#5sos Michael | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

afatallovesong · 2 years

Note

Hi! I love your writing! I was wondering if you could write a oneshot for Michael?

I have never written for Michael before, so I hope you enjoy! (Haven't proofread I'm sorry)

You Call Me Up

A Michael Clifford one shot

18+, Smut, NSFW

Word Count: 12,091

You hated phone calls. Your hands got all clammy. Your heart picked up speed. Sometimes it leapt a few beats, and you swore the palpitations might kill you one day. But you were still here, and it still rang out. You felt your tongue tie, your words assemble into one giant whirlpool of useless vocabulary. Phone calls were an enemy of yours, your greatest foe, your biggest downfall every single time. No matter how good of a day you’d had, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to speak confidently enough to whoever sat at the other end of the phone. Anyone except him.

His name flashes across the caller ID and you have to hold yourself back from answering too soon, a foreign feeling to you. Holding your breath, counting to 10 as not to pick up on the first ring. Avoiding eagerness. It was like your phone didn’t even need to signal either, you always seemed to be innately ready and waiting, like you spent your day anticipating it even if he hadn’t warned you prior.

If you were in another room, you’d end up walking back in just in time for the tone, so conveniently you thought he was wired into your brain somehow. You swore you were in the shower once and stopped the water before rinsing because you sensed someone had yelled your name when in actuality your phone was seconds away from sounding out, his voice beckoning you on the other side. You had a useless talent for it. A sixth sense if you will. It made you a great friend at least.

You sat yourself down on your bed, fidgeting with the cushion you’d placed on your lap out of habit, shuffling so your back was against the headboard. Your legs were crossed comfortably, for now. You thought about uncrossing them just in case the call went on longer and they started to numb, but ultimately decided you could cross that bridge when you came to it. You took a deep breath.

“What took you so long?” A panic stricken voice whines from the other end. Should you be alarmed? “You usually answer in 2 rings, what’s going on are you okay?” You hated that he’d noticed. He was the least susceptible person on earth, it was unfair. “I was in the shower.” You rush. He breathes deeply, as if he was thinking about it, the image of you under the water or maybe he saw through your lie. You hoped he wasn’t repulsed either way. “Was it a good shower?” You snort a laugh.

“What? Just asking.” He laughs too. Your heat settles. “It was an average shower.” You know he’s nodding on the other end as he hums. “So, you called because?” Your heart starts pumping rapidly, your grip on the tassels of the cushion tightening. “Can’t I call my wonderful friend on a Thursday evening?” You allow yourself to smile, to be happy he’d called at all, even if he did just call you his friend. You could hate that word, you really, really could.

“The real reason.” You pry, knowing that it could never be as simple as that. “I have a date.” He rushes. So fast you think you have some incredible skill for being able to translate. Your mouth opens and closes at least 7 times before responding. “You do?” You try not to sound so surprised. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to either of you actually. He’d just never called you about one before. He usually told you in person. Why didn’t he tell you in person? Couldn’t he wait? Why did he sound so panicked?

“I do.” You could hear him smiling, you just knew he was smiling. Probably scratching his head, wondering how he’d managed a date at all knowing him. He was so blind, not just to your affections but the fact that you weren’t the only one who’d had them for him, you never had been. He was definitely attractive, he had humour, intelligence, hobbies, ambition, maybe too much ambition sometimes, thought he could conquer the world, maybe he could, maybe he would, you were certain if he put his mind to it, nothing could stop him. “I need your help though.” You lean forward, as if you were ready to rush over to his house right now and come to aid him, pathetic. You sit yourself back again. “What with?” You try not to feel nervous, try not to feel hurt, it’s something that’s grown more difficult the last year or so.

“I kinda maybe said we were having a party.” You nod as you listen, again as if he was in the room with you. “When?” He starts nervously laughing, shuffling around on the other side of the line. You sigh instantly, you know he’s fucked something up, it was just a case of what. “Tomorrow night.” He said before you heard him tapping his foot vigorously on the ground, his tell-tale sign that he was nervous and giving himself a hard time before you could. “I ALSO MAYBE SAID IT WAS AT YOUR PLACE!” The words slipped from his mouth in a jumble, you had to be a genius to piece it together so soon, you deserved so much credit for that. You deserved some kind of medal actually, you wonder if they do those, deciphering or something.

Your palm hit your face with a louder than intended smack. “That sounded rough.” He sighed. “You’re dead.” You curse him. “Dead, dead, dead.” You know he’s wincing as you say it, you hope he does more than that, hope he pictures his head on a spike for what he was about to put you through. “Who is it?” You ask. He doesn’t say anything. You’d surprised him by asking. He hadn’t expected you to care that deeply. Sure, he phoned you to talk about this date, this party that he'd needed you to throw in your own house and all, but he still didn’t actually plan the part where he had to tell you the name of the girl. The girl that may or not actually fucking exist.

“Mindy.” You laugh. You laugh a lot. “Mindy?” You question. “Uh, yup.” You hear him scratching the stubble on his chin. He’s wracking his brain as fast as he can to think of if he or you actually knew anyone with that name already. He hoped to God that you didn’t. It may be easier to explain the whole thing if a Mindy didn’t happen to live in your inner or outer friendship circle or anywhere in your general vicinity for that matter. He couldn’t be too sure though, there was always some variation of a Mindy. There was Cindy, the blonde dancer or maybe cheerleader, he didn’t speak to her long enough to catch the career goals. There had also been an Indi at some point, a next door neighbour of yours, got arrested for something or other. He wasn’t sure, not very good at remembering anything about other women, not when he had you. You were the only woman he’d needed, only one he’d really cared to know. Except for tomorrow night.

“Where did you meet her?” You had to ask, there was no way a girl called Mindy took an interest in him, not now he’d settled down. He used to be such a slut, not that it’s a bad thing to sleep around but the way he’d treated some girls, well you were glad that portion of his life was over. It was the one and only time you’d regretted your crush on him. Feeling lucky not to have his attention at that time, though you must have been repulsive because he really did go for anyone, and you couldn’t help but hold the tiniest grudge because of that. If he hadn’t wanted you then, well you doubt he ever would.

He’d straightened his act since. He went on dates occasionally, no more one night stands, that you knew of, so hopefully few to none. No one had ever stuck around. Whether it was down to his or your judgement. You couldn’t always be certain which it was. But it was always his and your say, not theirs, almost never theirs. You felt wrong for enjoying having a role so big in his life. For being a factor in decisions like that at all. One day he wouldn’t need you like that. You should feel lucky that he does now. Even if it hurt to imagine him with someone else.

He was similar with you. He judged every person you bought to him, like an older brother or a very aggressive dog who’d snapped his leash. No one was ever good enough. No one would ever be good enough for you. That’s what he thought anyway. He certainly knew he wasn’t good enough for you. He’d never even try it. You deserved better than him. In fact, you’d had better.

