Archive of Our Own

Will has always loved Mike’s hands.

Like the rest of him, they’re long - his fingers especially. Too many times, Will has found himself distracted by the sight of an entire soda can seeming to disappear in one of those hands. Will knows those hands, he knows the shape and angles of them - the rectangle of the palm, the web of tissue between the base of the fingers, the half-ovals of his nails, the knobs of the knuckles, the delicate pull of a tendon standing out in his wrist when he flexes a certain way. The barely-there dusting of hairs across the backs. The pink blush of fingertips, distinct from the freckled cream tones of palm and wrist, touched by a tan in the summer months. That one specific freckle just at the base of his thumb. Will’s sketchbooks are frequented by likenesses of Mike’s hands, his fingers.

It doesn’t help that he knows what those fingers can do.

But Will doesn’t just love Mike’s hands because they happen to be very skilled at getting him off. No, he loved them far before that. Before any of that. And he still does, simply by merit of their being part of Mike.

Mike. The pacifist leader. Kind and empathetic and brilliant. Self-appointed guardian to anyone who seems to be in trouble, whether they actually want help or not. Loud and brash and attention-seeking to the point of obnoxiousness, occasionally. Unironically earnest in a way that raises eyebrows, sometimes, from the people who don’t know him; authenticity is a rare commodity nowadays, when cynicism and apathy rule supreme. Some people hear Mike’s frank, impassioned tones and assume he’s joking, or that he’s playing it up to tease.

A little pale, a little gawky. Not everyone would call him handsome. Some people would say his mouth is too wide, his nose is too big, the planes of his cheeks a little strange. And, well, they’d be wrong. Because Mike has been attractive since he was a peaked, clumsy little thing in sixth grade, with big, dark eyes and a mop of dark hair and a squat and dramatically tapered face. Even then Will used to look at him like he hung the moon. Mike’s face wasn’t squashed or amphibious in Will’s eyes, it was striking, doe-like, princely.

He grew into his features. Jaw filling out a little to balance the sharp tapering of his cheeks, cheekbones finally seeming to fit the rest of his face, shoulders broadening to match his stature - though he never quite grew into his limbs. He still moves through a space like he’s seconds from crashing into something, skidding and striding, all loose limbs and big gestures.

Michael Wheeler.

Will’s best friend since kindergarten.

His boyfriend.

They’re cuddled up on the couch, their couch, idly watching TV. It’s the end of the day - a long day during which they barely saw each other, both busy with their own affairs - and for the past ten minutes or so, Will has been absentmindedly playing with his partner’s hands.

He layers his hand on top of Mike’s, palm-to-back, and slowly flutters his own fingers. One at a time, a rising and falling motion like the rolling of waves, gently forcing Mike’s fingers down in turn.

Mike doesn’t even seem to notice. Will has been fidgeting with their hands since the beginning of this episode of Next Generation. It’s a weird one. Several members of the crew were turned into child versions of themselves by a teleporter accident. The plot is entertaining, but not especially compelling, and Will’s mind has been wandering. Beside him, Mike laughs and mutters little exclamations at the screen. He always gets so invested in shows and movies. Will has always found it endearing - until he starts talking through the whole movie, at which point it’s time for a pillow-to-the-face reminder to shut it.

Of course, that usually just causes even more distraction, because Mike usually fires back and then it’s Pillow Fight O’Clock.

Now, the scene ends on a dramatic note, and the commercial break begins. Will expects Mike to get up for a drink or something, but he just pushes back on the couch and snuggles a little harder against Will, head lolling onto Will’s shoulder as Will strokes his thumbs along the backs of Mike’s hands.

With commercials now running, Will turns his attention entirely to Mike’s hands in his.

They’re warm, almost hot, but not sweaty. There was a time, years ago, when they made each other nervous. When they were trying to negotiate this thing, feel it out, both unsure if the other really meant it. And in the years before. Will remembers all too well those years of watching quietly from a distance, for a long time unaware of what his quickening pulse meant. The worst years were the ones after he realized, after he knew what it meant, about him, about him and Mike, but before he was allowed to get that close. When they were too old to hold hands like children anymore and too young to have confidence enough in themselves to do it anyway, those were the hard years.

When they were both still following those old rules, don’t hold hands with another guy, don’t hug another guy for too long, don’t cry, especially not in front of another guy, don’t be vulnerable, and especially don’t ever glance at another guy’s lips, what are you, gay?

Will turns at the thought, nudging Mike’s face up and brushing a light kiss over his mouth, ignoring the stretch in his neck at the awkward angle, and Mike twists to chase his lips.

“Hmm,” Mike hums, appreciative, and Will settles back into place and goes back to playing with his hands.

That’s all it is, at first. Just playing, fidgeting, absentminded. Passing time while the commercials roll.

He skims one finger around the shape of Mike’s left hand, tracing each of his fingers, then turns his hand over and traces his palm lines. 

He begins massaging Mike’s palms, both of them, digging a thumb into the center of each, rubbing in circles, feeling the shift and pull of bone, sinews, tissue, tendons within. Mike makes a pleased little sound - he’s been writing an awful lot lately, school stuff and personal projects, and his right hand cramps up sometimes - and Will takes that as his cue to continue, pausing there to work at all four corners of his palm, rolling his wrists back and forth to loosen them, then moving to the fleshy joint of the thumbs, each knuckle, each fingertip. Mike’s hands were warm to begin with, but they’re even more so now, the blood flowing strong and close to the skin thanks to Will’s ministrations, nerves awakened.

Mike has gone kind of limp-heavy, breathing long, deep breaths out against Will’s neck where his face is nestled in the crook of his shoulder, arms loose all the way up to his shoulders as he lets Will manipulate them. He must be enjoying this. Like a mini-massage.

Something shifts when Will flips his hands under Mike’s, palm-side-up, and gently starts scratching the sensitive palm and fingers with his own fingernails. Moving in patterns, all the way down and then back again, scratching gentle rhythms into the skin that’s chock-full of nerve endings until Mike’s shoulders hitch up, his neck craning back as he laughs and squirms, the hair on his arms rising with goosebumps.

Will looks at him, curious.

Mike is more sensitive to this than he thought.

Like... really sensitive.

And, immediately, because Will is ultimately a wicked creature, he thinks, Maybe I could do something with this.

The plan appears in his mind nearly fully-formed, solidified as he shifts and drags his nails up Mike’s wrists this time, watching him shiver. 

“Agh,” Mike complains, with no real objection behind his tone. His wrist twists in Will’s loose grip. “That tickles, stop it.”

But he doesn’t pull away, and he relaxes once again against Will’s shoulder as Will traces his nails up and down the delicate skin of Mike’s inner forearm, like they’re ten years old on the school bus again, on their way back from a field trip.

