits hospitals and asks for mercy for other victors and ultimately, it is love and belief in a better humanity that makes her kill coin. Through it all, she maintains an unfaltering belief in the fundemental goodness of humanity, which is diametrically opposed to dr gaul's and snow's worldview. Peeta is even more unwaveringly compassionate

So the series tells young people that the most revolutionary thing you can be is compassionate. Let compassion drive your politics. Let yourself believe in the fundemental goodness of people. And i think that's deeply important in a world that touts the superiority of pure reason or logic, to allow yourself to be guided by something as emotional as compassion. Katniss everdeen tells us that your politics should be rooted in compassion in a world that thinks detatchment or cynicism is intelligence and i think thats v cool

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Okay, so let me see if I understand correctly:

Boys wanting to write poetry is a metaphor for boys wanting the freedom to make out in the back of old bookstores and to wear lipstick while reciting Shakespearean sonnets without having to hear the constant disapproval of others

Men running away to become pirates is a metaphor for men running away from the safe, heteronormative lives society forced them into in order to start a more genuine, albeit more dangerous, life for themselves

Nerdy teens fighting monsters together is a metaphor for teens who were once outcasted by their community for being different helping each other to confront their trauma and to become the heroes of their own stories

And women playing baseball is a metaphor for women reclaiming their femininity after spending most of their lives being told they’re “not real girls” because they don’t fit the mold the patriarchy wants them to fit into

But ultimately all of them are just metaphors for a friend group being gayer than the fucking fourth of July

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i’m so excited for you to start writing for clapton! i can hardly find and anything and your writing is amazing so i can’t wait to see what you do. ur work is amazing!!

-🦑

aweeeee thank you (,: i haven’t really thought about concepts for him yet (still have to rewatch detention, plssss don’t be mad 🥲) but i’m excited too!

does anyone have any specific situations or AUs they would like regarding (college-aged) clapton davis? 🤗

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Sacred Self Care (Mike Schmidt)

i'm 100% supposed to be cleaning my room up for family but i may go insane if i do not write RIGHT NOW!! so, this is something i've had in my mind for so long. i PROMISE after thanksgiving i'll give yall peeta and finnick content and get to more asks. i could not hold back on this one any longer though, so sit back, and enjoy!

summary: mike discovers self care, but what happens when his ritual becomes a little too intricate and he ends up in a silly predicament?

warnings: mentions of nudity, one or two innuendos

word count: 2,288

---------------

Mike Schmidt did not have time to take care of himself. This was a fact that was all too noticeable. His dry curls practically begged to be lathered in moisture, or at least in something that wasn’t a bar of soap that was also used on his face and body. His nails were dirty whenever he was busiest, the only time they were well groomed being when he was prepared to be knuckles deep inside of you. His eyebags were sunken in and his facial hair grew in patches, untrimmed. Mike did not care, nor did he think wasting time on such a meticulous thing would be beneficial to him. There were better things to do than to primp himself when he could be doing something more productive, such as getting to the bottom of his brother’s disappearance… thirteen years later. When he wasn’t obsessing over every minute detail in his dream that could lead him to the solution or fathering Abby in his own backwards but still productive way, he was admiring you and your glory.

While Mike may not have been someone for self-care, you most definitely were. You were constantly looking up new ways to better yourself, new hair masks to try and new ways to make your skin as smooth as butter. The water bill also certainly showed your love for self-care. Some nights, you’d prance into the bedroom after an intricate shower, throwing your leg up on the bed as you demanded for Mike’s rough hands to feel, every centimeter of hair gone, the smell of cocoa butter sifting in the air. He was amused when he’d walk in to you sitting on the couch, some new green goop slathered on your face, or some strange piece of paper stuck to your nose. On occasion, you’d convince Mike to join you and Abby, his desperation to spend more quality time with the two of you trumping his disdain for fifteen minutes of clay on his face. He’d peel away at chunks as they flaked into his lap, you and Abby giggling every few seconds as the pile would grow amusingly larger before Mike would give up, running to the bathroom to scrub his face clean before the timer went off.