There was once an occasion where he’d actually felt bad for tarnishing your relationship with a guy. A college graduate who just got a job as a veterinarian. If he was being excruciatingly honest, which he so often hated being, he could admit that he was probably the perfect man for you. He shared all your interests, had similar career goals, a good family, good ambition. The only problem was that he wasn’t Michael. Otherwise, he swore you’d be half way to engaged by now. Even if you were still in your early 20s.

Every other time there’d been a substantial reason. A justifiable reason. A police record, no qualifications, a crazy ex, a tight knit relationship with their mother. So maybe they weren’t as sound as he’d liked to think but he had good intentions, that had to count for something. He just wanted the best for you, would always want that for you. What kind of friend would he be if he didn’t? It was his duty.

He wracked his brain for a suitable scenario. The grocery store maybe? She was working the counter or something. She wanted to check out more than the items in his basket. Nope. Absolutely not. You shopped at the same store anyway and with name tags and all you could hunt her down like a dog. Too close to home. How about the record store? He never saw you in there, not unless he dragged you in there himself, which he hadn’t done for years, not since, well not since the cashier asked him for your number and he swore he’d break his face if he dared ask or look in your direction again. The record store it is. Mindy from the record store.

“The record store.” He shrugs. You perk up. He’d met her in his favourite place. Nothing to worry about, you could handle that, the impending doom of your friendship and heartache, she might just be perfect. If you had a pencil in your hand you swear it would have snapped. “Uh, she actually slipped me a limited edition-“ You lean back, hitting your head off the board to drown out the anecdote. “Did you just- are you okay?” You mumble. “Yup, fine, all fine.” You don’t even attempt to rub the back of your head. You deserved the punishment. It was all worse than you thought. He’d met the perfect girl. You thought you’d have more time. It hasn’t happened yet; he’d never even been close; they’d all been false starts. This was code red.

“So, the party.” He mentions again. You could say no. You could give him any excuse and he’d never ask again. He’d even accept an “I’m not in the mood.” 1 because it was painfully accurate and the only excuse you could muster at the time but 2 because he respects you enough to take your word as gospel and never push you past your limits. He couldn’t take advantage of you. Although in this scenario, not entirely true anymore. “You’re setting everything up.” Your fingers run through your hair as you hear him begin to shuffle again on the other side. Your own words betrayed you. You were a really, really good friend.

He felt more panicked than relieved that you’d agreed. It made it so much more real. As real as a date with a fake person could be that is. Shit. This whole idea sounded so much better before he dialled your number. He rubbed his eye in frustration at the mess he’d left himself in as if it would provide him with any clarity at all. He now had to set up a party, a fake date and then, the perfect way to confess his feelings for you. That’s what this whole charade was for. He was too cowardly to tell you on the phone, too selfish not to tell you at all. At least if it went poorly he could blame the alcohol, or maybe even pretend he didn’t hear you over the bass of the music.

He grabbed a pen by the landline fixed to the wall (the one he had only bought for the aesthetic, never to be used). He scrawled down in capitals on the notepad beside it. “Note to self: HEAVY BASS!!!” Then just beneath. “You can do this.” He hoped that manifestation would help him through the next 24 hours. He wouldn’t be able to breathe until he completed this task he’d set himself. You were worth it, you had to be.

You’d kill him. He was late to a party he’d wanted. You should have been surprised. You were never surprised. The lengths he would go to, the theatrics, he infuriated and crushed your soul into pieces simultaneously. He’d never done something like this for you. You wouldn’t exactly like a party thrown in your honour, but it was a grand romantic gesture anyone could find a soft spot for. Perhaps that should tell you all you needed to know. He would never do this for you. You could stop blissfully ignoring the fact that things might never change between the two of you. Unless you got rid of Mindy that is.

You’d started letting people in, he’d put up flyers around town, you hated that he did that. You were starting to hate everything that he did. Couldn’t recognise half the people who rocked up but hey, it’s just your house and everything you own on the line, nothing could possibly go wrong there. You almost slammed the door in his face when he finally showed up. He smiled the best he could while wondering how long he had before he needed to flinch at the no doubt heavy fist heading his way. He was surprised when it hadn’t arrived. “Shit, are you ill?” The back of his hand pushes against your forehead to gather your temperature. You swat him away. “I’m fine, you’re late.” You step aside, letting him in, already feeling your heart regretting the decision, it so often did.

He stared at you for a moment, eyes raking in your appearance, taking in every detail of you, so much so it was like he’d physically touched you, goosebumps brushing over your arms. It was sinful to look at you that way considering the circumstances, but you had so liked that he had. He had liked it too, so much so that he lost sight of his purpose tonight. “Is she here?” You ask coldly, quietly but still loud enough to try and nudge his eyes away. They remained for a moment longer before he turns around, a brow arching. “She?” Was he joking?

He laughed, almost too enthusiastically even he’d admit, his hand resting on his stomach as if it ached from the humour. “I don’t know, she might be.” He took a few rushed glances around him again, gathering the surroundings, squinting to see if anyone here could look even the tiniest bit suited for the role. He could coax someone into pretending. Probably not for the fun of it, might have to bribe them with a couple bucks but that was fine, that was doable. He’s patting his pockets, front, left, right and back. Shit. No wallet. What about jacket? A sigh of relief. Won’t cancel that out then, he could still manage.

“Well let me know when you find her.” You try to smile, try to act casual, as if this wasn’t the worst Friday night you could have envisioned for yourself. He hovered on the spot for a minute, fingers fidgeting, the way they did when he wanted to say something else, when he was struggling to find the words but lingering on the edge of them. Was he struggling to find them? “Mikey?” You question boldly. His mouth props open before closing again, his erratic fidgeting coming to an end. “I’ll catch up with you.” He turns, wandering off into the crowd as quickly as he’d appeared. Your heart sank, your posture going with it. Air, air would be nice.

He had no plan, even as he tried to conjure one, there was still a voice in his mind. A voice that sounded an awful lot like yours if he really focused on it, which he was trying desperately not to do. A voice telling him he had no way of pulling this off either before or after the whole tremendously large lie coming out. Why did he need to go to such lengths at all? Perhaps you’d find it romantic, a grand gesture just for you, though he could have done something less deceiving and more up your street. He really should have thought about this. Was it too late to think about this? He needed to find her again. He’d bottled it, he should just come clean.

“Can I rob a cig?” You ask one of the guys stood just a few metres out into your back garden. The spot you’d escaped to. He grunts a response holding the packet out for you to take, as if it were too much for him to respond with a simple sentence. He instead offers the flame of his zippo lighter for you to lean into. You rarely smoked these days. You hadn’t felt the need to. Your stress seemingly spreading thinner and thinner as time passed on, no longer providing you a reason to indulge. Occasionally you would succumb to the urge. Enjoying the burn, the thought of the damage. You took a drag, stepping away from the group, leaning against the brick wall you stood by.