His mind is made up.

Will is going to turn Mike on as much as he can before he ever gets around to touching his dick.

“You know,” he ventures, trying to decide how to broach this. “I love your fingers.”

Mike being Mike - also a wicked creature, though far better than Will, Will would argue, not as dark, not as scarred - he picks up immediate innuendo in this. His eyes open partway, one brow arching up at Will with an impish little smile.

“Oh?” he lilts.

Understanding passes between them, unspoken but understood. Will’s veiled proposition (Wanna play? ) and Mike’s answering tone, curious but not eager, not yet (Tell me more.) .

“Mm-hmm.” 

Will’s handling of Mike’s hands becomes harder, more intentional, as he grips them like he’s anchoring Mike in place, and Mike squeezes back. 

“I love how big they are, for one thing. I mean, look at this shit.” 

He lines the base of his palm up with Mike’s, measuring them against each other, demonstrating how his own fingertips barely reach the third knuckle of Mike’s. 

“Sturdy,” he says appreciatively, pushing against Mike’s palm a little as if to demonstrate. “They never shake.”

Will’s hands always shake.

“Unless I had a lot of caffeine,” Mike interjects. 

He’s trying to do that thing again, that thing where he finds a way to pick apart or entirely dodge Will’s compliments. He’s so rarely able to say thank you, or even just accept it as true. There’s always some exception, some explanation or rejection.

The new haircut looks good on you.

Only because the stylist did it up with gel and everything afterwards. The second I shower it’ll be gone.

That was a great toast you gave at Nancy’s dinner.

I stole most of the structure from a book, honestly, I didn’t come up with it.

I love your eyes.

You’re biased. They’re boring.

That was nice of you to help out.

Anyone would have. I just happened to be there.

You’re looking good today.

Oh, I have a meeting. Figured I should at least make an attempt at looking professional.

But not today. Not this time. Will has been wearing him down, slowly but surely, working over years to force compliments onto him until he gives up trying to rebuke them. At least he’s better now than he was some years ago. Near the beginning of college he would deny or counter them; now he mostly side-steps, finding a way to ricochet the praise off onto something else - his clothes or the situation or the lighting or another person.

Not today.

But Will knows he’ll have to work through those layers before he gets Mike to that place. He’ll have to peel back the shrouds of ingrained hesitance and warped self image and old hurts, burrowing underneath his armor, cutting straight through his defenses to get underneath, to a place where Mike won’t shut him out.

Which means he’ll have to provide a suitable distraction. Something else for Mike to focus on, to draw his attention away from trying to reject what Will is saying.

The challenge will be saying all this. Not because he doesn’t mean it or because there’s a shortage of positive remarks to shower Mike with, quite the opposite. But Will has never been good with his words. That’s Mike’s wheelhouse. Mike is the one who can stand up and deliver an unrehearsed speech that perfectly encapsulates what he’s trying to articulate, elegantly and in a memorable fashion. It’s wizardry, as far as Will is concerned. Will can barely order food at a restaurant without fucking it up.

But he’ll try. He may be awkward and stiff about it, but he’ll try. For Mike.

It helps that it’s Mike. Mike knows how Will communicates. He’ll get it, he’ll understand, even if Will trips over his words or gets his tongue tied in knots.

“Everyone’s hands shake when they’re hyped up on caffeine,” he soothes, then switches tracks before Mike can argue. “And I love how...” 

He licks his lips, letting his affection for this man bubble up to the surface, letting it guide him and draw his attention to the things he appreciates. Mike may be the better speaker, but Will has a leg up on him in another area: artistry. What parts of Mike does Will notice? What about him does Will muse over in quiet moments alone - or apart? What does he wish he could draw, capture, preserve? What about Mike does he love, apart from everything?

“I love how gentle they are. Like - like the other day. El’s new kitten.”

Mike smiles at the recollection. The kitten was energetic, nearly bouncy, fuzzy, orange, and small enough for Mike to cup in one hand like a particularly loud, demanding grapefruit. Everyone got a good laugh out of it. Mike walked away bemoaning the no-pets rules in the student apartments. Will found himself saying, Well, maybe when we move, despite knowing he’s probably allergic to some degree.

“It was so sweet, watching you playing with her.”

“She was so little,” Mike half-laughs, the smile breaking through again at the memory of the Party gathered around El’s bed in her shitty shared apartment, cooing and laughing over the little ball of mischief. 

“And you were so gentle.” Will fans out Mike’s fingers and goes back to tracing them. “You’re always so gentle.”

Mike’s head ducks, bashful - but pleased, Will can tell by the little smile that’s sticking around despite the red tinge of his cheeks, and he goes on. Tracing over the features as he lists them, drawing Mike’s hands up to drop the occasional kiss on his skin.

He points out Mike’s freckles, the callous on the back of his right ring finger where he braces his pen when he writes, the callouses on the very tips of his fingers from guitar strings. How his fingertips are often smudged with ink, how Will can smell herbs and spices on his hands after he’s been cooking, how sometimes paint or glue sticks in the crescent of his nail beds after he’s been working on D&D miniatures, how his hands are so often warm where Will’s are so often cold.

And as the list goes on and Mike seems to accept - or, possibly dismiss - this as just Will being an incurable romantic, rolling his eyes with a grin, Will darts his tongue out to taste the remnants of salt-sweat on Mike’s fingertips.

Mike barely has time to tilt his head questioningly before Will grips his wrist and drags his tongue from base to tip of Mike’s first two fingers. Slowly. Not just because he wants to draw it out, make Mike feel everything, but because he wants to give him time to pull away. He wraps his lips around Mike’s fingertips, engulfing them, and flickers his tongue against the soft pads in an imitation of something much more intimate, eyes lifting to scan Mike’s.

Wanna play? he asks again with his eyes, and this time Mike lets out a wobbly little breath and succumbs to the gentle pressure on his wrist, letting Will guide his fingers further into his mouth, running his tongue along the sensitive undersides and watching as Mike doesn’t break eye contact. 

Yeah.

One can’t really suck and smile at once, so Will suppresses his little smirk of victory and focuses instead on bobbing over Mike’s fingers a couple times, exerting as much suction as he can with hollowed cheeks. 

He very much has Mike’s attention now.

Next, obviously, is Mike’s face.

The episode is starting back up, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind the interruption too much - especially when Will pulls off his fingers, leaving them slick and damp, and swings a leg up and over Mike’s, settling in his lap in a fluid and practiced motion. Mike’s other hand comes to the small of Will’s back to steady him, bracing him, his face tilted back a little to look up into Will’s eyes.

He goes for a kiss, and Will lets him, but he pulls gently away when Mike tries to escalate to making out. He has other plans right now, and they require a pace much slower than that.