He wasn’t sure when it clicked. Perhaps it was when Abby told him he’d looked rough lately (he attempted to take this with a grain of salt, as she was his little sister, scolding her and telling her that was not very nice) or perhaps it was when one morning after work, he’d noticed new wrinkles covering his forehead and increasingly pale skin with purple dips underneath his eyes. One day, he found himself in the shampoo aisle at Target. It started with something simple. He bought real shampoo and conditioner, specifically designed for curly dry hair. He enjoyed the scent it radiated as he lathered it through his locks in the warm shower, the aftermath amazing. He’d never seen his hair so fluffy as it dried, his once brittle strands now feeling smooth as he ran his fingertips through it. Then, there was skincare. Somehow, he ended up getting a free sample in the mail from one of those makeup subscription companies you subscribed to, the company accidentally sending you a made-for-men miniature face wash and eye cream set. You eagerly tossed it his way with a giggle, assuming he tossed it in the trash the moment he got it. Instead, that very night, Mike added it to his shower along with his brand-new hair products, patting the eye cream underneath his eyes once he got out. The next morning, the once deep reddish purple was now only tinted a light color. Before he knew it, underneath the cabinet tucked away in a corner were different hair oils, beard creams, moisturizers, and lotions. He’d gotten into different kinds of cologne, opting for scented deodorants as well.

Mike had to admit, he enjoyed this new routine of his. As it progressed, it became almost ritualistic. He’d get home from work at exactly 6:15, about 45 minutes before you’d wake up. He would hop into the shower, taking in the feeling of his fingertips massaging his scalp, his body feeling the tension flooding down as the water from the shower flooded down the drain. Then, the aromatic smell of musky body wash would fill his nose, cleansing his senses of the smell of ancient dusts from working at the pizzeria. He’d step out of the shower, his skin tinted pink from the hot water, his face freshly washed. He’d apply lotion, shape his beard and add his creams, he’d even gotten into grooming his nails every night, ensuring they were crisply clean and applying a protective clear coat on top.

He couldn’t quite figure out why he was so embarrassed by his ritual. Perhaps it was the way it made him feel less masculine, knowing damn well deep down that it didn’t make him any less of a man and it was just his years’ worth of built-up toxic masculinity that you were so desperately trying to get him to break down. Maybe it was the way he was splurging on things he simply didn’t feel he needed until now, until it suddenly felt like a necessity, something he’d go insane without. Most of all and the most likely of all the scenarios, it was admitting that he was wrong, that something you and Abby had so desperately attempted to beg him to get into was exactly what the two of you had explained to him. It was majestic and comforting. At least 45 minutes a day were dedicated to him and only himself, his whole body feeling renewed each time he stepped out of the shower. He felt rebirthed, imagining this was what religious people felt when they were deemed ‘saved’ at confessional. Even with that being said, he couldn’t let you and Abby in on his little ritual. No, he couldn’t possibly admit to it. It wasn’t because he wanted to hide something from you two but instead because his embarrassment seeped deep down into his skull every time he thought about revealing it. Instead, he would slowly creep himself into bed, wrapping his arms around you as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, pretending to sleepily open his eyes as your alarm went off.

You’d suspected he was hiding something, and you were worried. The new signature scents, the freshly groomed look, the way he seemed to care more about his clothing and the wrinkles that were shown. Your first thought was that there was somebody else, someone he had needed to impress, much like he once felt the need to impress you every time he was around you, suppressing his comfortable and more Mike-like fashion choices. In the mornings, you’d sense the lack of his presence after hearing the door creak open, feeling the bed dip right before your alarm went off, sirens ringing in your head each time as if to warn you something wasn’t right. You would spend some nights he was away at work after Abby was in bed evaluating who it could possibly be. There was Vanessa, the blonde police officer who would make occasional appearances in conversation. There was the waitress at the diner who’d taken a liking to Mike, but you weren’t sure who else it could be. Of course, women ogled over Mike all the time in public. There was something about a man with a slightly off putting aura and messy tussled hair. But regardless, you had always trusted him, and besides, Mike didn’t really talk to many people as is.