He thought you’d be in the kitchen. You usually were at any party, your house or otherwise. That was your go to spot. You had access to all drinks, food, and fresh air if things overwhelmed you, which they often did, but that was okay with him, he’d never judge you for it. Instead, he knew to be aware of it. If things were okay you would relax upon the stools by the kitchen island. When he hadn’t spotted your half up, half down waves with a bow pinned to the back, he knew to head outside to your other spot of comfort.

He stepped outside, flicking the garden light on, earning a couple of groans he easily ignored when he spotted you, a cigarette hanging from your lips. He took it from you, startling you, your eyes widening with a rage he hadn’t seen for a while, not since you were kids. “Thought you quit.” He places it between his own lips. You struggle not to blush at his unbothered reaction to sharing. It’s not as if it were the first time you’d done this, but it didn’t get any less attractive when it did. You wished it weren’t so indirect. You wanted his actual lips on yours, this would suffice, it had to.

“I did.” You take it back, he lets you, lips parting enough for you to pluck it back. “I just felt like having one.” He felt bad, it was his fault you’d needed one. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. His hands slid into his pockets when his gaze fell to his feet. “It’s okay.” You lied. Continuing to breathe in the glorious nicotine, you’d even felt a rush of light-headedness. It panicked you when you were younger but for some reason, this evening, the feeling was rather welcomed, just an additional numbness to the ever present trauma of being in love with your best friend.

Michael himself fought the urge to groan when your lips wrapped around the filtered end of what had just been between his own lips. Your plush, cherry red lips enough to send him into a trance of what if’s, as if he’d ever have the courage to make them anything more than that, he wished they were more than that. He’d wanted you, so very badly, it grew with each passing second he stood here fixated on you, yearning for your kiss. It was just a case of telling you.

You thought you’d always be honest with each other. Now when he looked at you, barely able to meet your eyes, aiding the protection of a heavy secret. Your head was thrown back, a lazy arm wrapped across your stomach. He saw for the first time tonight, that he might not have been the only one capable of lying here. There was clearly a restlessness, a war enraging on in the depths of your astounding mind as well as his own. He knew you enough to decipher your struggle, but not enough to untangle it or even to pin point what exactly it was that you were struggling so hard with.

You stubbed out the cigarette. Wiping your hands down over your jeans, a force of habit adapted to relieve your fingers of the texture that came with smoking. “We should go back inside.” You didn’t try to sound less deflated, instead you thought you ought to accept it, you didn’t hide a sigh, you just dusted your thighs and straightened yourself out ready for the quest inside. You thought he was about to say something again, maybe you just hoped with every fibre of your being that he would find the courage to, but he just stood there, brow’s twitching, fingers drumming across his thigh as the cogs and wheels turned around in his brain. “Just spit it out,” you both thought, the screaming and restless feeling ricocheting around your all too thick skulls. If he could just say whatever’s been troubling him, just opened up his mouth and let the words flow out. You’d listen. You’d hold your breath, fix your stance and fucking listen and perhaps, you may actually get somewhere.

He’d never been one to hide like this, both you and he knew that. He had this cocky sort of confidence that was originally designed to mask his anxieties but soon developed into this persona, this character he never imagined he’d become. When he did, he was loud and proud, he spoke from the heart, he hid no truths, he drew as much or as little attention as he desired. Your infatuation had been sewn into the very ground he walked on ever since. Trailing delightfully behind him, admiring this alluring capability that he had to put on the bravest, “fuck you” attitude.

He was brutally honest the majority of the time, his thoughts flowing directly from his brain to his tongue without much interception. It got him in trouble more times than either of you could count but it was that quality that made you feel so drawn to him in the first place. He was surprised that the earth hadn’t imploded the second he started to actually hold back and keep a tight lock on his lips, amongst other things. It was so ineptly not his style and he’d felt that betrayal without even looking to your face to see it written there. Spit. It. Out. Be honest. You’d want his honesty.

“Mindy didn’t show.” Your head doesn’t snap towards him like he thought it would or rather how he hoped it would. He guessed he was too selfish to assume it meant anything to you. You stood exactly the same, shoulders low, arms crossing at your chest. His hand floats towards the back of his neck, tugging a few strands of hair as if to control himself like a puppet, forcing him to continue in this endeavour despite the awkward thickness refusing to settle in the air.

“That’s a shame.” You attempt to give a sympathetic smile, you wished you could, or maybe you didn’t. You must have looked like such a spoilt brat looking anything other than disappointed for him. God, he probably thought you were the least supportive friend on earth. You couldn’t even pretend. It’s not like you even had to be convincing, you just had to perform, console him because the girl he’d seemed to really like had let him down and left him here alone with you on yet another Friday night.

Suddenly your heart didn’t just hurt for yourself, it hurt for him. He had been excited. He’d been desperate enough to put on this whole show for a girl he’d only just met, and she hadn’t even had the decency to attend. She didn’t have to love him unconditionally. She didn’t have to laugh at all his jokes. She didn’t have to listen to his band rehearse poorly or sit through his stories that droned on and on because they never really had a middle or an end, always getting lost in between. All she had to do was be polite and show up, no further obligations toward him. Somehow she couldn’t even do that, and you simply could not fathom how anyone would be capable of letting him down. “Did she say why?”

Your hand rests on his arm. He hopes you don’t feel his pulse sky rocketing beneath it. His heart was drumming so violently he worried for his health. His tugged on his locks unable to settle his anxiety for much longer as the question floated in the air between you. He watched you switch your posture, straightening up the moment he mentioned being stood up as if you were a soldier coming to attention. You were there to defend him, to offer him a warmth he’d not deserved for his betrayal, for his lies. You were the sweetest girl he’d ever known. His pretty eyed best friend that he sincerely believed he did not deserve.

He took a breath, sucking in an achingly large amount of air, chest puffing up with each passing second beneath his checked shirt. This was it. This was the moment that would change it all. “It’s actually really hard to get stood up by someone who doesn’t, never has and probably never will exist at any point in time.” He says in one breath before taking another and repeating the process without glancing to catch your eyes until he’d let it be known.

“Made up to prove fuck knows what at this point.” He starts waving his hands around, gesturing to himself, placing a hand on his hip, rubbing his forehead, the full works to illustrate his explosion of stupidity which sounded more and more guilt ridden as he went on. “I’ve really got nothing, no words, no excuses, really shit all that could explain the rot in my brain that let me think that this was a sensible way to confess my feelings for you.” He finally looks at you, your mouth hanging open, kind of like an adorable goldfish he’d very much like to take home and keep in a bowl by the side of his bed to keep.