Mike pouts a little at the tiny rejection, but quickly settles into the embrace when Will sinks against him and starts tracing his features like he did with his fingers. Cheeks, nose, lips, brows - a light and probably ticklish drag of pressure, mapping out the face Will knows as well as his own, and Mike closes his eyes with a sigh. Will takes the opportunity to brush a kiss over each eyelid.

Mike’s eyes flutter open as Will leans back, and Will rests his elbows on Mike’s shoulders.

“Hey, handsome.”

That’s the last straw, and Mike tries to twist away, face reddening, giving a hoarse little laugh - “Lo-ove!”

A complaint, but a soft one, soft and flustered, and Will won’t let him escape. He slides his palms up Mike’s jaw on either side and settles them firmly just under his ears, fingers digging into hair, keeping him from turning away. Holding him still so Will can admire him properly. 

“What?”

Mike mumbles something half-assed, eyes still drifting somewhere off behind Will on the floor, and Will uses his leverage to turn his face up again.

“What?”

“You know I don’t like -” Mike makes a vague gesture with the hand not bracing Will, first swishing it over his own face and down his body, indicating the whole of himself. “You know. How I look.”

A cold, heavy wash of sadness douses him, and for a moment he just sits there, perched in his boyfriend’s lap with his legs parted over Mike’s hips, cradling his face in his hands, Next Generation continuing to play behind him though neither of them are paying attention anymore. 

Oh, love, he thinks, I know.

And with that, he’s determined. Mission Get Mike Horny Without Touching His Dick has now been updated to Mission Get Mike Horny Without Touching His Dick and Praise The Shit Out Of Him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says softly, because it’s what he believes, and Mike shakes his head with a little scoff.

“No. Sweet of you, babe, but I’m -”

Will meant to save the hair pulling for later, but he’s tangling his fingers in a fistful of it before he can think and pulling Mike’s head back, cutting him off - not quite yanking, not yet, but sending a firm message - Who do you think is in charge here?

He uses this new leverage to dip his lips down to Mike’s ear, voice coming out a little husky as he says, “Should I make you believe me?”

Mike shivers.

Because Will knows - they both know - that as much as Mike may pretend to hate this, as much as he cringes and complains at Will’s “flatteries” in the light of day, secretly he loves this. Craves it.

Deserves it, in Will’s humble opinion.

And Will is more than happy to provide.

“For instance,” he starts, shifting to settle his knees and legs more comfortably and sliding one hand over to stroke a thumb over Mike’s bottom lip. “Your lips.” Once again he envies Mike’s ease with the spoken word. What is he supposed to say? They’re pretty cool? “They’re beautifully... shaped,” he ends up saying, falling back on his artists’ lexicon. “And they blush this deeper red when you’ve been eating or drinking or talking a lot.”

Mike licks a playful stripe over Will’s thumb and he retaliates by swiping the wet thumb over Mike’s nose, which makes Mike screw up his face and wiggle his nose like a bunny, displeased. 

It may have been another attempt at distraction or derailment, but Will lets it slide.

“Or when you’ve been kissing me,” Will adds, torso angling down again from where he’d been hovering over Mike, and Mike lifts up to meet him for the kiss. Still a little hesitant, the slightest bit uneasy, not sure where Will is going with this. But he’s getting drawn in. He’s intrigued. Tempted. And if Will can ride that wave of curiosity long enough to get Mike to relax, he’s golden.

Mike’s tongue dips past Will’s lips and Will opens to him, just floating in the marrow-deep human satisfaction of touch and lust and connection.  One hand is still keeping a tight grip in Mike’s hair, but he can tell it doesn’t hurt - he knows by the pitch of Mike’s slight whimper, the suppleness of his neck, his posture, that Mike isn’t in pain. He uses that grip to tilt Mike’s head the right way, taking that little bit of control, and lets Mike lick into his mouth with a hungry little nuzzle. He presses up against Will, hand sliding from his back to his waist.

Will kisses him until he’s panting, enough to hopefully distract him, and then breaks away a little breathless himself.

“Teeth too,” he pants, and this time when Mike looks at him those dark eyes are open, curious, less guarded. “They’ve always been really straight and even. I dunno how you got through middle school with no braces and still have teeth this nice.”

“You did,” Mike points out.

“Mine are kinda crooked though.”

Mike scoffs. “Barely.”

Will hooks a thumb between his lips and touches Mike’s left incisor, the one that’s just a little longer than the other. When he smiles a certain way, only those front two teeth show. He considers saying, You really are like a bunny, but decides to file that away for another day.

“And your skin,” he says instead, withdrawing to resume stroking his fingertips down Mike’s cheeks, over his brows, across his jaw, both hands at once. “You have lovely coloring. Pale with that dark hair, and that mouth and expressive eyes... You look like you should be in a baroque painting lit by oil lamp. You’re striking.”

Mike makes a sound in his throat, some little noise of ambivalence, but at least it wasn’t a scoff this time.

“And I love your freckles.” Will is smiling through the words, and he flutters his fingers over the apples of Mike’s cheeks, imitating the rainfall-sprinkling of sun-marks there. “I love your freckles. They’re adorable.”

For the past few moments Mike’s eyes have drifted closed, a pink flush high in his cheeks and reddening his ears and neck. Clearly this is affecting him. His blood is flowing close to the surface, heartbeat picking up where Will can feel Mike’s flanks pressed between his thighs. But now Mike frowns a little, probably thinking of the battles he wages with blemishes, and Will moves on quickly.

“I mean, just your whole facial structure. Top-tier. Trust me, I’m an expert. I’ve seen a lot of faces. I’ve drawn a lot of faces. I know what I’m talking about.”

He meant to draw out a laugh with that one, but Mike makes a face, eyes opening. 

“Kermit,” Mike mutters with a quirk of lips, referring to the teasing he received in middle school - Hey, Frogface!

And Will gathers a fistful of thick, dark hair and pulls, a true yank this time, tugging Mike’s head back so his throat is exposed and making him hiss a quick breath in, quietly but sharply saying, “No. Not allowed. You’re not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” 

His expression turns contentious, so Will tugs again and clamps his thighs down around Mike’s hips, getting rougher, crowding him back against the couch. “Understood?”

Mike looks a little uncomfortable now. He’s broken eye contact, and Will eases up. Holding his breath, preparing to go into aftercare mode if Mike safewords out. Maybe this is too much for him, too close to home. Too sensitive and deep-rooted to approach head-on like this. But thankfully they have ice cream in the freezer and some favorite reruns recorded on tape, ready to go, and Will knows how to talk and cuddle Mike down from the teetering edge of discomfort. 

But to Will’s mild surprise - and much to his delight - Mike takes a deep breath, lets it go, unwinds again, and whispers, “Understood,” to Will’s sternum.