It wasn’t until Mike added in a peel off face mask into the mix that the jig was up. One week, he’d managed to get the entire week off, ensuring the pizzeria was boarded closed and begging Vanessa to keep an eye on things. You’d felt slightly better having him around more and at normal hours. He was very much still head over heels for you, following you around like a lost puppy, the two of you showering together, cooking together, and of course, having as much ‘alone time’ as you could possibly fit in when Abby was asleep or away at a friends. Even with that, in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the feeling. You were passed out on the couch after a movie night and it was late. Mike had crept away from the living room, tucking your sleeping body under a blanket, slipping into the shower. He followed his typical ritual, something he’d had to put off for a while in fear of getting caught, still unsure of what made him so anxious. After his shower, he applied his peel off mask, attempting to avoid his facial hair, but without thinking, he’d applied a layer over his entire chin. What would soon become a panic inducing issue in a short sum of ten minutes hadn’t occurred to him quite yet.

As the timer on his phone went off, he began slowly peeling the mask off, starting at his forehead before he froze, realizing more of his face was covered than usual. He brushed it off, continuing to peel before he noticed that not only was the thin, purple layer coming off, but multiple specks of hair were attached as well. Oh fuck, he thought to himself, unsure of how to proceed. No, he couldn’t just rip it off. He was attached to his facial hair. It made his baby face look mature and manly. No, of course it didn’t occur to him to just add water, simply wiping it away. There was only one option, and that was to waltz into the living room with his bright purple face and to wake you up, puppy dog eyes pleading for you to help him with his predicament.

You stirred away as you felt a hand shake your shoulder, your eyes widening as you sat up with a confused expression.

“Well, hello there,” you croaked out, your voice laced with gravel from exhaustion. He looked at you with embarrassment laced over his face, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Help, please. I…” he trailed off, gesturing his hands towards his face. “I just need it off,” he grumbled lowly, his fingertips holding the piece holding his facial hair tenderly, ensuring he didn’t rip anything else off.

You couldn’t help but let out a loud giggle, amused by the man standing in front of you. You grabbed his hand, leading him into the bathroom. You both sat on the ledge of the tub as you tenderly wiped his face clean with a warm washcloth, his reddened cheeks from both the mask being on too long and the embarrassment becoming more apparent by the second.

“Facial hair is saved,” you said triumphantly, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I do have to ask though, why the sudden liking to all of this? And why not just.. tell me?” you hummed curiously, shaking your head.

“I just.. I don’t know. I think I didn’t want to admit I was wrong or that I was spending so much money on such worthless stuff. It started out so small and then became so big, I just couldn’t,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I am really sorry for keeping it from you,” he hummed before he went into a further explanation, explaining the way it made him feel.

You let out a sigh of relief along with a content giggle, shaking your head. “I knew something was up, but I wasn’t sure what,” you said, cocking an eyebrow as you placed a hand on his knee, your cheeks now warming up.

“What, did you think I was getting all fancy schmancy for another girl?” he teased, bumping his elbow against your shoulder. Your eyes widened as your mouth opened and closed as you went to say something, his expression dropping into something more serious.

“Oh my god, Y/N, honey, no, I’d never,” he said, placing his warm hand on your exposed shoulder. “Baby, no,” he chuckled, happy he could reassure you but somewhat upset that you had to sit through that alone. “No, I love you very much, I promise you, there is no other woman... just, your silly grumpy man being too embarrassed to admit I like girly things,” he teased, leaning in to press a warm kiss to your lips. The kiss was all you needed for electrical sparks to be sent through your body, your brain buzzing as the anxious thoughts began to disappear.

For the rest of the night, Mike walked you through his entire routine, both for fun and for transparency. You two joked back and forth, you occasionally poking at him, telling him he should become an influencer. Afterwards, you both did a face mask together, this time ensuring the product did not cover his chin.