He settles for grabbing one of your hands in both of his, eyes beginning to plead with you for a forgiveness he wasn’t sure he’d get and as terrifying as that was for him to consider, it was too late to go back now so he buckled up and begged. “I’m really just, shit I’m just so fucking sorry.” He looked close to tears. The liquid forming beneath each eye, his bottom lip trembling. His heart was no longer pounding which he’d have considered a win except for the fact it had stopped all together as he awaited some form of communication from your end. Anything really. He’d accept a blink or a breath, jackpot if you scowled. You just stared so blankly he wondered if you were even present anymore if you’d still been stood before him. It was as if you’d left your own body. You’d left yourself standing there listening, but you had gone elsewhere. Anywhere but here with him, so needing to escape him that even on a spiritual level you’d vacated the premises to avoid the rest of this conversation. He was battling an enormity of guilt, guilt, guilt.

“So, Mindy?” You phrase it like a question, arching a brow to better understand him, stringing out the “y” to let him catch your drift. “Doesn’t exist.” He finishes, earning a short nod, he winces, he’s not sure why but it feels like the only available response at the moment. “And you never had a-“ He wanted to run for the hills, but he’d laid out these burning coals to walk across, there was no option to skirt around them now, so walk on he must. “Never had a date no.” You pause for a second. It wasn’t too late to quit, he could drop your hand and leave the country, didn’t even have to grab his belongings from home, just hitchhike his way to the border and never return, anything to avoid the look plastering across your face.

The more you relived the lie, the more he realised how warped he was for conjuring it. It wasn’t cute, sweet, or flattering, not that he ever thought it was, but it would be nice to imagine there was some tiny part of you that saw it that way since it had been a gesture for you after all. “So, you made it all up.” He nods this time, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, eyes flickering to all of his available exits. “What the fuck?”

You tug your hand from his grip, letting it fly to your hair, both hands combing through it as if it would bring a resolution to this problem any quicker. He felt as if your question had slapped him across the cheek, sending him wincing at the tone. “I’m so sorry.” Yes, he said that already. “I just don’t understand.” It was all you thought. Your mind was screaming it over and over again because honestly there was no other reaction you could produce at this moment in time. Your wires were crossing, short circuiting and malfunctioning and you know, ever other technical failure that could possibly arise. Why the fuck would he fucking do that?

The energy spent to create this person, hell this whole scenario, the party, the oddly specific meeting place. It all outweighed whatever outcome was to come from it. There was no reward set in your mind, there was no gain from this. It was actually so impractical of him. That’s what frustrated you the most. You were experiencing something similar to the five stages of grief but instead stages of cognitive dysfunction, just a pure lack of comprehension on every plane.

Considering how heavily methodical he usually was about relationships, there seemed to be absolutely nothing to back him up in this scenario. To create an entire person only to tell you about her. Only to get you to acknowledge her. To fuel this fantasy that he’d met someone so perfect they put you to shame with just the uttering of their name. He’d done all of this for- then it clicks far too agonisingly slowly. You.

“For me.” You said in a low whisper. His heart doesn’t know whether to leap or pack up and die altogether. “Yeah.” He’s not really sure if he’s responding correctly. He’s not sure he could confirm he’d do something correctly ever again. “You did this for me.” You speak clearer, finding it within yourself to meet his eyes as you repeated yourself. There was an airiness and a disbelief in your tone. He isn’t sure he can hold you gaze for long. His cowardice had begged him not to. He couldn’t bear to see you hurt. Especially since the cause of the pain was him and him alone. “I did. I did this for you.”

You smile. You didn’t mean to, you were pissed. You hadn’t felt as if it was the moment for the expression. Your muscles had acted out against you. They’d gone their own way, leaving you trailing along behind trying to catch up. “You’re smiling.” He was sceptical and rightly so, a smile was the least expected reaction he’d have imagined from you. “You’re a fucking idiot.” You meant it, tongue like a dagger, cutting him as deep as you felt her deserved. “I do own up to that.” He feels like he can breathe again. Short breaths. Less than a second each. But its breathing, nonetheless. “Does this mean we can get all these people out of my fucking house?” He bounced on his heels excitedly, this was nothing, not forgiveness, not brushing it under the mat never to return to at a later date, but it was something. You still wanted to be alone with him. You still wanted something to do with him, to be something to him. That was a huge win in his book. “I’m on it.”

You found yourselves back inside, in your living room, less angsty tension between you, but there was still something thickening the air. “Are you really mad at me? Did I really piss you off?” He felt his bottom lip begin to tremble, although you’d been able to look at him without a frown, he still worried about how things may have changed between you. There weren’t enough words in any dictionary to describe how stupid he felt. The fragility of your friendship was becoming so apparent to him now. He could have lost you. If only he’d thought of it sooner before he started this. He lead himself so blindly. He’d have reoccurring nightmares over it for months, perhaps even the rest of his life.

You don’t say anything. He takes his chances. “You know I can’t think straight when you start to pout.” You hadn’t even noticed your lips pursing. You almost allow a smile to replace it now he’d drawn attention to it, but you didn’t, you weren’t that easy. “I’m not pouting.” His heart jumps. You speaking, saying anything, that was good, you sounded good. “You’re pouting a little.” He holds out his thumb and pointer finger squeezing them together, destined to touch but never quite reaching, instead highlighting the small gap between them. You kind of felt like it resembled the two of you. “I don’t pout.” He smiles, each sound you made had him feeling calmer. “You pout a lot.” He fights the urge to smother the expression with his lips.

“It’s too much fun to piss you off.” It may have been too soon to joke about it. He felt so far from comfortable and yet, he was still speaking, still managing to prevent himself from cracking under the pressure. He was using comedy to mask his pain of course, the only way he knew how to deal with his emotions without addressing them directly. Regardless, the opportunity to have this alone time with you after the shit show that had been the rest of the evening, well it was a pleasure despite the tension.

“What are friends for?” He shrugs, eyes falling not so subtly to the ground, more specifically your shoes. White converse, so pristinely clean anyone could mistake them for newly bought if he hadn’t known you better. He then thought of how his shoes, the worn and tired trainers he couldn’t even remember the brand of, would be touching yours if he just shuffled in a little closer. He could move in if he wanted to. You might not run, but you also might.

“Why do we have to be friends?” You surprise yourself, the words dripping off your tongue with an alarming ease and you’d probably be embarrassed but you couldn’t find it in you. “We’ve always been friends.” He says, even if he hated himself for it. You had to agree. “I guess we have.” It was the truth after all. Your tone changed though; a dissatisfaction laced within. Taking a leaf out of his book, you speak without thought. “You wanna change that?”

