Archive of Our Own

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Will does it on purpose.

Maybe it makes him a bad person or something, but he likes it when Mike gets mad. He likes it when Mike is so mad that he can’t hardly think straight, that he can’t hardly get a word out, that he’s shaking with rage. Will thinks that it’s hot, of course, when Mike looks absolutely murderous, but he also likes that he’s the one who gets to make Mike feel this way.

It’s downright intoxicating that Will Byers gets to bring Mike Wheeler, who suppresses his feelings like it’s his day job, to the brink of ruin in this way (and the sex is better too, sue him).

So it definitely is on purpose when Will, absentmindedly stirring his pasta sauce, says to Mike, “Someone asked for my number today. A guy in my printmaking class.” Mike says nothing from where he sits on his stool at the kitchen island, but it doesn’t matter. Will knows that his words have had their intended effect, knows by the way Mike’s pen stops scratching against his notebook, knows by the way the room suddenly feels warmer, knows by the way he can feel Mike’s gaze sear into the back of his head.

Will cocks his hip out, taking Mike’s silence as a sign to keep going, and continues talking while stirring his sauce. “He kinda looks like you, shorter though.” Not as hot, Will thinks, but doesn’t bother to say it. He’s not trying to soothe Mike’s wounds right now. He’s trying to tear them open. Stick a finger in them and press hard.

A timer on the microwave goes off. Will silences it and snags the pot of boiling noodles off of the stove before moving over to the sink to drain them into a colander. Will sets the pot to the other side of the sink and returns his attention back to lazily stirring his sauce instead of turning around to face Mike. He knows it’ll piss Mike off even more if Will doesn’t look at him, if Will acts like it’s no big deal. Mike stays silent, stewing in his palpable fury. Will chews on his cheek, pondering his next words. “I think his name is Carlton.”

He hears Mike’s pen drop to the island and knows that that, this other man’s name in Will’s mouth, has finally done the trick. Will almost feels relieved. It’s just that sometimes he has to work so hard for Mike to give him what he wants. But it’s okay, because Mike always gives him what he needs eventually.

Will moves back over to the sink and grabs the colander of cavatappi noodles, ready to dump them in his sauce when his waist is shoved forward. He gasps at the sting of his left hip colliding with the counter and loses his grip on the colander. The noodles fly everywhere, spilling into the sink and onto the floor.

Mike’s large hands seize Will, one latching onto the tenderness in Will’s left hip while the other wraps around him and grips onto his jaw. Will bites back a smile, doesn’t want to get into too much trouble yet. “Why’s he think he can talk to you?” Mike’s voice is rough, low and mean.

It’s hard to talk with Mike’s hand pressing into his jaw. Will’s words come out jumbled, slobber already leaking from the side of his mouth as he tries to explain himself. “Don’t know.” Will can already feel himself shrinking into that headspace he likes so much, the one where his only thoughts are whatever Mike feeds to him. It’s euphoric. “Don’t talk to him, don’t talk to anybody in that class.”

“Sure.” Mike scoffs. “Does it need to be like ceramics last semester? Do I need to drop you off and pick you up at the door again like a fucking preschooler?” Will shakes his head as best as he can, a whimper escaping from his lips. Mike grips his jaw tighter. “Speak.”

“N-no, Mike.” Yes, actually, Will wants to say. He liked it when Mike did that last semester, walking him to and from class like Will’s big, scary guard dog. Sometimes, if Will was lucky, Mike would wait in the hallway during his class, clutching some mass market paperback, spine cracked and curled in on itself. Even big, scary guard dogs have owners, Will would think as Mike stayed put for him.

Mike shifts his grip on Will’s jaw, pressing his index and middle fingers into Will’s mouth, holding his tongue down. Will’s eyes flutter shut, groaning. “Why shouldn’t I? Y’don’t want him to see me or something?”

“No,” Will tries to garble out. He knows it’s meaningless to try to talk, but he also knows that Mike expects an answer. He feels drool leaking from both sides of his mouth now, slowly trailing towards his neck. “S’not that. Don’t want to inconvenience you.” His words come out mangled and nonsensical. He’s not sure Mike even understood them.

Mike ignores him and releases his grip on Will’s hip to reach forward and unbutton his jeans. Will moans around Mike’s fingers and Mike presses them in deeper on instinct, nearly gagging him. “What’d you tell him?” Mike murmurs as he unzips Will’s jeans.

Will’s words come out even more mangled than before. It doesn’t really matter what he says anyway, Mike hears what he wants to hear. “Wasn’t interested.” His fingers push in deeper and Will holds back a retch, tears now spilling from his eyes.

“Pathetic.” Mike murmurs under his breath, mostly to himself. Will’s jeans and briefs are yanked down, leaving him exposed while Mike remains fully clothed. It’s humiliating and it’s exactly what Will was hoping for. “Not interested? That’s what you said?” Mike scoffs and pushes deeper into Will’s throat again. He can’t hold the retch back this time.

Will whines, head foggy now and past the point of attempting a response. He feels disgusting, drool dripping all over Mike’s hand and his own chin and neck. “You’re that desperate for attention that you can’t remember to tell people who you belong to? Is it that, baby? I’m not giving you enough attention?” Mike scoffs again and removes his fingers from Will’s mouth, pushing Will’s neck down until his cheek rests on the cool countertop.

And if Will wanted Mike to be gentle, he wouldn’t have brought up Carlton’s name. He knows what’s coming, but it’s still a shock when Mike brings a finger, still slick with Will’s own saliva, to Will’s entrance and slides it in faster than he might have if they were in bed together, faster than if Will hadn’t been going out of his way to press Mike’s buttons, faster than if Mike wasn’t so angry right now.

Will groans at the intrusion, uncomfortable but not unwanted. He thinks briefly that next time he should prep himself before he goes out of his way to piss Mike off. It might make Mike ever angrier to know that Will had planned for it. Will doesn’t have time to fully explore this thought before Mike is following a few lazy pumps of his index finger with the additional stretch of his middle finger. Will gasps and clenches down unwillingly, his body torn between too much! and not enough!

Mike’s pace is inconsiderate. Will can’t keep up with it, the way that Mike alternates between shallow thrusts and scissoring motions and deep curls of his fingers. Will’s a mess over it, leaking on the kitchen cabinets, and squirming as he whimpers out a pitiful mantra of please and Mike. Some part of Will registers that this is a punishment and he lets out a sob at this revelation, both frustrated and satisfied at the predicament that he put himself in.

That’s what makes it so addicting, knowing that Mike is going to give him something, but never quite what Will hopes for. He’s at Mike’s mercy, but only because Will put himself there. Will groans at a particularly well-aimed curl of Mike’s fingers. It makes Will feel powerful and small all at once. He wonders if Mike feels the same way.