Yes, you and Mike most definitely had your own things to work on, but at the end of the day, you were happiest with him. Your heart felt warm. He had finally found a way to take care of himself, a way to feel more content in his own skin, and even though he had an odd way of going about it, you were pleased, happy he was also finally willing to share this with you. From now on, Mike would wait for his routine in the mornings until you woke up, instead crawling into bed and cradling you in his arms, thinking about how lucky he was to have such a sweet, loving, and accepting partner like you to share his life with, even if it was just skincare and Vaseline kisses.

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hey bitches!! it’s e, i’m backkkk. i had a fic idea, something i think i’ll use for a lot of new content if y’all react well to it. to give y’all a run down before we get into it, this is a famous!mike schmidt au.

basically mike is josh hutcherson. reader (you) are his live in PR assistant. not sure the perfect word for it, but basically you manage his social media presence, the way he dresses, how he is in public, attend all events with him to monitor him, etc…… kinda like a babysitter….. also, could technically be a part of olderbf!mike because reader is 22, mike is 31. anywaysss..! it’s a new idea, i just wanted to set the scene. the way i’m writing this is different from usual. plz let me know what you think! if y’all like i’ll write more in this universe🤭

summary: ur actor mike schmidt’s assistant!!

warnings: angsty, just an introduction to an idea.

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mike schmidt was a mess, and everybody knew it. that was part of what was so appealing to the public. he was a celebrity, a famous actor, known for various movies, tv shows. he was glamorized, lived in LA just like the rest of them, edits to upbeat songs all over social media with his hips swaying from some random snippet of a trailer. yes, mike schmidt was a heart throb, but he wasn’t your typical golden boy. he wore jeans and raggedy t-shirts to interviews. his brown curly locks were always tangled and sticking in fifty different directions. his stubble was always a little too rough, his hands calloused and bruised to masculine perfection. he wore snap backs and had no sense of what a filter was. he said things as they were on stages, into microphones, or on livestreams, silly phrases coming out of his pink lips. he was carefree, not glamorous nor slouchy but instead some odd middle ground that left women with slack jaws and puddles of drool. he was what every woman actually wanted when they said they wanted a man ‘written by a woman,’ or so they thought he was.

in reality, mike was the biggest pain in the ass to walk the earth. while most 22-year-olds got to save pictures of him to their pinterest boards and kick their feet every time he came into their tv screen, you were stuck managing his every move, saving his ass from letting the wrong thing fall from his mouth in front of the wrong audience. you were his manager, of everything, really. you managed his social media, coached him through what to say during interviews, inspected the clothing he wore before events… there wasn’t quite anything you didn’t do for mike. the two of you had a weird connection since you’d started, not quite foes but certainly not friends. the air was always somewhat tense, something you were all too aware of whenever you’d have an interaction with him. you knew it needed to change, and fast.

you’d gotten the job fresh out of college, extremely eager to take such a high paying position. you were lucky and you were aware, your gratitude something you showed through your endless devotion to being the best manager, and hopefully one day friend, mike could have. when you’d first been offered the position, part of what made it so appealing was knowing not only were you being paid, but you were given a room to stay, in the same home as mike. it was crucial, living alongside your boss in order to keep him in check. when you’d walked into a meeting room after you’d accepted the position, you were debrief about mike, told he was… difficult, to put up with. he tended to push his previous managers to the limit, his somewhat childlike demeanor sending them running the other direction. you accepted this as a challenge, something to motivate you to prove that you were worth more than the other old and dried up pieces of talent they’d had in here.

oh boy, did you have another thing coming. you weren’t any different to mike. sure, you were gorgeous, your eyes a color he could drown in, your laugh something he grew oh so fond of over the past few months you’d lived with him, but you were just another manager… right? it was his job to make this difficult for you. that’s how he saw it. so, you fought like you were pulling teeth, demanding he go change before going out like he was your 14-year-old daughter when he’d come out in a bleach stained t-shirt. you’d have to keep him from posting selfies of him smoking a joint on FACEBOOK just to cause a stir. for gods sake, you didn’t care if he put them anywhere else, just please, not where all the old people were. you’d argue late at night when you’d both head back to his place, your eyes filled with fiery anger after he’d drop some stupid shit in an interview, accidentally saying something about how one of his older costars were a “dried up old fashioned hag who needed to get some.” was he wrong…? no. but that didn’t mean he could say it.