He can’t even look at you, doubt he could even hear you, confirm if you responded at all. His heartbeat was deafening. You continue on your path of enlightenment, you don’t think, you just do. You move in, toe to toe. Your breath catches as you breathe in his scent, cigarettes, cheap beer, maybe even sweat and you’d not minded. You feel his breath, each one, just brushing over your skin.

His eyes are anywhere that yours weren’t. You don’t feel as awkward as you should, nearly pressed up against his chest, a proximity that wasn’t foreign to you but had certainly been evolved. You feel a strange sense of calmness coming with it. You’d never felt calm around him before. You always felt restless, or aching. You’d even say intoxicated but never satiated. Never feeling as if you were in safe hands quite like this before.

He cleared his throat. You glanced to his adams apple as it bobbed up and down as he swallowed the words you’re so curious to hear instead. You watch him with great interest. Ogling him like some kind of art exhibition you had to interpret, and you’d have spent hours analysing him if you could, but you needed more. You’re right there, less than an inch between you and you don’t falter.

“Your face is uh, very close to my face.” He knows he’s being silly, knows he’s mucking things up, but God, you were so pretty, there was nothing he could say or do to prevent himself from melting at the sight of you. So, fucking beautiful, his sweet, sweet Y/n. “What are you going to do?” You speak quietly but firmly enough to translate that the ball was well and truly in his court. You had taken your shot; it was his turn to take his.

He licks his bottom lip feverishly, leaving a glossy sheen on the pink, plush skin. You can’t look away. “You want me to kiss you?” You’d never wanted anything more. It excited you that he’d asked, somehow hearing exactly what you were both thinking, it was exhilarating. He looks down at your own lips, almost groaning when he sees your teeth tucked into them, taking a bite he wished he could taste. You were the worst for biting your lip around him. He’d always wondered if you did it on purpose just to break him, convinced there was no way you weren’t doing it on purpose. He thought that maybe one day you would succeed in his destruction too. He was going to make that day, this day.

He leans in slowly and smoothly. He watches you for your reaction. Your eyes flash with panic and he almost backs away from you but no, not this time. His head tilts to the left, his lips inching inward. So close so unbelievably close. He was so near. He was certain that your atoms had latched onto each other before you did so knowingly yourselves. A moan falls between you. A deeply satisfied and most grateful moan. A years in the making expression of fulfilment. You thought if the moment ever arrived it may not live up to expectations, but you stay oh so still, for so long. You take in the sensation, the softness of his lips, the feather light pressure he applies, the taste of his last drink and the cigarette smoke emitting from the both of you. There’s nothing short of electricity. Your hairs stood on end; your stomach had erupted with every emotion a human was capable of expressing.

He takes it upon himself to cup your face in his hands even as he lets you slip away, your mouth retreating against both of your wishes. You see the look in his eyes. You freeze. You had never seen him so content. He wasn’t smiling, not even close, more like gawping at you, mouth open, cheeks burning redder than plastic solo cups scattered across the coffee table.

If you’d only seen his eyes you’d be convinced there was a grin beneath them. There was such a blinding twinkle in them you’d think a light had been flickered on inside and maybe it had. It was a realisation that this kiss was everything you’d both wanted it to be. His eyes had shown you a joy so lovely you wanted to bottle it and keep it forever. “You just kissed me.” It comes out as a whisper; all you could manage after he stole your breath away. He smiles so wide his eyes crinkle on the outer corners. His dimples sink beside his smile lines. “I’m about to do it again, try not to die or anything.”

This time you initiate. You grab onto the collar of his denim jacket, and you use it to reel him into you. His hands land on your hips, just resting there, just holding you, still unsure of the boundaries. You apply a pressure to your kiss, his head pushing back, your face following it. He whimpers. Mouth dropping open when he does. You don’t know what comes over you, you slip your tongue into his mouth the second he gives you access, a brave stride forward into even newer territory.

He retaliates, his teeth clash messily against your own as he leans in closer, nose bumping yours, hands slipping into the back pockets of your jeans bringing you inwards, cupping your ass. Your pelvis hits his, a distinct hardness present his jeans. You felt a flurry of surprise and a colossal amount of pride wrack your body. You’d gotten him hard just from your kiss. Nothing more. He’d officially ruined every other guy for you, and you sincerely hoped he knew that.

You pull away breathlessly, begrudgingly. Your ears are ringing. Your chest is thudding. Your head and heart not quite believing what they’ve witnessed. “You made a whole girl up, but you couldn’t just kiss me.” He wanted to melt into a puddle, his dreams had come true right there in your living room, he could scream with excitement. “Not my finest moment.” He manages to squeeze your ass rather daringly through the pockets of your jeans and he suspects that you quite enjoy it.

“You think?” He grimaces as he thinks back to it, anything more than a millisecond felt unnecessary and cruel. “You didn’t say anything either sweetheart.” He finds it in himself to smirk because he knows its damn true. He thanked whatever God there was for allowing him the strength to joke. “You had a hot date.” You remind. “Didn’t always.” You huff at his answer. “We’re stupid.” He nods in agreement. “That part is true.” He pushes his forehead against your own, locking eyes with you, you could get used to that. “I love stupid.” You shouldn’t have wanted to squeal so much at such a dumb sentence. It wasn’t him saying he loved you, though you’d enjoy spending the rest of the evening convincing yourself that, that was exactly what he’d said.

“Do you fuck stupid?” You hold your breath, mind catching up with your words. His expression was filled with intrigue. “Wanna find out?” You peck his lips just once, retreating from him only for him to reign you back in, lips smothering yours with a sigh. Your hands firmly grasp his collar, allowing you to have some control over his movements. His lips move effortlessly over yours, so soft, so warm, a little fuzzy with stubble coming through but not enough to irritate your soft skin. He’s like a breath of fresh air and the most potent aroma all in one. He smells like he always does, but it’s different, it’s better. He smells kind of like you now, vanilla vodka from your own tongue masking his previous scent. You loved that he smelt like you.

“Gotta get outta here.” You try to separate yourself, eyeing the stairs with no subtlety. “Oh, I think it’s perfect here.” He says, eyes roaming around the room, to the couch in particular. “You want our first time to be in here?” Even though you each knew where you were headed, it felt so much more real now it was spoken into existence. You aren’t really sure why you’re questioning it. It was private, cosy, the sofa folded out into a bed if you really wanted to create a more stereotypical or romantic environment. Though you’d argue pretty fairy lights took care of most of those concerns. Either way, it wasn’t the worst location you’d ever had sex.

“Okay.” You breathe. His grin begins widening from ear to ear. “Okay?” He checks again a little nod accompanying it. “Yes, okay.” You roll your eyes. He kisses you, forcefully but not overpowering you, not that you’d mind, not hurting you, just showing you how content he was. How happy he was to be here with you. You hardly notice you’d been stepping backwards. Your feet taking you involuntarily until they hit the couch behind you, your knees bending, sitting you down while Michael stood there glancing down from between your split knees.