Mike steals his fingers back from Will and Will whimpers at the loss. He feels his face heat up as Mike laughs behind him, cold and callous. Will thinks that he hears a soft desperate fall from Mike’s mouth, but he’s distracted by the clanking of Mike’s belt buckle and the unzipping of his jeans as Mike pulls himself out.

Mike holds his hand in front of Will’s mouth and his brain buffers. “C’mon,” Mike gives a smack to the cheek not pressed against the counter, his tone laced with annoyance. “Don’t be stupid. Spit.” Will eagerly nods and lifts his head up, swirling his tongue around his mouth and depositing what he can into Mike’s hand. Mike huffs and Will can practically hear his eye roll.

“M’sorry.” Will rushes out, sucking in his cheeks and desperately trying to give Mike more of what he’s asking for. Will spits again and whines in frustration. He knows that Mike is losing patience, but his mouth is so dry. He wasted all his moisture earlier by slobbering all over Mike’s fingers and leaking down his own chin and throat. He tries again, but it’s an exercise in futility. Mike takes his hand away from Will’s face and Will sighs in relief when he hears Mike spit. Mike is so good to him, Will thinks.

Will sniffles and lets himself relax into the countertop as he hears Mike slick himself up. A lazy, spaced-out smile spreads across Will’s face as he waits for Mike to press into him. Mike takes care of him so well, always gives Will what he wants. His eyes flutter shut.

And evidently that was the wrong move, smiling or closing his eyes or maybe both, because Mike sinks a hand into Will’s hair and yanks Will against his chest. Mike’s grip is relentless and it fucking hurts. “Why’re you so happy? You thinking about him?”

Will tries to muster up a no!, but cries out instead when Mike yanks Will by the hair again, pulling him until he’s standing in front of the stove. Will stumbles, tripping over his jeans at his ankles and reaches a hand out without thinking to try and catch himself. “Fuck.” Will gasps. Heat licks at his pinky as it momentarily connects with the forgotten sauce pot. He snatches his hand back from the stovetop, scrambling until he finds the handle on the oven door to steady himself.

Mike pays him no mind, finally releasing Will’s hair and dragging his hand down to grip the back of Will’s neck. He guides Will down until he’s arching against the stove, chest heaving, breathing in nothing but steam and slightly-burnt tomatoes and basil. Will struggles against Mike’s grasp, his self-preservation instincts screaming at him to get the fuck away from the heat, but Mike’s grip remains firm.

Mike pushes his tip against Will’s hole and Will hisses, body tense with stress despite Mike’s attempt at stretching him out earlier. Mike moves slowly, taking some semblance of pity on Will. Mike’s other hand splays across the small of Will’s back, keeping him flush against the oven door. “God, so dirty.” Will whines at Mike’s sharp laugh behind him. “Leaking all over the oven. This enough attention for you? This what you needed, huh? So you can stop being such a slut in class?”

“M-Mike. I wasn’t-I’m n-not-” Mike lands a slap on Will’s ass, cutting off his protests. Will bears down involuntarily and Mike groans, hips stuttering forward. He sets a steady, brutal pace from there, giving Will little time to adjust. Will wants to scream, maybe he does, because it’s so good and so rough and he’s so full and so surrounded by Mike. He hears Mike spit again and lets out a sob when he feels a glob of saliva slide down his crack.

“Mike,” Mike lands another slap on his ass and Will jerks forward, whimpering. “S’hot. Too hot, Mike, g-gonna hurt.”

“Okay,” Mike shoots back, unconcerned, hips snapping forward. “So don’t touch it.”

Will turns into a babbling mess at Mike’s pace, hand gripping the oven door, back rigid, trying to keep his upper body from connecting with any part of the stove. Mike’s nonchalance is maddening. Will is freaking the fuck out and his boyfriend just doesn’t care, hand pressing harder against his neck with every thrust, keeping Will’s just above the pot of sauce.

The steam is suffocating and Will finds himself taking big, gasping breaths, fat tears falling from his face and into the pasta sauce. His arms ache from holding himself up and he’s sweating so bad. It’s fucking miserable and Will very nearly regrets saying anything about Carlton. He feels like Mike is doing it on purpose, missing that spot inside Will that makes him feel so good. Will whines, some pathetic combination of please and need it falling from his mouth.

It’s too much and not enough all at once, but then Mike makes it all better, just like he always does for Will. He slides his hand from the small of Will’s back and wraps it around his waist, fingers grasping loosely around Will’s cock. “Apologize to me.”

“Oh,” Will hiccups through a sob. “S-sorry, Mike, m’so sorry, please.” Mike just hums, hips still snapping forward, fingers still loose. “Won’t even look at him again. Oh, Mike, please, I promise.”

Mike hums again. “Drop the class.” He shifts his hips and suddenly Mike is hitting that spot in Will that turns off his brain.

Will lets out a whine. He falters and drops his head, hissing when his forehead connects with the edge of the pot. Mike huffs behind him, annoyed, and moves his hand back up from Will’s neck to grip into his hair again. He pulls Will’s head back and Will takes a shuddering breath, grateful to be pulled away from the tomato-basil scented steam. Moisture sticks to his face and Will feels hot all over. He gasps when Mike tightens his fingers, squeezing Will’s cock before loosening his grasp again.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t-” He sniffles again. “Fuck, don’t know what you said, Mike.”

“You get so dumb for me, don’t you? Just can’t help it, huh?” Mike lets out a dry laugh and starts to finally move his hand, slow and unsatisfactory, but better than nothing. Will whines and nods as best he can with Mike’s fingers still gripped in his hair. “Say it, baby, tell me how stupid you are.” Will is vaguely aware that his pasta sauce is burning now, a stale scent filling the air as he parrots Mike’s words back to him.

Mike rewards him and starts to move his hand in tandem with his thrusts. Will’s head falls back further and Mike’s grip relents, letting Will move flush against Mike’s back. “Wanna come for me? My stupid slut.” Mike murmurs in Will’s ear. “Tell me you’ll drop the class and I’ll let you come.”

“Mike, no, I c-an’t.” Will drops his head against Mike’s shoulder. “Already paid.” Will wonders if Mike can even understand him through his whimpers and sobs. He feels hazy and exhausted.

“Yeah,” Mike coos, swiping his thumb over the head of Will’s cock. “You’ll figure it out, sweetheart. You’re gonna drop it, okay?” Will groans. It’s too overwhelming. He can’t think and he just wants to come so he nods into Mike’s neck. It’s a problem for later. Mike accepts this and makes a contented noise, restarting his ministrations.