Something bursts in Will’s chest, quietly, rippling through him without a whisper. He’s filled with a surge of golden feeling, speeding his pulse, pounding hard and potent in his veins, glutting his neurons and suffusing his being - he loves this man. God, fuck, he loves this man. The degree to which Mike trusts him is staggering. This is a big thing for Mike, something raw and sensitive, sore, easily inflamed and irritated. But he trusts Will to hold it in his hands, work around it, work with it without pushing too hard or hurting him, and Will is more honored by that than Mike likely knows.

He lets go, pressing a kiss to Mike’s bowed forehead as an apology, and rubs at his scalp to help ease the leftover ache. Mike pushes into the touch with a sigh, so Will keeps it up, scrubbing his fingertips lightly across his scalp from front to back and side-to-side, thoroughly disheveling his hair.

And as he does, he talks.

“You know what else I love?”

He’s too far gone already to manage more than a, “Hmm?”

“Your eyes. Look at me.”

Mike obeys, a twinge of nervousness in those dark wells, but unflinching, unblinking.

“God, I love your eyes. I’ve always thought dark eyes were just stunning... Of course, yours are the best.”

The eyes in question flicker down, but bounce up again quickly when he remembers Will’s order.

“They’re like pools, they’re bottomless. It’s like looking up into space. And then the light hits them and they’re this incredible deep warm brown, it’s amazing.” He puts a little more pressure into the head rub, making Mike’s eyelids fall to half-mast again, savoring the barely-there noise Mike makes, and breathes, “You’re amazing.”

Mike’s ribs jump with a hard, automatic, shuddering breath, and his shoulders curl forward a second later, sheepish about his obvious reaction. He gives a self-conscious little laugh and Will bends to kiss his cheek, then shifts focus away from his face, to something Mike is less insecure about. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him too much. Not yet.

He continues his ministrations, massaging Mike’s scalp and running his fingers through his hair, playing with it, occasionally giving one section a soft tug. Scratching his nails across the skin when he gets bored of that. 

“You have the best hair. I love the texture. No matter what you do with it -” He won’t mention Mike’s questionable style choices over the years, not now - “It’s always so pretty. I’ve never met anyone else with hair quite like yours. Not wavy, not curly... just perfect. Dark and full.”

He cards his hands through the waves, pulling it back from Mike’s face, then ruins all his efforts again by circling his nails along the curve of Mike’s skull.

Mike is shifting and biting his lip like he does when he’s trying not to make any noise. Trying not to moan. His inhibitions are still in effect, keeping him from letting go entirely, keeping him from showing he’s enjoying this too much.

He holds out until Will bends, hands still in his hair, and begins mouthing down his long, pale throat. When he first strikes, latching on only briefly before dragging damp lips further down, Mike finally makes a rough, ragged sound deep in his chest. And when Will tightens his grip, making sure to spread the pressure evenly so no one piece of hair is yanked too sharply, Mike gives up the ghost and moans.

Will lets out a hard breath of his own, panting against Mike’s neck. Fuck. He was hard long before this, simply at the idea of what he’s going to do to this boy, but if he hadn’t been before he certainly would be now. A fresh wave of lust slams through him, hearing that moan, low and gravelly and masculine. Raw. Not a practiced sound, not something he did on purpose. It was a noise dragged out of him, instinctive and unconscious. Proof-positive that his love is enjoying himself.

Will kisses his way across Mike’s throat, affection and adoration running thick in his blood.

Mike likes having his hair pulled.

Mike has always liked having his hair pulled. 

Although, that may possibly be Will’s fault. No one else ever really did it to him - not even Nancy. When they were little kids, Will would tug on Mike's hair in a kind of mean-playful way - not mean like cruel, just mean the way little kids are mean before they learn how to treat each other. And that continued. Even though it felt childish, silly in a way. Will still found himself pulling on Mike's hair when they were well into middle school. It was something no one else did to Mike. Not the Party, not his family, no one. It was like an inside joke, Will thought. It was just their thing.

Now he realizes that the gesture was probably at least part jealousy. One step shy of possessiveness. A claim. No matter how many girls Mike stared at in the hallways, no matter how many girls stared at him, they didn’t have that. It was immature and juvenile, the little burst of satisfaction Will would get every time he caught a handful of dark locks and pulled. 

Now he can look back and recognize the spiteful little voice in the back of his mind that whispered, Mine. 

When Will was feeling particularly cheeky or bold, or when Mike was particularly obnoxious, Will would still reach over and tug on his hair like they were five.

The start of high school came and went, and still he hadn’t given it up - although they both seemed to have an unspoken agreement: only where no one can see. Because now it felt too childish to do where anyone could observe, embarrassing almost. But it was habit, by then, deeply ingrained. Their own strange little ritual.

And that’s how Will figured out that Mike had a hair pulling kink before they were actually dating.

Sometime in the summer between sophomore and junior year, Will grabbed at Mike’s hair in a more unusual moment. They were play fighting, all grabbing hands and sharp knees, sprawled on the grass out back of the Byers’ house, and Will was trying to gain an advantage.

He did.

Mike gave a strangled little gasp and Will sat up immediately, giving a sympathy-hiss of his own, apologizing. 

It took until a few minutes later, thinking back on the shade of Mike’s cheeks and the way he drew his knees up to his chest afterwards as if to conceal something, for Will to realize he hadn’t been hurt. 

He liked it.

Will carried the knowledge like a talisman for months. Nearly a year. It provided some fresh new content for the spank bank - but he never thought he’d actually get to use it.

But then, for the second time in Will’s life, the impossible happened. And this time, it was good. This time, it landed him on the Wheeler’s basement floor with the boy he had always loved, been in love with for nearly as long, swallowing each other’s gasps as hands slowly, hesitantly pushed underneath clothes, memories of hot-blooded confessions at the end of a screaming match still fresh in both their minds. 

That was the first time Will dug his hands up into Mike’s hair and grasped and tugged, softly, rhythmically, with the express purpose of feeling his hips stutter against Will’s thigh.

And this, here, now, won’t be the last.

Will smugly takes note of Mike’s breathing growing shallower, more rapid, his pulse ticking against his skin. When Will gives a sharp little tug, grasping a good fistful of hair at once so it doesn’t sting, just aches, just enough, a thick little gasp bursts from Mike’s lips, and Will grins like the Cheshire cat at the unmistakable bulge at the front of his sweats. Jeans or slacks may have hidden it, but sweatpants are loose and lenient, and Will can make out the clear shape of it already.

But he won’t be touching. Not yet. He intends to make Mike beg for that.

It doesn’t take much convincing to get Mike to turn his head to the side, giving Will optimal access to drag his tongue down the shell of Mike’s ear. His teeth dig minutely into the lobe, making Mike’s breath catch.