He looks down at you, the light behind his head resembling the halo of an angel which was remarkably ironic since he was no angel. The wicked smirk on his face had alerted you of that. There was no more nervous little Michael pathetically in love with his best friend. It still existed deep within him but not close enough for his reach anymore. This was a man starved of touch. He was drunk on the sight of you. Drunk on the scent of you and the very thought/ image of what you’d look like for the rest of the night. “Pictured this moment so many times.” He says, shrugging off his jacket, letting it drop clumsily onto the coffee table. “You being underneath me more than I can count.”

You were taken back. You’d thought of him just as vividly as he’d thought of you. You weren’t taken back because you were grossed out or shocked by his admission in any manner. You were taken back because you wanted to hear more about how he’d imagined you. “How do you picture it?” You breathe steady. Your control astounds you. His lip twitches in amusement waiting for you to clarify. He knew what you meant; he just needed you to say it.

“When you think of me.” Your hand strokes over the couch cushions on either side of your thighs. “When I’m underneath you,” you pause to capture his eyes before proceeding. “How do you picture me?” He bends over, leaning down to capture your face in his hand. Just two fingers bringing your chin upwards. “You’re wearing a lot less for a start.” He finds it easy to slip into his typical role of dominance. He strokes over your cheek and continues his retelling. “You still look at me the same.” You linger on his every word. “Heart eyes, curiosity, maybe even a little bit of fear.” He releases your face from his hands. “Think we can take care of the first part?”

He stands upright, eyeing you with no attempt to remove an item of clothing off of himself. His eyes were attempting to undress you, but you knew eventually you’d have to do it yourself. You remain seated, leaning over to take off your shoes first. Your eyes just watch his own shoes, no tapping, no nerves at all. He always fidgeted when he was nervous. You let your eyes float up to look at him, his head tilts, no words spoken. You feel the weight of his impatient stare and work faster to remove the rest of your clothing. You unbutton your jeans with a speedy efficiency. You momentarily lift your hips to drag them the rest of the way down your legs and this time you do notice a breath hitching in his throat. He wasn’t as cool as he’d lead you to believe.

He crouches down, squatting before you to throw your jeans across the room. He watched you like he’d never seen you before. Like he was an alien creature learning everything he needed to know all at once. He watched you with a curiosity that made you squeeze your thighs together. He wasn’t your Michael anymore. He’d shifted and you think you liked it. “No, no, don’t be shy princess.” His hand rests on your knee, a static shock gripping you. He’s captivated by you, clothed and unclothed. You wonder what he means, whether you needed to take off more. You go to take off your shirt before he takes your hands. “Open your legs sweetheart, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He guides your hands to your thighs, depositing them and removing his touch once more to lean back and watch the show. You’d waited too long to be shy and timid now. You spread your legs, the click of your hips letting you know when to stop. His fingers flew to your core. Your lips parting drastically fast. “Not even dripping for me.” He drags his finger over your clothed slit. “You make me wait this long and you aren’t even wet for me.” You feel guilty. You must be. You’d felt so damp, so needy. You felt a coolness washing over the wet spot in your underwear the moment your legs were spread. He had to be toying with you.

“I’d think twice before you argue with me.” There was gravel in his tone. He doesn’t even look at your face, too busy hooking a finger into your underwear, slipping it to the side to get a better look at you. He drops to his knees, no longer squatting, you’re not sure if he’s getting comfortable or succumbing to his urges. “You’ve been hiding this pretty little pussy from me.” His finger slides through your wetness, collecting it before bringing it to your lips. You eye it sceptically. “Go on.” He nods, finger remaining in place. His eyes follow your lips. Your turn to impress. You lean over mouth opening wide your tongue poking out to lick over it. Your eyes meet his and you see his serious expression wavering. “Tastes good?“ He asks, eyes becoming less harsh and more loving. “Think I should get a taste?” You ponder it, the possibilities, you wanted to, wanted his tongue but you ached for more.

“We don’t have to go any further.” His character broke, a softness in his tone, your Michael returning. “Want to, really want to.” You slip out. “Promise?” You smile. “Gotta have you.” He smiles back. “Oh yeah?“ You nod and he’s like a kid in a toy store. He works to pull his shirt off over his head. You reach for bis belt buckle as he stands, making quick work of undoing it before tugging his jeans down over his thick thighs with a struggle. Your mouth begins to water when his pulsing cock reaches eye level. Your hands go to stroke him, he pushed his hips involuntarily into your hand. You know you shouldn’t indulge, you’d be punished for it greatly, but it was right there. It was needy for you, hot to touch, dripping. His tip was just begging for it.

“Please.” You whimper. “Please what.” He tries not to drop dead at the vision of you struggling to close your pretty mouth at the thought of him taking it. “This how you want me?” He asks. “Don’t want me to take your sweet little pussy?” You heavily debate it. You wanted him anywhere you could have him. “Can’t decide?” He strokes your cheek sympathetically as you struggle. “Quick taste.” He grants you. You nearly squeak with excitement. You gently pull his boxers down, cock falling out, thick and heavy. You let his underwear stretch over his thighs, too eager to lick him to remove them completely.

You kitten lick across his length, and he growls. “Don’t tease me.” His cock twitches when your hand wraps around it. He sighs loudly as you drag it over his length. “Yes, just like that.” You feel encouraged by his praise, grateful for the guidance and encouragement. You’d always worked harder with a little praise, in every aspect of life. He guessed that. That even in this state you’d do just about anything for a gold star.

His own hand meets yours, taking over. “Open your mouth.” You do as you’re told, lips parting, his cock rubbing over your bottom lip back and forth before you stretch out your tongue to taste more. “Good girl.” You whine at the name, sparking excitement and a shudder from him. “Like being called that?” You nod, hips shuffling on the edge of your seat. “Open wide.”

You expect him to edge himself in, taking his time as you stretch your lips around him. “Gonna be a good girl and let me stuff your mouth?” You can’t do anything but whimper, he pushes deeper, cock reaching the back of your throat. There isn’t room for you to make another sound. He has to force himself to take a breath in respite. You’re so warm, so tight. You were always pretty but with his cock down your throat, your pretty eyes looking up at him like he was some kind of god in need of worship, it sent him fucking feral and he needed you choking, he had to know what it would be like. He pulled out before pushing back in, further than before, his dick twitching when you gag involuntarily, throat convulsing.

“Too much? Dick too much.” You throw yourself forward, nose hitting his pelvis, his cock slipping deeper, bending into the crevice of your throat. It takes all of your strength not to gag again and completely reject him. He soon saw to that. His hand pushes your head to stay in place. You’d often wondered what he’d do in a scenario like this, head pushing was never one of your predictions, you were pleased that you were wrong. You grip his thighs, nails biting into them. It wasn’t too much. It was a lot, but it was good, he needed this, needed your throat to fill. You had to do this, for him. Always for him.