Will is wound so fucking tight. He feels like he’s about to explode. Then Mike is murmuring, “Y’can come now, Will. Let me see it, baby.” And Will does explode, letting out a sound that will probably get them a noise complaint, finishing on Mike’s hand and the stove.

Mike follows closely behind Will with a groan. He pants and turns his head to press small kisses against Will’s cheek while he wipes his hand clean on Will’s shirt. Will thinks that that was a little rude when the sink is right there, but whatever.

Will hisses at the loss when Mike pulls out. Mike turns him around and kisses him, soft and sweet. Will smiles into it. It’s a kiss that says I’m sorry. A kiss that says I love you, you’re mine. A kiss that says don’t do that again, drop that fucking class.

“Thank you.” Will murmurs, voice small and throat rough.

“Yeah,” Mike says, tone casual but eyes heavy and pleased. “Gonna go start you a bath. Order a pizza.” He doesn’t wait for Will’s response and turns towards the bathroom instead.

Will surveys the scene left behind as Mike walks away. It’s filthy, noodles everywhere, burnt pasta sauce, and Will’s come on the fucking stove. He bends down to pull up his pants and winces, already aching from taking Mike so dry.

Will’s not sure if Mike was serious about him dropping the class. It’s early enough in the semester to where he could probably switch to something else, but he likes printmaking. Maybe, Will thinks, he could convince Mike to just walk him to and from class instead of having to drop it. Will could probably cry, maybe flutter his eyelashes a little bit and pout, tell Mike that he’s being mean. Mike will probably concede.

Will grabs the landline off of the wall and dials their favorite pizza place. “Hi,” He starts, reaching behind him to turn the stove off and move his burnt sauce off of the burner. “Can I get a large margherita pizza for delivery?”

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Mike has been awake for three hours by the time Will’s alarm goes off and he’s padding into the kitchen in a pair of Mike’s boxers and Mike’s sweatshirt, hair messy and eyes lidded. It pisses Mike off immediately.

“Why’re you up so early?” Mike watches from his seat at the kitchen island as Will slightly pauses at his words, fingers twitching around the handle of their kettle. 

Will fills the kettle up at the sink before responding, voice small and shaky. “I have class, Mike.”

Last night was whatever. Will wanted to be fucked, so Mike fucked him. It would have happened after dinner anyways, if Will could have just waited half an hour. Sometimes Mike wonders why Will can’t just ask for what he wants, wonders why he’s so god damn averse to saying please when he has no qualms saying thank you when Mike is done. If Will wants a punishment, Mike will give him a punishment. He’d be glad to, actually. It’s just fucking annoying that Will thinks that he has to go out of his way to earn every single one.

So, yeah, Mike isn’t stupid. He knows that Will does this shit on purpose, knows that Will likes to goad him, pushing and prodding until Mike finally snaps. And in all honestly, Mike has been really close to snapping hard as fuck lately. Will just fucking infuriates him sometimes. Like last month when they had to leave that art mixer early, because Will kept sticking the tips of his little fingers into his mouth, captivated by conversations about oil paint and mixed media and whatever else. And of course Will doesn’t notice shit like this, doesn’t notice the grimy fucking gazes that linger on his pink lips and little bunny teeth. Or he at least claims innocence, swearing up and down that he had no idea and that he thought he was being good.

Mike wonders how often shit like this happens and Will doesn’t tell him. If Will wasn’t so desperate and needy last night, would he have told Mike that Carlton asked for his number? It makes him sick to think about. In Mike’s perfect world, he’d trail Will around all day long like a fucking service dog or something, opening his doors and biting anyone that gets too close to him.

Will sets the kettle down on the stove and turns the burner on. He grabs his mug from the drying rack and sets it down on the island in front of Mike. Will turns around, opening the cabinet where his tea bags usually live and huffs when he sees that his Raspberry Zinger is on top shelf. Mike watches Will reach up on the tips of his toes, fingertips just barely brushing the box that Mike moved earlier.

“Why’d you-” Mike is already behind Will, resting his hand on the small of Will’s back and spinning him around to face Mike.

Will looks up at him, already pouting, a small pink mark on his forehead from where it kissed the sauce pot last night. It’s cute. “You’re not going to class.” He whines out Mike’s name. Mike shakes his head and reaches behind Will to grab the box of tea bags. “You’re not taking that class anymore, baby. Y’said so.”

Mike sets the box on the counter behind Will and Will lets himself be pulled into Mike’s chest. “Not fair.”

“Yeah,” Mike rests his chin on Will’s head and hums, because it is unfair. It’s just that Will hasn’t given him a choice. “Not my fault though, huh?”

“No,” Will sniffles and rubs his cheek against Mike’s chest. “Not your fault.”

Mike runs a hand through Will’s hair, pausing to scratch at the back of his head. Will’s sniffles turn into soft cries. “Shh, shh.” Mike keeps scratching Will’s scalp and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re okay, baby. You’re just gonna take a different class.”

Will whines again and pulls away from Mike’s chest. Mike keeps his hand in Will’s hair, keeping Will from straying too far from him. Will looks fucking gorgeous, long eyelashes wet and clumped together, tears streaking down his face, lips pink and pouty. “B-but I really like it, Mike.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t wanna take something else.”

Mike cups Will’s face, thumbs wiping away his tears. “Will, baby, you can still take the class. Just gotta take it another semester. You’re working yourself up for nothing.”

Will tries to take another deep breath, but it hitches instead and he starts to cry harder. Mike continues to thumb the tears away, waiting while Will tries to get words out through his gasps, something about Will being good. Mike always tries to be patient with Will when he does this, when he blows things out of proportion and throws such a fit that he’ll probably have to go lay down after.

Will lets out a few more wracking sobs before steadying himself enough to speak. “M-ike, you’re being-ngh, m-mean to me.”

It takes everything in Mike to hold back his laugh, Will is just so endearing. A small smile still escapes, tugging at his lips. “Oh, sweetheart, c’mon. I’m not the one who forgot to tell people who he belongs to, right?” Will nods, taking a small, shaky breath. “Yeah, ‘cause he should’ve known not to ask for your number, huh?” Will nods again, bashful. “Y’just made a mistake, baby, that’s okay. Now you know better for next time. C’mere.” Will collapses back into Mike’s chest, clutching at his shirt. Mike presses another kiss to the top of Will’s head.

Will’s voice is so tiny and sweet, it nearly breaks Mike’s resolve. Nearly. “But I’m good at it.” And Mike is certain that Will is. His boyfriend is good at everything he tries. And he’ll be good at it next semester too. Mike tells him this, rocking the two of them back and forth. Will stays silent for a few moments, melting into Mike as he rocks.

Really, Mike didn’t think that Will would be so upset about this. Will is the one who told Mike about Carlton. He knows that way Mike is, knows what Mike rewards and punishes. Will had to have known that this wouldn’t be as simple as a quickie and a margherita pizza.