Mike has gone quiet for the past minute or so. Better check in, get him talking.

Will speaks against the shell of his ear.

“Is it okay if I just take care of you tonight?” 

If possible, Mike turns an even deeper shade of red, giving a little laugh like he’s surprised - he’s always surprised by gestures like these, though he really shouldn’t be, not by now - and says, “Oh. Um. Okay.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Will straightens his head and kisses the tip of his nose. 

“Okay.” 

He knows their safeword if he gets uncomfortable with anything, but Will wanted to ask anyway. Mike slides a hand up into Will’s hair, messying it in turn, and kisses him, and Will presses into that soft, reassuring warmth with a contented little moan. His partner. His love. His best friend, his favorite person in the world. His Mike. 

Mine, he thinks, nipping at Mike’s lower lip and then dabbing the tip of his tongue against Mike’s, heart beating madly. Mine, mine, mine. And I’m yours.

Surely, Mike expected the pace to pick up when Will said that. At least, if his little squirming motions are anything to judge by, he certainly seems to expect something specific. His hips tilt forward, trying to grind against the front of Will’s pants, and Will stays resolutely just too far. His hands go to Will’s shirt, but Will pushes them away.

“Nope. Not me. You. This is about you.”

Mike’s whine of complaint is quickly lost when Will returns to lavishing attention on the column of his neck, kissing down the length of it as Mike lets his head fall obligingly back. Sucking hickeys into the side just under his ear, then another a little further down, near his shoulder, biting in there to the firm muscle and sinews in the junction between neck and shoulder until Mike sighs and arches his back, hips lifting off the couch once more, trying once more to press against Will - but Will sways up on his knees this time, moving out of reach entirely, and Mike gives a confused little groan.

“You’re so good for me.” He’s not entirely sure where that came from, but it seems to do the trick, so Will goes on. “You’re so good. Caring and intelligent and -” Kiss. “So passionate about what you care about and -” Kiss. “Gentle and funny and brilliant. You light up any space you’re in. You try to do what’s right even when it won’t benefit you and -”

“Will...”

“What? I’m right. Here, move.”

He presses a final kiss over the red spot on Mike’s neck before moving, twisting and falling onto the couch cushions beside his boyfriend. He pats his thighs expectantly, waiting with his head cocked, and it only takes a second for Mike to figure it out. 

At first he starts crawling into Will’s like Will was in his, face-to-face, but Will pushes him around until Mike’s back is to him.

For a moment, he just rests there. He loves this, loves holding Mike like this, despite being a little shorter and a little smaller in frame. He loves Mike’s weight settled over him, the warmth of him, his scent - but more than that, Will just loves being able to hold Mike like this, safe and secure in his arms, squeezing him in a seated hug.

Will presses his chest to Mike’s back, palms pressed over Mike’s heart, breathing slow and quiet so he can concentrate on feeling his partner’s heartbeat. Mike relaxes back against him and tries to shift to a more comfortable position for them both, maybe thinking they’re just going to watch TV now, but Will pushes him forward a little and murmurs, “I wanna get your neck.”

He talks as he works, lauding the curve of Mike’s neck, his shoulders - which Mike dislikes, calling himself scrawny. Which is not entirely accurate. Lanky might be a more precise descriptor. He’s not bulky by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s not anywhere near scrawny - not spindly and rawboned like Will was when he was little, barely filling out his already-worn and oversized hand-me-downs. Mike is awkward and gangly, his long limbs the main perpetrators for his six-foot stature, hands and feet seeming too big for the rest of him, and he wouldn’t touch a team sport with a ten foot pole. But he has a sort of steadiness about him, a sturdiness, and Will tells him so. His torso is long and narrow, ribs smoothed over by a comfortable layer of padding, belly pale and back dotted with freckles. 

Will coaxes Mike’s shirt off to see them better.

He has so many freckles. Sprinkled like stars in an unpolluted sky over his arms and legs and back, thick over his shoulders. There are the freckles on his cheeks, too, although you wouldn’t know it until you got very close, or knew him very well. Those are small and pale, a light caramel that blends in with the pale blush of his skin in most lights.

“I love your freckles.”

“You said that already,” Mike half-whispers, shivering a little, bare-chested in the living room. 

Will has been as devious as he can manage, using every trick in the book, and Mike is having a hard time of it. He’s been growing more and more needy, more and more impatient. Will squeezes his hips and strokes his sides and slides his hands down to rub over the outsides of his thighs, venturing teasingly close before retreating, teasing Mike’s earlobe between his teeth, nosing at his pulse point, scratching his fingers lightly down his spine, around to his stomach, up his ribs again. Mike has been all but wriggling in Will’s lap, breathing hard, head dropping back occasionally as he’s overcome with sensation. Every bit of him oversensitized, every touch magnified.

“I love all your freckles,” Will amends.

“Will, please.”

He almost gives in. His dick is chafing inside his pants, constrained as it is, and that one little phrase makes him go light-headed all at once as blood rushes south and want tightens and glows in his lower belly, the base of his spine, screaming at him to yank Mike back and rut against him, in him. He wants to shove down those soft, heather-gray sweats and push a lubed finger into Mike’s impossibly tight heat, he wants to finger him hard and rough until he’s writing, he wants to jerk Mike off with the other hand and hear his clipped groans of pleasure, he wants to push Mike face-down onto the couch and fuck him like that, he wants Mike shaking and helpless with bliss, choking out Will’s name over and over again, pushing his hips up to match him beat-for-beat.

Instead he breathes deep, keeping careful control of himself.

He’ll get to that. He will.

He better, if he doesn’t want to come in his jeans like a fumbling, inexperienced teen.

But he has a mission first, and he’ll take the time to carry it out.

Mike has other ideas. He tilts back, taking the opportunity to grind down. Will’s hard-on has been going strong for far too long already, desperate for any kind of stimulation, and with Mike now settled on Will’s lap, he can tell. 

Admittedly, it works for a few moments. A pleased little “Mmm” hums behind Will’s molars and he loops his arms up and under Mike’s, grasping the front of his shoulders to pull him down harder against his lap. Rolling his hips, forgetting his mission for a moment as he enjoys the long, slow pulses of warm pleasure that accompany their unhurried rhythm.

Mike becomes more eager in his motions, swiveling his hips back more firmly, movements harder and messier, taking one of Will’s hands in his own and trying to guide it down to the front of his sweatpants - 

And Will remembers what they’re doing and pushes at Mike instead, this time succeeding in pressing him sideways and down, encouraging him to swing his legs up on the couch and lie on his stomach. Mike sends him a disappointed little glance, but does it. He settles, gazing steadily at Will over his shoulder with a what are you up to? look. 

Will bends over him to kiss his neck. “I told you I was gonna take care of you.”