“Shit, wanna remember this forever.” Your glance up spaced out to see his phone hovering above your head, snapping a shot of himself balls deep in your mouth, spit dripping from the corners of your lips. “So, fucking pretty.” He released his hand from your head, letting you retract away, a line of saliva stringing between you and his cock. You gasp for as much air as possible before he speaks. “Wanna lie down?” You shake your head, and he fights a laugh. “No?” You shake again, unable to speak eloquently after the bruising to your oesophagus. His hand lifts your chin. You look quite pathetic down there. You knees apart, cheeks red, hair messy, mascara running, a slice of heaven for his eyes only.

“You have something else in mind?“ You nod. He decides to take it easy on you, your throat took a beating for him, where he’d usually be bothered by lack of verbal communication, he could afford to let it slip this time, only for you. “Show me.” He commands. You lift from your knees without a shred of support. You take yourself over to the couch, kneeling down, hands bracing the back cushions, your back arching, ass lifting into the air. He laughs with excitement. “From behind huh.” He lurches forward, hands smacking your cheek before rubbing soothingly over the stinging flesh. “Look so hot right now.” His other hand joins him in kneading your skin. “Need these panties off honey.”

He lets you remove them yourself, slipping out of your position to make it happen before returning. You assume he’d removed the remainder of his own clothing before he slots himself behind you. He leans over your back, kissing sweetly over your spine. You feel so safe with him, so excited too. “Tell me you want me inside you.” He breathes across your ear, hand traveling down, fingers tracing your spine, dropping further to your ass, down further still, cupping your cunt in his hand, sending your hips to grind over his fingers. “Tell me you need me.” He whispers hotly. Your head is so fuzzy, so much happening and all at once. “Say it.” He pushes again. “Tell me you need me inside you.” He rubs his cock over your ass, before slipping it between your legs, thrusting inward, rubbing across your cunt, you were almost in tears. “Tell me how you want your best friend to fuck you.”

You grip the couch. “Need you so much.” You choke. He hits your ass. “Try harder.” You moan. “Need you inside me. Need you to stretch me.” He hits again, even if you’d done better this time it wasn’t quite enough. This was years in the making, he had to make it worth it, wanted to replay your sounds before bed every night as if they were his favourite song. He’d put enough thought into it after all. “I ache for you Michael.” You sound as if you’re about to cry. He only feels a smidge of guilt. “Always wanted you, always needed you. You have to. Please I need you to.” He strokes over your back, rubbing circles in as you get worked up. You don’t know why it hit you like that, tears, actual tears. You sniffle, holding them back. “Are you crying?“ He’s not mocking you, he actually enjoyed hearing it, you so caught up, hungry for his body that you’re crying without it.

Maybe he was a monster for enjoying it. He’d hated you crying until this moment. It was always heart wrenching to see you break over things out of your control. This though, this was different. This was you on the brink of collapse. Your cunt clenching thin air, ass wiggling, nails pinned into the cushion to support you as you lost all composure. You were so cock hungry for Michael Clifford that you were choking back sobs. He’d be a fool to deny you.

He pushes the tip of his cock into your pussy. You let out a gasp of excitement and gratitude for his pity he took on you. He tries his hardest to keep his tough facade, the one that wants you ruined, staining this couch, screaming the place down. You squeezed him so tight. You were undeniably wet, a cavern of an inviting warmth and solitude. He had to admire you, taking him so well, not a sound peaking from your lips. “Such a good girl for me.” His hands slide over your hips tugging them back over him. His cock pushes right into you, no room left to move. He feels constricted so trapped.

He’s burning inside you, pushing you to your limit, causing a deep ache in your abdomen. “So much babe.” He wiggles his hips, you let a sob slip out. “Too much?” He rubs circles into your hips. You nod profusely. You were so disappointed in yourself. You thought you’d be perfect for him. You thought he’d fit you like a puzzle piece. You thought he was made for you. There was a fatal flaw in his design, and it hurt you to think about. You’d never be enough. He was too big.

“You can take it.” He pushes forward, a yelp releasing from you. “Driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls back and you breathe heavy, relieved that his intrusion had ended. He never intended to hurt you, he wanted to test your limits sure but not hurt you, you deserved better than that, even if it would have been fun for him to push. “Gonna fuck you really good.” He rocks his hips, pelvis bumping into your rear end, skin hitting skin, wetness crudely squelching.

He was so nice inside you. He wasn’t too thick, his length made up for that. You liked him inside you. You always wondered what it would feel like. Wondered if it would be awkward, fucking someone you’d known so well. You knew you wouldn’t be his first, knew he’d racked up some experience along the way and you certainly understood why. His authority and his precision. His thrusts were methodological, they were planned, had a rhythm to them that only a musician could mimic. This was his own routine.

“Feels so nice.” You strangle out a moan. His cock twitches at the sound of your voice. He grunts to cover it, pissed off that he couldn’t keep to his dominant exterior. Part of him wanted to fuck you slow, enjoy the time with you, give you the love you’d always deserved. The rest of him wanted to pound you, yank on your hair, leave you bruised inside and out. He couldn’t pick. “Want it hard.” You speak. He wonders if he spoke aloud instead of inside his head. “Harder baby please.” He had to; you’d begged him.

His hands grabs fists full of your ass. He makes you ride his dick, your hips pulling back over him, he slowed his own, he wanted to watch you bounce, watch you take control. “Fuck yourself on my dick.” You do it immediately. You shift on your knees, leaning you back against his chest. He slips his arms around your waist. His lips kiss your shoulder before he takes a brutal bite sending your pussy fluttering around him. “You like it when I bite you.” You sigh helplessly, your hips rocking back, taking him as you want him, dick hitting you where you need him. He bites you again and this time you cry out. “That’s it baby.” He licks over the fresh wound. “Scream my name would you?“

You couldn’t focus on anything but the burning sensation between your legs. His cock was filling you; you’d stretched to accommodate him, and you’d felt him in the fiery pits of your pleasure. It should have been enough to make you cum. Why wasn’t it enough? He surprises you. “Not enough for you, hmm, my cock not doing enough for my greedy girl.” You hated to admit it. “Trying so hard. So hard.” He laughs gently. “I know angel, squeezing so hard, using my cock. You just want more. I can give you more.” Your mind races to possess solutions. All pausing when a wet digit circles your other hole. Your pussy clenched in reaction.

“Oh. I see.” He’s amused. It’s as if every wish he’d ever made was being granted by your bodies acceptance of him. He could do anything to you, and you would take it. “You’ve been wanting me here this whole time.” His thumb dips inside and your hips push back into his hand. You’d never seen yourself trying this, but with him, anything, you’d give him any part of you. “Oh my god.” You tighten over his cock, and he almost finishes. He removes the thumb, circling again before pushing inside. You clamp down he’s losing vision. “Such a filthy slut, needing both holes filled.” You are in a state of utter bliss. This was all you’d ever wanted. You were transported, not even in the room but floating somewhere in the clouds.