“Can I-” Will takes a breath. “Can I at least sh-show you what I’m working on?” Will looks up at him with his big doe eyes and he just looks so fucking sad. Mike knows that he’s done for, knows that his resolve is fucking shot and all he can do is nod. Will pulls away and shuffles to the coat rack by the front door of their apartment. He unzips his portfolio from where it hangs and rifles around for a moment before pulling out a small stack of thick, parchment-like papers. Mike watches as Will carefully presses them under his arm to rezip his portfolio. He steps to the side and unzips his backpack next, producing a small canvas bag.

He meets Mike back in the kitchen, setting the canvas bag on the island and spreading out his papers. Will wipes his eyes with his-Mike’s-sweatshirt sleeve before looking at Mike expectantly. Mike pulls Will against his chest, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist as they look at the prints together.

Will presses himself back into Mike and turns his head slightly to nuzzle his cheek into Mike’s chest. Mike feels a sense of contentment rumble in his sternum at this, the feeling of Will letting go with Mike, finding both order and comfort in Mike. Mike’s not sure that he’ll ever get used to this, to the way that Will gives himself over so openly, to the way that Will takes Mike’s word as his absolute truth, to the way that Will lets Mike own him.

It’s heady and intoxicating to be given this responsibility. Because that’s what it is to take care of Will Byers, a responsibility. Not something to be taken lightly, not something that Mike has ever taken lightly. Even when they were boys, filling Mike’s basement full of mythical make-believe stories, Mike always knew that his paladin’s oath to Will went far beyond D&D. And so Mike also knows that sometimes he’s too hard on Will. Will knows it too. You’re being mean to me. Mike just gets carried away, but it’s not like Will makes it easy for him either.

There’s three prints in total, all of the same thing, but in different ways. There’s hands everywhere, some with fingers spread wide, some in fists. There’s crooked pinkies and scissored index and pointer fingers, long and calloused. Clasped hands and laced fingers and big palms. Three fingers curled together. They’re Mike’s. He’s fucked.

“What’s in the bag?” Will perks up with an oh! sound. He reaches forward and unzips the bag, dumping its contents to the side of the prints.

“Stamps.” He picks one up and holds it up so Mike can see it better. Mike can see where Will has carved out chunks and lines in the rubber and he frowns. It must have been tedious work. He can imagine Will leaned over a table in the art building, body pulled in on itself, scrunched up and small, the way Will always is whenever he’s creating something. He can imagine Will sucking at his bottom lip, fingers stiff from gripping an X-Acto knife, forgetting to eat or drink while he works, ignoring the thirst at the back of his throat and the hunger gnawing at his stomach. Will, wrecking his body in the name of creation, building another altar to Mike.

Mike can also imagine Carlton there, lurking behind Will like an off-brand Mike. That’s what Will had said, he kinda looks like you, shorter though. It’s sick, the thought of someone else trying to take Mike’s place. Like anyone could ever do what he does, like anyone could ever take care of Will the way that he does, like anyone else could handle Will.

Mike’s skin feels like it’s splitting apart. Will is Mike’s, has always been his. Mike wouldn’t know how to exist without Will. It would kill him, it would fucking kill him. His body would shut down, it would turn on itself, like some fucked up autoimmune disease, eating away at Mike until only bones remain. No, Mike wouldn’t be able to handle it, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let it happen, wouldn’t let someone steal Will from him, wouldn’t let Will leave. It would be agony, would be a calamitous torment on Mike’s psyche, would be Mike’s own personal circle of Hell, unimaginable to even Dante himself. Yes, life without Will would be a deprival of life itself.

Mike’s skin retracts and snaps back together at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice. “They’re yours. Your hands.” There’s a subtext there that Mike hears between the four words, drifting up from Will’s lips and depositing vitality back into Mike. Maybe Carlton was lurking in that class with Will, but Will’s focus was still on Mike, even if Mike was all the way back at their apartment. Will’s focus was on the hands that hold him, the hands that take care of him, the hands that give and deny, the hands that protect him.

And, oh, Mike thinks. Will was being good. His poor baby. Asking for and taking a (mostly) undeserved punishment.

Mike takes the stamp from Will’s hand and sets it back on the island. He reaches down to grab the hem of his-Mike’s-sweatshirt and pulls it over Will’s head. Will lets out a confused sort of noise, shivering as the morning chill hits his bare skin, but complies easily, sighing when Mike presses a soft kiss to his shoulder.

Mike trails his fingers across Will’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. Will’s head falls back onto Mike’s chest with a breathy little sigh when Mike catches a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, rolling it ever so slightly. Mike loves this, loves the way Will just gives himself over to Mike without asking questions. Will gets it, Mike knows that he does. They don’t have to speak to understand each other. Mike is saying I’m sorry for being mean when he moves his attentions over to Will’s other nipple and Will is saying I forgive you when his head lolls and his breathy sighs turn to whimpers.

Mike anchors his hands at Will’s waist and slightly pulls back from Will, just enough to pepper kisses across the nape of his neck. “You really wanna be in that class, angel?”

“Please.” Will gasps it like a prayer, reverent and wanton.

“Okay,” Mike nips at his neck and Will whines. “You can stay in the class.”

“Oh, Mike.” And Will is suddenly crying again and turning around in Mike’s arms to face him. He looks wrecked, face puffy and eyes tired. The slow tears that leak from his eyes look like they hurt. Mike leans down to kiss them away while Will babbles on. “I’ll be so good, Mike, so good, I swear. You can-can walk me to class and I promise I won’t even talk to anybody, won’t even look at anybody.”

“Yeah, I know you will be.” Mike pulls away from Will’s face, murmuring. “Say ‘thank you’ before I change my mind.”

And that gratitude leaves Will’s mouth like a prayer too, over and over and over again as Mike begins to suck a mark into the base of Will’s throat. He’ll let Will go. He made a mistake, but it wasn’t on purpose, so Mike can give him a pass this time. Mike can help Will tell Carlton that he belongs to someone else.

Mike pulls away to look at his handiwork, a deep red blooming against Will’s pale skin. Mike presses his fingers hard against the mark and Will winces, body jerking like he wants to pull away from Mike but knows better. Good boy, Mike thinks.

Mike leans in again, slotting his thigh against Will, and Will collapses against him, hips stuttering forward. “Greedy.” Mike murmurs, smiling into Will’s neck before continuing his path of destruction against Will’s throat. Will doesn’t deny it, just keeps grinding on Mike’s thigh and whimpering out yeses and thank yous. 