As he intended, that raises goosebumps.

But then of course he slips back into goofiness, dork that he is, by running his palms across Mike’s skin and saying, “This back? An excellent back.”

Mike snorts.

“One of the best backs I’ve seen. Hands down.”

“How ‘bout hands down the pants?” Mike mumbles, starting to wriggle again as if grinding subtly into the cushions, and Will staunchly ignores that.

But he doesn’t last for very long.

Will meant to drag this out, make it last as long as he could, but he’s starting to lose patience himself. He sticks to his guns just long enough to start in on a massage, moving from Mike’s shoulders to his upper back and lower, but then he can’t help himself. Before he knows it his fingers are sliding under the waistband of Mike’s sweats. Just an inch or so, and then back up, up, up, putting pressure on muscles that have tightened. Will wishes for massage oil - maybe they have some somewhere? But he feels like he won’t be needing it for long before they need a different kind of slick substance. Up, up to his shoulders, his neck, working at the knots there until Mike goes limp.

And then down again. Running his hand all the way down Mike’s back this time, all the way past the two dimples near the base of his spine, under the waistband of his boxers, curving a hand around the curve of his ass, squeezing.

Mike gives a small jolt. It’s an old trick, but a reliable one. Since they were teens, all Will had to do to get Mike in the mood was reach down while they were making out and squeeze his ass. Massaging, maybe, kneading, appreciating the shape and malleability, pulling Mike against him by that grip and squeezing again. Instant boner, guaranteed. 

As always, it works like a charm. 

Mike’s muscles seize up like he’s being shocked as he begins to squirm against the cushions in earnest, breathing, “Oh, you fucker,” into the pillow beneath him, twitching against the ticklish pressure.

And that’s the point where Will’s patience runs out.

He starts moving faster, rolling Mike over onto his back and laving his tongue over his collar bones, murmuring, “I love your coloring,” against his skin. Lips dragging downwards, scooting himself backwards right before briefly drawing Mike’s right nipple into his mouth, tongue flitting over the hardening bud, making Mike gasp and grab onto Will’s head as if for balance. Mike’s gasps and sighs are coming thick and fast now, his voice emerging now and again in a whine or groan. His whole body shifts and tosses; it’s actually a bit of a challenge for Will to remain perched over him.

“Love painting you,” he says as he moves, descending this time on the other side, thumb coming up to press gentle circles over the now-damp nipple while his lips wrap around the second, making Mike’s head roll back and forth restlessly and his back arch off the cushions. 

“You’re so pretty. All pinks and creams and black-browns. And that bone structure? You’re any artist’s wet dream, honestly. God, I’m lucky.” 

Mike has turned his face to the side again, hiding it in the too-firm throw pillow, trying to hide from the praise, but his hands are tugging on Will’s skull. Will obliges, letting himself be pulled down again and dragging the flat of his tongue over a nipple before latching on and giving a hard suck, making Mike release a rough noise from his throat. 

“Mmfuck, Will - god, just - could you just - keep doing that?” 

Will swirls his tongue around the pebbled skin before lifting once more, making eye contact just long enough to half-whisper, “Wouldn’t you rather I put my mouth to use somewhere else?” 

A hard breath jets from Mike’s nose, his eyes lidded and glossed over with lust and pleasure, and his voice shakes a little as he says, “Please.” 

But instead, Will moves to the other again and spends just as much time there, this time slipping a mercy-thigh between Mike’s legs, letting him thrust up against Will’s hip as he pants and twitches and murmurs.

Mike has curled a leg over Will’s, intertwining them, keeping him there as he pumps his hips up against Will’s warm weight, and Will has to disentangle himself to slide off the couch. 

Mike grasps at his shirt, a vague interrogative humming in his throat, and Will comes back down to kiss him before straightening.

“Stay here, I’ll be back. And don’t you dare touch yourself.”

Mike gives an incredulous sputter, but Will is already gone, adjusting his pants as he power-walks to their bedroom. He’d run if he didn’t have a steel-hard erection rubbing against his underwear in all the wrong ways.

It takes him probably fifteen seconds to grab the lube - and one other thing - and make it back, and in that time, Mike has already taken the liberty of ridding himself of his pants.

Reclining on the couch now in boxers and nothing else, he blinks innocently up at Will as he approaches.

“I see,” Will says as he reaches the couch. “Impatient, are we?” 

But he can’t even be mad, not when Mike sits up and immediately reaches for his belt, tugging it loose when Will can’t find it in him to complain, biting at Will’s side through his shirt as he wrestles Will’s jeans down without fully unzipping them. Sloppy with haste, palming him through his underwear before stripping that away too, and Will doesn’t even have a chance to step out of his jeans and kick them away before Mike is darting down and taking him in his mouth.

Will tosses his supplies onto the couch without aiming, only needing to get his hands on his boyfriend as quickly as possible. Mike dips down as far as he can, squeezing his hand around the base where he can’t reach, and Will has to brace his hands on Mike’s shoulders for a moment as his strength lapses. He hadn’t realized just how pent-up he is. Mike’s tongue slides up the underside of his dick, where he can almost certainly feel Will’s heartbeat in the vein there, and then laps over the head with slow precision, and Will breathes, “Fuck -”

He’s crawling off the couch now, onto his knees in front of Will, and Will knows he shouldn’t allow this for long but for now he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

Mike makes a muffled noise of appreciation and begins bobbing, tightening his lips around the shaft and hollowing his cheeks, and pleasure swells hot and rich. Panging, sweet-tart, in the inner muscles of his thighs and his belly and the base of his spine.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, speaking without meaning to, mumbling through the haze. “Holy fuck, you feel so good. D- hah. Do that again. A-ah, god - ” 

At least he can still try to play up the praise angle. His hands stroke through Mike’s already-crazy hair and down the back of his neck, and Mike dedicates himself from licking one long, hot-slick path from base to tip before sinking once more.

Mike lifts up slowly, with a hard pull of suction on the head that leaves Will’s shoulders hiking up and his head craning back. He’s probably making a ridiculous face as pleasure sinks deep roots into his belly, curling and gripping, and then Mike is rapidfire flickering his tongue over his slit and he needs to stop this, before Mike brings him to completion here and now. 

“Godstop,” he bursts out in a truncated gasp, and Mike backs off immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Will is panting again, catching his breath like he was just running. “But. It would be a shame if I came without getting to fuck you into oblivion first.”

Mike snorts, eyes popping wide for a split second before he turns aside with a grin, laughing into his wrist. When he looks back, he still looks like he’s holding his breath to hold in a bubble of laughter, but his eyes are shining.

Will reaches for his hands and pulls him to his feet. “Sound good?”