You’d never felt so full. Your pussy was drenching his cock so badly you were surprised he hadn’t slipped out. His thumb pumping in and out of your ass had sent your stomach twisting, your butterflies swarming. You loved it. It felt so different to anything you’d tried before. It was an awakening, an entirely new pathway to explore.

You were on the cusp of your orgasm the more he played with you. He knew it too. He decided to switch his thumb for his index finger. He pushed it in, feeling his pulse through it as you squeezed. He then inserted another finger. “Oh god.” You screamed. “You’re doing so well baby.” He pumps his fingers in and out with a speed matching his hips. “So, fucking full.” You can barely grip the couch; you didn’t have the energy. You were like a rag doll, and he had full control over your body.

“I’m gonna cum, gonna cum so fucking hard.” You were seeing stars, so lightheaded you could drop at any moment. You’re shocked as it hurtles towards you. Its more intense than anything you’d ever felt before. “Gonna cum on my cock?” You cry. “Yes, yes, please.” He’s giddied with excitement, giddy with pride. This was it, the greatest moment of his life, he was going to make you cum for him. “Fuck, fuck.” Your walls constrict, trembling. “Oh my god, Michael, Michael.” You desperately try to grip something. His spare hand grips yours, fingers lacing together with your own as you tighten a fist.

“Fuck baby, cum for me, give it to me.” His lips peck at your shoulders, he’s trying so hard not to cum himself. You cumming hard, gripping him like that, it was too much. He had to hold his breath, clutch your hand as hard as you’d held his. “I’m cumming fuck I’m, shit baby I’m gonna, do I pull out?” You want him inside you, want his cum leaking out of you. You really want it, but you weren’t protected. “Gonna pull out.” You cry when he leaves you. “I know baby, I fucking know.” He’d have to get you on the pill first thing tomorrow morning.

You take it upon yourself to turn around, facing him, mouth dropping to his cock without hesitation. “Mouth, quick, give it to me.” You wrap your lips around him, batting his hands away. He goes to cover his own mouth. His cock twitches, veins bulging, cum shooting onto your tongue, coating it with a warm, thick liquid. “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” He bites his hand to suppress his vocalisations. You let his cum trickle down your throat, licking up whatever you couldn’t quite catch. His hands brush your hair from your face, his hips still rocking into your mouth, giving the last drops of his orgasm. “You’re fucking amazing.”

He drops to his knees before you, pulling you into his lap while he sits on the ground. You wrap your arms around his neck, head touching his. His arms lock around your back as he kisses you, tongue collecting his own juices from yours. Even though he’d just been inside you, he would never feel close enough. Your sweat drenched bodies could not keep him away from you.

He tastes himself with an erotic satisfaction. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” He pecks. “You know that?” You shake your head. “Gonna show you, every day, every god damn day how pretty you are.” He kisses once more; he’s obsessed with kissing you, needs it like water. “Can’t get enough of you.” His one hand cups your cheek. “Think I’m in fucking love with you or something.” You snort a laugh. “Thought we were friends.” You play. He’s grateful to hear your voice. To see you recharging, gaining energy.

“Best friends baby. Don’t stick my dick in normal friends.” Your laugh is angelic to him. “Didn’t feel very platonic when you screamed my name anyway.” If that were anything to go by, he’d have fucked half the world. “You never made me take me my shirt off.” He didn’t expect those to be your next words. “Is that a problem?” You shook your head, not completely satisfied with his response. “Why?” He rolls his eyes, even when you’re latching onto him, butt naked, in his lap, you still manage to bother him with inquiries. It was so uniquely you.

“Why do you think?” He’d be intrigued to know. “You’re not a boob guy.” He laughs this time. “Not, not true.” You peck his lip affectionately. “I like you in green.” Your heart stops. He likes you in green. Green. He likes you in green. What the fuck does that mean? He helps you out, dying as he watched you figuring out what he meant. “When I first met you do you remember what you were wearing?” You stared at him as if he’d spoken another language before closing your eyes and thinking back to it. It was jeans and a top, your favourite top at the time. It had frogs on it, you remembered how he laughed about them because they were poorly illustrated.

“Ask me my favourite colour.” You’d not even answered his last question, now he wanted you to move to the next. He just smiles at your confusion, your eyes opening, clearly irritated by the games he was insisting you played. “Go ahead, ask me.” He leans back on his hands; you still sit comfortably in his lap. “What’s your favourite colour?“ He grins. “Green.” You furrow your brow. “But I thought it was red or black.” He almost always wore those two. He shakes his head. “Ask me why.” He continues. “Why green?” You obey. “Because it’s your favourite. Because you look pretty in it. Because you wore it the day we met.” Green frogs, they were green frogs! “Do you love me in green or just love me?” You’re so quiet as you ask.

You feel a wave of intense emotion flooding your shores. He doesn’t answer verbally but somehow you felt like he had. “Seriously?” His grin was so wide, you don’t think you’d ever seen him this happy before. He thought he was so clever too. “Feel like I always have, you must know that right?” You really, honestly, just didn’t. All this time you’d wasted wanting him to notice you, see you as something more than a friend, someone to confide in and yet, all this time he’d done nothing but notice you. Down to the details on your shirt, the cleanliness of your converse and number of freckles dotted over your cheeks, he had noticed you, you’d just been too blind or stupid to see it.

“Jeez, I have to make some calls.” He pushes his forehead against yours. “Oh yeah, right now?” You nod. “Mmhmm, gotta cancel all my dates.” He snorts. “What you gonna tell em?” His thumb begins to trace swirls across your hips. “Something bout a drunk hook up at this killer party thrown for another girl.” He groans. “Please, shut the fuck up.” He cringes almost dropping to lie on his back, bringing you down with him. “Maybe I’ll also add that the guy who wanted to throw said party, was actually in love with someone else the whole time, you know add some drama, some suspense.” He’s cursing your name, he deserved the torture sure, that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“But at the end of the day it was okay because I actually felt the same this entire time and still kinda do.” You didn’t even panic as you said it, it just felt like it needed to be said. That didn’t stop him from panicking, however. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” His outburst makes you laugh. He was more shocked than you were. His pupils blown out, lips twitching into a toothy grin. He was so flustered you wondered if you should worry for his wellbeing. But then he’s wrapping his arms around you, squishing your body close, so close you’re not even sure where he ends, and you begin. “Mindy’s gonna be so mad.” He wants you to shut up, needs you to. He kisses you hard but unfortunately for him, not enough to rob you of your next sentence. “Eh, she’ll live.”

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