Mike knows that he can’t spend too long at this, aware that his sensitive boyfriend might have another breakdown if he has to walk into class late. He pulls back to view his handiwork and can’t help the grin that rips across his face. Will looks beautiful, a necklace of purplish red wrapping around his throat like how Mike’s hand might. And that’s a thought.

It’s like Mike did it on purpose with the way that his hand fits perfectly across the bruises. Mike squeezes lightly and Will’s eyes roll back. He looks so good like this, absolutely destroyed for Mike. Mike presses his fingers in harder and Will’s movements slow, hips bucking in small, measured movements until he’s coming on Mike’s thigh, his pretty little sounds caught behind Mike’s grip on his throat.

When he drops his hand, it’s like a trance has been broken. The kettle is screaming at them from the burner and Mike has no idea when it even started to go off. Mike busies himself with the kettle situation for a moment before turning his attention back to Will’s half-lidded form, slumped against the kitchen counter, boneless and exhausted.

Mike brings a hand up to Will’s hip, fingers curling into the elastic of his-Mike’s-boxers. Will sighs into the touch. Mike’s other hand drifts up to Will’s cheek and Mike leans down to press a soft kiss against his lips. “You’re so dirty, baby.” Will hums in acknowledgement, but Mike isn’t sure that Will really even knows what he’s saying. “Go clean up so I can take you to class.” Will looks at him blankly for a moment until the words register and he’s nodding eagerly and scrambling towards the bathroom, eyes twinkling with excitement.

Mike looks at the kitchen island, taking in Will’s mug and Will’s stamps and Will’s canvas bag and Mike’s hands. He tidies up, depositing Will’s stamps back into his backpack and his prints back into his portfolio. He puts Will’s mug back on the drying rack and roots through their cabinets for a travel mug instead. The travel mug is old and faded, stolen from one of their houses forever ago, but Mike’s not sure whose.

Will is tearing out of their bedroom just as Mike finishes sticking the lid back on the travel mug. Mike smiles at his boyfriend, taking him in. He’s so fucking cute, dressed for that inbetween time of the year where it’s cold in the morning but blazing in the afternoon, where the wind agitates your skin but the sun soothes it.

He’s wearing a pair of cut offs (shorter than Mike should allow, really, but it’s been a long morning) and another crewneck that he’s stolen from Mike, sleeves cuffed just above his wrists. He beams at Mike as his socked feet slide across the hardwood floor towards the shoe rack by the door.

“You’re taking me, yeah?” Mike’s heart nearly explodes when Will drops onto the floor to pull on and tie his Converse. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, baby.” Mike meets Will at the door and pulls Will up from the floor. He presses a kiss to Will’s nose and Will giggles, the hardships of the morning forgotten, save for the ring of marks resting right above the neckline of Mike’s crewneck. Will was smart to pick something that wouldn’t cover them up. He hands Will the travel mug. “We can go now.”

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

It’s a short walk to the art building on campus, maybe fifteen minutes, but Will talks so excitedly and fast about printmaking techniques that Mike feels like he just attended a full hour long lecture. Privately, Mike thinks that if Will knows this much about printmaking, then there’s really no reason he needs to be in this class, but he doesn’t want to make Will cry again so he keeps that thought to himself.

Mike likes seeing Will like this, marked up and in Mike’s clothes. It’s the closest thing he can give Will to a ring right now, but even that probably wouldn’t be enough. Mike often thinks about locking Will up in a tower, keeping him safe and away from prying eyes that don’t deserve him. Mike probably doesn’t deserve Will either, but he got to Will first, so it doesn’t matter anyways. He’s the one who showed Will how to kiss, the one who showed Will what pleasure felt like, the one who showed Will what love looked like, even if no one else understood the way they loved each other.

He’d overheard Max talking to Will about this one day when she thought that Mike was engrossed in a conversation with Dustin and Lucas and far enough away to have privacy with Will, like Mike would ever let Will exist outside of his direct orbit if he could help it.

“There’s a fine line between obsession and love, Will.” She had said as her and Will passed a cigarette back and forth between each other, a pause stretching between them as she formulated her next words carefully. “He acts like he owns you, y’know.”

Mike was more than pleased when he saw Will flush out of the corner of his eye, stammering out his next reply to Max. “Well, um, yeah-he does.”

Mike rewarded him that night, hiking Will’s legs over his shoulders and devouring him until Will was sobbing about it being too much, come dripping off of his stomach and onto the sheets. That was the first night he got to see Will truly become dumb off of Mike’s cock, losing the ability to speak or do anything other than keep his legs open for Mike as Mike pressed into him, whispering in his ear about how Will was so good for him earlier for telling Max who he belongs to.

Which is maybe why it upset Mike so much that Will put himself in a situation where Carlton felt like he even had the right to look at Will, let alone speak to him. Mike will have to do better at coordinating his schedule with Will’s next semester so he can drop him off and pick him up from all his classes. Maybe he put too much responsibility on Will, expected too much of his boyfriend. That’s okay, Will will do better and Mike will do better and it won’t happen again.

“And so I think-” Will pauses as he waits for Mike to hold the door open for him, murmuring a small thank you when Mike ushers him into the art building. “I think that I’m gonna do a zine for my final project, with each spread being a different technique, y’know? That way I can really try everything out.”

Mike smiles at Will as he takes a sip of his tea. “That sounds nice, baby. You like it better than painting?”

Will hums, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no way, but I was thinking about playing around with some sort of mixed media type of project…” Will keeps talking, but Mike can’t hear anything anymore, ears ringing like a bomb just went off.

Carlton is waiting outside of Will’s classroom, leaning against the wall and glancing around like he’s waiting for someone. Mike can tell when Will notices Carlton’s post, because his footsteps falter and he glances at Mike with his big doe eyes, looking so small and fragile as his fingertips reach out to touch Mike’s shirtsleeves. He doesn’t say anything and Mike is suddenly aware that he’s waiting for Mike’s direction. The revelation inspires a feeling akin to purring in Mike’s chest, a deep satisfaction taking root in his ribs with the knowledge that Will needs Mike to tell him what to do here.

“Here, baby.” Mike shrugs off Will’s backpack and hands it to him. He takes the travel mug from Will, exchanging it with his portfolio. “Introduce me.”

Will squeaks like the thought is terrifying, but nods anyway. Mike and Will close the gap between themselves and Carlton and Mike suppresses a grin when he sees Carlton’s eyes widen, flitting from Will’s neck to Mike, then back to Will’s neck.

“Carlton, hi,” Will starts, voice wavering when Mike rests a palm across the back of his neck, heavy and possessive. “This is my boyfriend, Mike.” Will cocks his hip, pressing closer into Mike’s side like a good boy. “Mike, Carlton is in my printmaking class.”