he’d always yell back, his eyes filled with just as much anger. you went about this charade almost every time something had to be done. it could be a red carpet event, an awards dinner, an interview, even simply a live stream, there was always something with mike, something to yell and scream about. you constantly tried your hardest to stress how much you cared about this job, about him even too, sometimes blurring the line between professionalism and feelings as you’d get a little too intimate about the things you’d left behind, desperate for him to understand you, to see you.

it wasn’t until one night you’d finally had enough. he’d changed outfits right before a big interview that could’ve got him in front of multiple big directors, something big, even more groundbreaking for him. he’d been in an elegant outfit that fit his body so well, just like a glove, you could only imagine. of course, he hated it. he hated being coaxed into things, told what to do, to say, and currently, both were happening. when no one was watching, he’d slipped himself into a pair of black jeans and a tank top, walking out just like that, then proceeding to insult every director there individually. you were dumbfounded. no, he wasn’t drunk. no, he wasn’t high, medicated, or under any influence. this was just… mike, and you were starting to have enough.

the moment the two of you entered the house, you’d went at it, your face red from anger. how could he? how could he go out and blatantly go against everything you’d said purely out of boredom? he was a grown man, you’d think he could do better than this. you were embarrassed, not even for yourself as who represented him even though you should’ve been, but for him. you wanted this for him. your eyes locked on his, the moment you slammed the door shut. his big, beautiful brown eyes you most definitely didn’t mind looking into, no matter how angry you were. “mike, what the fuck,” was all you could say before he stuck his hand up. he went to turn on his heel, not even bothering to listen to a word you’d have to say.

that’s when you did something you didn’t think you’d do. this time, you’d let something slip, something you’d wished you hadn’t. “mike, if this shit doesn’t stop i’m fucking quitting, i’m leaving.”

that’s all it took.

that’s all it took for him to turn back on his heel to face you, frozen. his mouth was slightly parted, his eyes wider than you’d seen them before. he looked… angry.. confused.. no, not even. he looked… sad? he fluttered his eyes, his mouth opening and closing a little. you’d known you’d lasted longer than most, but this wasn’t what you were expecting.

“don’t,” was all he said, taking a couple of steps toward you. you stood there, frozen and tense as who was basically your boss slowly moved towards you, his demeanor different than you’d seen before. he was like a lost and wounded puppy, his dark brown eyes glistening with an emotion you’d never seen in him before. he reached out, touching your shoulder. you flinched, not even because you didn’t want him to but out of instinct.

“just, don’t go, y/n. i couldn’t take it, okay? i-i’m sorry, i’m sorry i fuck around too much, i’m sorry.. i just.. i don’t want you gone,” he said, his voice was low and growly. oh. he wanted you to stay. this was the first time he’d shown any interest in you in any way other than arguing, and you didn’t know what to do. with that being said, you did what you knew how to do best.

“okay,” you simply said, nodding your head as you went to your room. that night, you’d laid in your bed? conflicted about the side of the man you lived with that you saw tonight. meanwhile, while you tossed and turned in your own sheets, mike did the exact same. little did you know, you were the only person mike had ever felt a real connection with. you were the only one patient, loving, thoughtful enough to be there for him, even through his hissy fits. he adored you, your style, your walk, your laugh, your humor, and he hated it. you were in his mind 24/7 and he hated it. but no, he could never get closer, because he knew you’d leave, just like the rest, and tonight was proof.

no, if mike were to ever attempt to get closer, you’d be the one to start it. and perhaps.. perhaps you would be, perhaps this encounter would be so engrained into your brain that you think about it daily, dissecting the look on his face. but who knows? maybe next week you’ll change your mind and pack your things, walk out the door. only the director knows quite what’s in store for the two of you…