The breath jets out between Mike’s lips, and then he nods, eyes still shining and lips red from sucking Will off, a glossy trail of spit wet on his chin, cheeks dark, hair a mess. “Sounds great.”

He kisses Will, letting him taste the salt-sour precome on his tongue, and Will takes advantage of the moment to reach down and squeeze his ass.

Mike gives a very undignified squeak, and when he pulls away to glare playfully, Will hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the boxers. 

“You have no idea how fucking sexy you look right now,” he says, and starts working Mike’s boxers to the ground, sinking to his own knees as he does so, giving the head of his dick an obligatory kitten-lick on the way. “Get on your hands and knees on the couch.”

He works Mike open as he doubles down on praise. Babbling, gushing, whatever comes to mind, telling Mike how beautiful and fucking hot he looks on his knees and elbows like that, how loved he is, how important he is, how attractive, how wonderful and kind and creative and funny and good he is, and Mike is finally lost deep enough that he doesn’t have the capacity to rebuff it. He just moans, his weight collapsing down onto his elbows where they’re braced on the arm of the couch, his head braced on his forearms in turn, cock slapping up against his stomach with the careful push-pull of first one finger, then two, then three. And the whole time that he’s doing this, this mind-bogglingly intimate and vulnerable thing, Will’s heart is pounding away like a piston inside his chest.

It’s sweltering in this shirt. Somehow, despite their apartment being consistently freezing, he feels like he’s melting under the thin fabric. His skin is oversensitized and glowing with heat. He wants it off, but he likes the idea of keeping it on more - he likes the image of remaining partially dressed while Mike is nude.

He curls his fingers down, seeking out the walnut-sized bundle of nerves that he knows must be begging for attention by now. Mike jerks and shudders when he finds it, straining back against Will’s hand, half-formed words dropping from his lips as Will presses and strokes it. His shoulders drop towards the couch, hips tilting up and back, and Will has to breathe through his teeth to get through another painful burst of arousal.

Soon, he tells himself.

But first Mike needs to be prepared. Well prepared. Will doesn’t want an ounce of discomfort to accompany their lovemaking.

He retrieves the dildo from where it fell onto the floor sometime in the past few minutes - a slender and un-intimidating number, perfect for building up to the real thing - and holds it where Mike can see it. 

“I’m gonna fuck you with this while I jerk you off. Okay?”

Mike gives a hoarse groan at that, then rocks his face back down onto his arms and scoots his knees back into a more comfortable pose. “Yes please.”

Will coaxes him up, onto his knees where he can face the back of the couch, giving Will space to work on both fronts. Mike's movements are fumbling, eyes a little unfocused, drunk on submission, and Will curls around him for a moment to nuzzle his cheek and stroke his side. Reassuring. Reminding. I got you. You’re okay. I’m gonna take care of you.

Mike nuzzles back, secure and unworried, mouthing blindly at Will’s jaw with closed eyes. Will cracks open the lube.

Will talks about Mike’s arms as he gently and gradually works the toy into him. 

The shape of them, that subtle curve of muscle, how they look in rolled-up sleeves, the fine hairs that run up the backs, how they feel when they’re wrapped around him. The dildo sinks an inch into the narrow passage, slips easily back out. An inch and a half on the next unhurried push, and back, and then two, then three, and he can feel Mike letting go of the last shreds of inner tension, he can feel when the lingering tightness fades from Mike’s walls and he melts against the couch, his breath changing in depth and speed as he begins to push back.

He talks about Mike’s legs as he slathers his hand in silky-soft, oddly-cherry-flavored lube and begins a torturously slow rhythm, tugging at his cock as he lets Mike adjust to the inflexible presence within him. He lets Mike unwind, lets him relax, that tight ring of muscle clenching and winking around the flared base of the toy as Will watches with his heart in his throat. And he pumps his fist at a pace that couldn’t finish him in a million years, keeping him wound up, keeping him horny and charged with pleasure as he starts working the toy ever-so-gently in and out. Full strokes now - full, slow strokes, and Mike is very quickly getting frustrated, but Will won’t be giving him any more. Not quite yet. This is just to prep him, to give him an opportunity to let go and relax, stretching him, letting him enjoy as much pleasure as Will can give for as long as he can. And Will would be lying if he said he didn’t get off on Mike’s increasing neediness, too.

It’s a challenge. Keeping up a steady pace with both hands at once, each hand doing something different. It takes him a few minutes to get a good rhythm going, and even then, he has to focus to avoid missing a beat and getting himself mixed up.

Mike looks totally fucked-out - a glimmer of sweat on his forehead and the tips of his pink cheekbones, a high flush coloring his neck and chest, his hair on end, eyes dark, mouth open to breathe hard, stomach tensing and bowing as his hips push up into the hand on his dick and then swivel back against the toy steadily fucking his ass.

“Have I covered your ass yet?” he says, casually, as if none of this was happening.

Mike makes a guttural sound as Will pushes the toy into him with a little more force, then quirks an eyebrow up in amusement. “With what?”

It’s a calculated risk, slapping Mike’s ass - especially with the dildo currently buried within him - but Will takes it. It’s not a hard slap. More playful than anything. But it’s enough to make a noise, possibly enough to sting for a second, and Mike makes a sound best described as pornagraphic.

Conveniently, the next step is to rub away the stinging, which Will was going to do anyway. He leaves the toy immobile for a moment, giving one last squeeze at the base of Mike’s dick before stopping that too, and devotes his attention to the two round, pale curves of flesh in front of him. He stands to get a better angle, cupping each cheek in a palm in a way that makes Mike growl in his chest.

And there Will stops for a second. Just admiring. The end of the toy protruding between the cheeks makes the whole thing feel filthy, and Will can’t resist tapping on it, just to see if it’ll get a reaction. It does. Mike jumps at the unexpected sensation, then shifts his hips around with a desperate little groan.

“I s-swear to god, Will,” he says, and only then does Will realize Mike is shaking just enough to make his teeth chatter. “Are you gonna fuck me or what?”

“What,” Will says placidly, smirking at the frustrated grunt he gives.

“I could go on and on about your ass,” he continues. He’s back to gripping, kneading, pulling the globes gently apart to better admire how Mike is clenching around the toy, enjoying the feeling of fullness but desperate for more. “Perfect size, perfect shape... Just right to fit in my hands.”

And it is. Mike might not have the greatest ass of all time, but it’s just right for Will to grab, and there’s one inexplicable freckle on the left cheek - how’d sunlight get there? - and it’s fleshy and soft and apparently very sensitive. Perfectly suited for Will’s intentions.

He grips the toy again and begins a shallow push-pull, not moving all the way in or out, but thrusting just hard enough to trigger all Mike’s instincts to react, to pulse back. Mike gives a soft “mmph” and starts melting again.