“Yeah,” Carlton clears his throat, reaching a hand out to shake Mike’s. Mike pointedly ignores it and Carlton drops it, face flushing with embarrassment. There’s a caustic moment of silence before he continues like a fucking idiot. “I’d, uh-” He gestures to Will’s neck with a forced laugh. “-hate to see what happened to the other guy.”

“Right,” Mike looks at his boyfriend and is happy to see a rather unamused look plastered on his face. Will turns to Mike. “You’ll be here after class?” Mike hums in response and Will smiles, pushing himself up on the tips of his toes to press a kiss to Mike’s cheek. Mike gives one last squeeze to the back of Will’s neck and drops his hand as Will walks into his classroom.

Carlton looks perturbed, like he’s unsure of how long he should wait to follow Will into class. He clears his throat again. “Uh, see you around, I guess.”

Mike gives a curt nod and turns around, walking a few paces away to take up his post on a bench across from Will’s classroom. He shifts his leg up, snagging his well-worn copy of Misery from his back pocket.

Misery was always a disconcerted read for Mike. It inspired a feeling of demurral within himself as he found himself rooting for both Paul and Annie. Shouldn’t an author’s word be final? Mike frowns at the words on the page. Shouldn’t Paul be in control of the world he created? The story he’s woven? Shouldn’t he have possession over Misery, who was born from him? Yes, Mike thinks, he should.

But then there was Annie, who had left her impact on Paul forever, her devotion etched into every word of Misery’s Return, taking possession of a character not born from her. Annie who, in her love and in her hopeless devotion to the character of Misery, forced new words out of Paul, pushing and prodding, rewarding and punishing until she’d been served what she wanted. Mike can understand that too. Love, they say, makes you crazy.

Crazy. The word sits heavy in Mike’s head. He frowns. Was Mike crazy? He was certainly in love. Will’s impact was etched into every part of Mike, in his bones and in his blood and in every word he could ever dream of putting onto a page.

Crazy.

Crazy, crazy, crazy. 

The word rings across his head, bouncing off of his skull until it’s shooting out of his nose and spilling out of his eyes and popping his ear drums.

Mike closes the book and sets it next to him on the bench. The cover stares at him, Paul looking pathetic in his wheelchair, Annie’s formidable shadow looming across the room. Couldn’t Mike be both? Not pathetic, no, but maybe poignant. Poignant and powerful. Crazy. Did that have to be such a bad word? Of course he was fucking crazy, Will made him crazy. Who wouldn’t be crazy over Will if given the chance? Actually, Mike thinks, this-being crazy-is a perfectly normal response to being in love with Will Byers.

What could it look like, Mike wonders, if he let himself be crazy? If he let himself exist between Paul and Annie? A thought is lodged in his brain before he can really understand where it had come from, sandwiched between flashes of jumping off of a cliff and Will’s body being pulled from the lake, between flashes of blood leaking from Will’s eyes and a Demogorgon looming over Mike.

Really, what would the difference be, Mike ponders, between killing a Demogorgon and a person if they were both threats to Will? Sure, there’s a clear lack of humanity on one end of that spectrum, but did that matter to Mike? Was there anything that could matter to Mike-humanity or barbarity, friend or foe, life or death-if there was the potential for harm to befall Will, his Will? Would Mike kill for Will?

Yes, Mike decides as a wave of understanding washes over him, he would.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Will can feel Carlton’s eyes on him as he slides his X-Acto knife across rubber. His stare is burdensome, not heavy in the way that Mike’s is, but nagging and offputting. It makes Will feel itchy, like there’s something fundamentally wrong about someone other than Mike staring at him like that.

Will tries his best to ignore Carlton, but he’s had a hard morning. He’s exhausted after the fit he threw and is filled with an inexplicable urge to gouge at the rubber in front of him, or maybe gouge at Carlton himself. Will huffs out a small laugh. Wouldn’t that be something? Hi Mike, Will would say when he met his boyfriend in the hallway, class was good, and, oh yeah, Carlton actually can’t see anymore!

Carlton clears his throat a few steps away from Will, looking bashful and still, unfortunately, able to see clearly. Will glances up at him, feeling immediately irritated. This morning had been a lot and Mike hasn’t given him, well, rules for how Will is supposed to act in class. He feels his ears get hot at that thought. Rules. Mike doesn’t call them rules, of course, but Will knows that they are. Will likes them, his rules, likes that he knows what Mike expects of him, likes even more that it gives him explicit boundaries to push when Mike isn’t giving him enough attention.

Which is precisely how he got in this situation, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Hey,” Carlton starts, hands clasped together awkwardly in front of him. “Sorry about that, uh, dumb joke earlier.” He continues when Will doesn’t say anything. “Your boyfriend seems, ah-” Carlton’s voice drops off like he’s considering something and his eyes flit down to Will’s throat. “Actually, are you okay?” Will purses his lips. Mike hasn’t given him rules, but he’s still pretty certain that he shouldn't be engaging with Carlton, let alone talking to him. He settles for nodding instead.

“Okay, well I just-” Carlton takes a step closer to Will, lowering his voice just above a whisper. “Does he hurt you?”

Will barks out a laugh before he can help it and Carlton flinches.

Well that’s a question, isn’t it? Yeah, Mike hurts him, of course Mike hurts him. Mike’s entire purpose is to tear Will down and rip him apart piece by piece so that he can build Will up bigger and better each time. Will would be nothing without Mike, a ruinous shell of himself if Mike wasn’t there to sculpt him into something greater. Of course that fucking hurts.

But that’s not Carlton’s business anyway.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

When Will leaves class, Carlton pointedly staying behind to slowly clean up his area, Mike steals Will’s backpack and portfolio away from him and presses a warm carton and a fork into his hands before Will can even blink.

“Hi, angel.” Mike kisses Will’s forehead. “Hungry?” Will loves the way that Mike seems to be in tune with Will’s physiological needs before he even really realizes what his own body is asking for. It’s like Mike’s sixth sense, his ability to anticipate Will’s every desire. It makes Will feel loved beyond belief

Will’s stomach stirs, not out of hunger (although now that Mike mentions it, he is definitely hungry), but at the thought of Mike going out and doing this for Will while he sat in class, at the thought of Will’s big, scary guard dog playing fetch for Will while he sat in class.

“Yeah,” Will smiles at Mike, the scent of perogies wafting from the carton in Will’s hand as they leave the art building. “Starving, actually. Thank you.”

They walk in silence for a bit as Will shovels down his perogies. Who knew crying made him so hungry? Mike, apparently.

It’s nice out, a breeze rippling Will’s bangs across his forehead while the sun slowly starts to heat up as afternoon approaches. Will glances over to his boyfriend who walks in step with him, travel mug tugged securely in his back pocket, Will’s backpack thrown over his shoulder while he totes Will’s portfolio around.

Mike looks really good today. Chicago had been good to them both, but especially to Mike. Will has always found Mike attractive, even when they were prepubescent and awkward and gangly, but present day Mike was like something out of a wet dream. Jeans traded for work pants. Clingy graphic tees switched out for loose, boxy ones. And muscles, God, his muscles. Lean, but still defined. A sculpted chest with arms and hands that were veiny in a way that just screamed strong.

Mike was so commanding. He’d been that way their whole lives, from the swingsets to D&D in Mike’s basement. Mike had always had the ability to boss Will around, to bring Will to his knees, to make him submit. It was innate, something that flowed through  Will’s blood, the desire to let Mike tell him exactly what to do.

That was too simple though, the idea that it was just Mike telling him what to do. It was so much more than that. It was Mike making decisions for Will, Mike thinking for Will. Choosing what Will eats, telling him what he can and can’t wear, deciding who he’s allowed to have conversations with.

But maybe that was too complicated. Maybe it was just that Mike knew best.

Will mouths at his fork one final time before throwing it away in a nearby trashcan along with the carton. He saddles up to Mike, curling his arm around Mike’s and resting one palm on his bicep and the other on his forearm. “Full?” Will hums in affirmation, squeezing Mike’s bicep twice.

Will thinks that it’s funny how upset he was this morning, reduced to a blubbering mess just because Mike told him no. It seems like it was so long ago now, that version of himself this morning who felt like a stake was being driven into his head, driving the artist in himself away from the part of himself that needed to listen to Mike, cracking apart his skull and severing his corpus callosum. Oh, he could be so dramatic.

He feels a little bad too. Yes, Will had intended to cry, had planned to shed some tears and tell Mike that he was being mean, which is exactly what Will did, but Will also lost control. Will is certain that Mike was probably really frustrated with him last night, definitely really frustrated with him this morning.

And Will can admit that it’s fun when Mike gets angry with Will and doles out punishments, but Will pushed it too far, pushed at the wrong boundary and then cried like some petulant toddler when Mike enforced it, annoying and pathetic. He’d wanted attention and, instead of just asking for it, turned himself into a headache for Mike. Will should know better.

Will does know better. “Ca-” Will opens his mouth to start telling Mike about class, but pauses, thinking better of saying Carlton’s name again to Mike. “He talked to me in class.” Will feels Mike’s arm tense. He rushes out his next words. “I didn’t want him to! I tried not to. But he asked if you hurt me.”

Mike snorts, but doesn’t respond, pulling his arm away from Will to hold the door open to the lobby of their apartment building. He ushers Will inside. Will shifts uncomfortably under Mike’s stare, not angry but pensive, as they wait for the elevator.

He gets no respite once the elevator comes, other tenants piling into the elevator cab with them. Will hopes that he’s not in trouble again. He really didn’t want to talk to Carlton. The door pings open on the third floor and Will shuffles out of the elevator, Mike following close behind him.

Will watches as Mike unclips his keys from his belt loop and unlocks the door for them with one hand, Will’s portfolio still clutched in his other hand. Will doesn’t help with these things, doesn’t bring his keys with him or even his wallet if he’ll be with Mike, doesn’t carry up groceries or his own bags if they’re together. Mike doesn’t like Will to do those things; it wasn’t a rule, but an unspoken understanding of Will’s place.

Will leans down to untie his shoes as Mike hangs Will’s bags back on the coat rack. He kicks his shoes to the side and watches Mike do the same. Mike’s look is still pensive, stare still hard when he directs Will towards the bedroom. Will frowns. So he is in trouble.

Mike walks behind him, pace leisurely and assured. Will knew that he had pushed too hard this morning and Mike had still thrown him a bone, had still let him go to class and he ruined it. He shouldn’t have even looked up at Carlton. Or maybe he should have just accepted Mike’s decree from earlier and dropped the class. Will feels his eyes start to burn, still tired from his theatrics this morning.

Will turns to face Mike as he walks into the bedroom behind him, hugging his arms to himself. He casts his gaze down, watching Mike’s socked feet make their way to Will. Mike’s fingers drift up until they hit Will’s chin and politely tip it back. Will meets Mike’s gaze and it’s still just pensive.

Mike’s fingers slide along Will’s jaw, palm anchoring against his neck while his thumb brushes across Will’s cheek. “What’d you say?” Will blinks, confused, eyes still burning. Mike’s lips twitch into a small smile. “To Carlton.”

Will’s breath hitches and he understands now. He’s not in trouble yet. Mike’s letting Will prove himself, letting Will show that he can be smart and can do what Mike expects of him and Will is not fucking this up. Will makes himself small, leaning further into Mike and fluttering his lashes as he looks up at his boyfriend.

“I told him,” Will wets his lips, plastering a small pout on his face. “That you don’t hurt me, but you might hurt him if he kept talking to me.”

Mike slides his hand from Will’s neck back to Will’s nape, fingers carding through his hair. “Yeah? That’s what you said?” Mike looks pleased with him. Will nods and Mike hums, scratching at Will’s scalp. “Good boy.” Will makes a small whimpering sound and flushes at the praise.

“These-” Mike starts, hands trailing down to Will’s shorts, long fingers flicking through his button fly. “Are too short for class. Yeah?”

“O-okay.” Mike smiles at him, pushing the shorts down Will’s hips, tone too pleasant for what Will typically anticipates from a comment like that. Mike murmurs something about showing off as he helps Will step out of his shorts.

“You’re tired. All that crying wore you out.” And there’s Mike again, knowing Will’s needs before he even does, because God, he is tired. Exhaustion seems to curl through him the second the words leave Mike’s mouth. Will becomes pliant, letting Mike move him around until he lays snug under their covers.

Will lets out a small sigh when Mike presses a kiss to his forehead, right on the pink mark from last night, eyes fluttering shut. Mike is always so good to him.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Mike watches his Cup Noodles spin idly in the microwave, Will’s words from the other day still ringing through his ears. I told him that you don’t hurt me, but you might hurt him if he kept talking to me.

You might hurt him.

Might.

The words fill Mike’s chest with heat. He likes that Will thought that, that Will said that. The words, Mike thinks, feel like…permission. Permission, but for what? Mike sighs, the microwave humming low as the styrofoam cup orbits within it.

Mike knows what he wants permission for, knows what he wants to do. It’s fresh in his brain, having finished his reread of Misery on Tuesday afternoon while Will slept for nearly four hours after class. Yes, Mike knows exactly what he wants to do, but it’s the word might that holds him back.

Might implies that Mike has no backbone. Might implies tentativeness. Might implies that Mike is fucking around and Mike is very pointedly not fucking around. The microwave beeps at Mike. He grabs the cup and sets it on the counter to cool down.