Can he kneel on the couch behind Mike if he straddles Mike’s legs like so? Yes - he gets himself situated, one hand working rather awkwardly in the narrow space between their bodies, but this allows him to whisper right into Mike’s ear.

“Don’t think I forgot this, though.”

More lube, clumsy and one-handed - they’re gonna have to wash these cushion covers - and then he’s drawing a tight fist down the length of the shaft again, mixing fresh lube with the coating that’s gone slightly tacky, wetting it again, pumping. Slow again - it wouldn’t do to get Mike off now, after all this buildup - but tight and firm, and he manages to sync up both hands in such a way that has Mike sagging against him. There are strands of Will’s hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks with sweat, and goddamn he doesn’t think he’s ever blue-ballsed himself so hard, but he is so close. As long as he manages not to come the second he’s inside Mike, he’ll be fine - although that will be a harder contest than he was banking on.

“Do I even need to say that I love your dick?” 

Mike manages a hoarse pop of laughter.

“I mean, long, curved - people order that out of magazines. I get it for free.”

Another little laugh, this one airier. Mike is nearing the end of his rope, Will knows - and, frankly, so is he. This particular part of Mike is best appreciated up-close, and he fully intended to, but in this moment he feels like if he doesn’t get inside of his boyfriend right fucking now he’ll simply implode.

“Would you like me to suck you off first,” he says, short of breath and praying Mike will read his mind, “or fuck you now?” 

The response is weak but immediate. “Fuck me. Please, Will, please fuck me.”

Part of him was hoping to make Mike beg for it, but he does not have the patience for that anymore. Maybe next time.

He slips the dildo out as quickly and smoothly as he can, dropping it on the carpet - that’s probably fine - and pulls the gasping Mike off the couch, stumbling together to the nearest clear wall and helping him brace his forearms and elbows against it before finally, finally lining up and pressing in.

It was going to be a slow thing. Gradual. But Mike was so well prepared from the toy, and Will was so eager, that he ended up sheathing himself entirely. And from there it’s a steep slope. A moan escapes him as he finds himself gripped tightly by slippery-slick walls, smooth as butter and hot as flame, and it takes everything he has not to start pounding away then and there. His hips twitch, judder, and then drive forward into a steady wave of motion. He keeps it shallow, he keeps the angle consistent; fucking against a wall like this, back-to-front, is the best way Will has found to hit Mike’s prostate with every thrust. 

And, if Mike’s keening is anything to go by, he is.

It doesn’t take long for Mike to build towards the peak.

Or, rather, the first peak.

Will knows Mike. He knows him pretty damn well. He knows what it looks like when Mike is just a few moments from orgasm. Well enough that he can tell exactly when to ease off just when Mike is nearing the crest. Slowing to a measured, steady beat again, and then building up once more - only to wind down just before Mike can break through that wall.

And he’s motivated enough to keep up his stamina through two, three, four almosts, until Mike is desperate and nearly crying with need, swearing and shoving back against Will’s cock, begging him to just let me come already, just please please fuck me, Will please please please.

After the fourth time, Mike tries to grab his own dick to get himself off. Will is too quick. He knew that was coming. He snatches both of Mike’s wrists away, pressing his palms flat against the wall in front of them and continuing his game, at a different angle this time. A harder, slower, pounding rhythm. He just listens to the music of his lover’s cries and lets himself float in the effortless white-noise instinct of fucking, his body taking over, giving in to the overwhelming urge to thrust, mindlessly humping, driving his hips into Mike’s with a loud slapping sound.

Mike’s body seizes again, his torso clamping down again, belly going taut and rigid as his toes curl - five - and Will eases back, slowing to a gentle, rolling grind, and Mike gives a sob of frustration.

“What do you want?” Mike finally says, sounding gravelly and broken, and Will blinks.

He hadn’t been expecting that. Honestly, he was just having fun torturing his lover in the most enjoyable way possible. But if that’s what Mike thinks this is -

“Say you’re handsome.”

Mike folds in on himself. “Ah, Will, no -”

But a no isn’t a safeword, and Will grips Mike’s hips to slam them back against him, jackhammering into him.

“Say you’re sexy too.”

He whines again, unhappy with this, but when Will slows abruptly to a hard grind once more, Mike’s head drops. 

“I...” He huffs out a breath, head shaking back and forth. “I’m... handsome, I guess.”

“No guesses.”

Mike goes quiet for a second and Will meshes their fingers together against the wall, offering comfort. He’ll finish him off anyway, but he wants to see if he’ll say it first. 

It’s another five or ten seconds before Mike’s hips swivel against Will’s and he says, almost imperceptibly, “Fine. I’m handsome.”

“And?”

Audible sigh. Will spikes into him a little harder, offering incentive, and Mike grunts before answering.

“And... I’m sexy.”

“Good boy.” 

Mike’s whole body gives a hard shake, like he’s full of adrenaline, and he whispers to the wall, “Please?”

Will nudges Mike’s head until he turns, twisting over his shoulder to accept Will’s kiss.

And then he says, “Okay.”

This time, Will takes Mike in hand himself. As before, he starts torturously slow, but builds swiftly to a hard and frantic rhythm. This pace would be unsustainable if they weren’t both so close already, but Mike is making those little sounds that mean he’s approaching the edge, and Will is fighting tooth and nail not to come yet, not yet, just a little bit longer. And just like that Mike is arching back, back, back, muscles all pulling taught as wires as he shudders with a thick and unrestrained moan, finally painting his chest and stomach and Will’s hand with pearlescent white. Will’s forehead drops onto the back of Mike’s head as he finally allows himself to crest that wave too, one leg shaking as he gives the last of a few final jagged thrusts and freezes in place, whole body coursing with the white-hot lightning strike of orgasmic bliss.

They stand together at the wall for what feels like forever, just panting through the aftershocks. Mike cringes when Will pulls away and come runs down his leg, and Will frowns.

“You okay, baby?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

He allows Will to wrap an arm around his waist, slinging an arm over Will’s shoulders in turn as they turn to hobble to the couch on shaky legs. 

“You want a shower?”

“Not yet.”

“You want a towel?”

“Yeah.” 

Will settles Mike on the couch, shaking out a blanket beforehand - probably should have done that to begin with, oops - and says, “Coming right up. Ice cream?”

Mike starts to respond, then coughs a little. He points to his throat. “And water?”

“Sure.”

Will ruffles Mike’s hair, pulls on his sweatpants - no way he’s wearing jeans right now - and goes to fetch the required items.

He smiles to himself as he goes about it. He knows there are few people Mike would trust enough to take care of him, to care for him without judging him for it or seeing him as lesser. No matter how many times it happens, it always makes Will emotional. Whether he’s on the receiving or the giving end. They take care of each other. Just like always.

It’s just one of the many things he loves about Mike.