Mike doesn’t do that to Will anymore, fuck around. He takes care of Will, caters to his every need and keeps him safe. Protects him. Mike huffs, because someone was fucking around with Will. Not Mike, but Carlton. He scoffs. Carlton.

Yes, Mike thinks, Carlton could really stand to mind his own business. He can sort of understand the asking for Will’s number thing, Mike had fucked up there, hadn’t been dropping Will off at his classes or marking him up like he should. Mike admits that. But really, what kind of idiot looks at Will and thinks that he’s not already claimed?

Mike yanks open the silverware drawer and angrily grabs a dinner fork, avoiding the smaller salad forks that Will likes. He peels the lid off of his Cup Noodles and sets it aside on the counter. Steam wafts up from the cup as Mike twirls the noodles around.

It made Mike sad to see Will so affected, so exhausted on Tuesday. His poor baby, having to sleep for so long just to recover from all the bullshit that Carlton caused. Mike didn’t feel sad anymore though, no, Mike is pissed now, actually. How dare he say that to Will? How dare he have the gall to speak to Mike’s boyfriend in that way, to ask Will if Mike hurts him?

What Mike and Will do is no one’s business but their own. Not Carlton’s, not Max’s, not anyone’s.

Mike is torn from his rumination when Will’s arms wrap around his waist. “Morning.” Will sniffs and pulls away. Mike watches him wrinkle his nose at the styrofoam on the counter. “Ew. What is that, shrimp?”

Mike turns around in Will’s arms and smiles at him. “No,” He leans down to kiss the pink mark on Will’s forehead, fading with each day. Mike thinks that that’s a shame. “It’s hot and spicy shrimp.” Will’s nose wrinkles again and Mike laughs. “M’sorry. I thought you’d sleep later.”

“Oh.” Will’s good mood falters. “Am I-am I not going to class?”

“You can go to class.” Mike amends. “Just know you’ve been tired.”

Will smiles at him and rests his head on Mike’s chest, murmuring a gratitude. “You’re walking me?” He sounds hopeful.

Mike hums, chin resting on Will’s head while his ramen rapidly cools next to him. “If I walk you to class, can you handle walking home alone?” Will nods against Mike’s chest. “Yeah?” Mike continues. “You’ll be good for me? Come straight home?”

Will pulls away slightly, doe eyes staring into Mike’s as he sucks on his bottom lip. “I might want to get food after?” There’s that word again. Might.

It’s a statement, but Will says it like a question. “That’s fine.” Mike glances at the green numbers on the stove. “Go get ready.” Will complies easily; he doesn’t ask why Mike can only drop him off, understands that Mike has his reasons for everything. Even if he did ask, it wouldn’t change things.

Really, Mike thinks, when has he ever been the one to need permission from Will?

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Will doesn’t wear his cut offs today, legs instead covered up by a pair of white overalls. Mike thinks that he looks very much like an artist today with a teal shirt layered under the overalls, collar low enough that Mike’s necklace of marks is still visible.

He looks very cute. Mike tells him this as he hands over Will’s backpack and portfolio to him in front of Will’s classroom. Will flushes and smiles as he leans up to kiss Mike. “Be good.” Mike murmurs into Will’s lips.

“I will be.” Mike believes him.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Carlton, Mike decides, is very boring. He goes to the post office after class. Then the grocery store after that, grabbing a frozen pizza and a bag of salad. It’s really rather mundane, but it still pisses Mike off. There’s a general air of self-importance that Carlton carries around with him, maybe some sort of white knight syndrome, that makes Mike want to, well, kill him.

Really, this has been inevitable. An urge that has built up since their days of recess bullies that has just finally spilled over into practicality. An urge that Mike has thought about before. An urge that Mike has made himself push deep into his chest prior to today. An urge that is nearly cracking his ribs apart with anticipation. An urge, Mike thinks as he lazily trails behind Carlton into the lobby of his apartment building, that Mike is frankly surprised hasn’t been acted on before.

Mike’s shoes are noiseless as he follows Carlton’s path towards his apartment and-oh my God, was he whistling? Yeah, Mike thinks, he’s gotta kill this guy.

He finds himself loitering around a corner while Carlton fumbles with his lock and then it happens fast. Mike strides down the hallway and shoves his checkerboarded foot into the door jam, shoving the door into Carlton’s chest before either of them can register what’s happened. Carlton makes a pathetic oof sound and stumbles backwards, portfolio and grocery bag falling from his hands as his backpack drags him down.

Mike elbows the door shut behind him and reaches back, clicking the lock into place with his shirtsleeve over his fingers. Mike towers over Carlton as he scrambles back across the floor, chest heaving. Mike doesn’t think, he just does.

His foot collides with Carlton’s side once, twice, five times, and then Mike loses count. Carlton lays there when Mike is done, feeble and whimpering, hands desperately clutching at his side as he curls in on himself. Mike shakes his head and ignores the other man for a moment, glancing around his apartment.

Mike feels blessed by divine intervention. Carlton lives in a studio apartment, a single bed crowded next to a shitty futon across from a box TV, the only other door in the apartment open and leading to a bathroom. Carlton has no roommates. Carlton lives alone.

He refocuses on the asshole at his feet, still clutching at his side, now mumbling something about taking whatever you want between groans. Mike cocks his head. No self preservation instinct, he thinks. He squats and sinks a hand into Carlton’s hair, pulling his head back for the sake of eye contact.

It’s gratifying to see the recognition set in Carlton’s eyes, to see the breath hitch in Carlton’s throat, to see the dark spot bloom in Carlton’s khakis as he fucking pisses himself in fear. Mike’s not really sure how else to describe this, other than that it fucking rules.

Stupid games, stupid prizes and all that shit.

He lifts Carlton’s head up and roughly yanks it back, letting go before it connects with the floor. Carlton makes a punched out noise, like the air has dissipated from his lungs. Mike rises from his squat and stares down at the form at his feet. He looks fucked up, back arched from the backpack still attached to his shoulders, body contorted in a sort of S-shape as his hands desperately paw at his side and at the back of his head.

Mike leaves him for a moment, his legs bringing him to the kitchen. He rolls his eyes at the cliché, shrugging his shirtsleeve down over his hand and grabbing a chef’s knife from a butcher’s block on the counter. Mike wonders, is he more of a Billy or a Stu?

Carlton hasn’t gone far, his body maybe a foot closer to the door while he still grips at his side. Mike is unimpressed at the no-no-no-no-nos and please-please-pleases pouring out of Carlton’s mouth, a chuckle escaping his own lips.

Mike debates making this a thing. He could monologue, maybe say some shit about Will belonging to him and about how Carlton should be sorry and blah blah blah. It feels like a ridiculous waste of words when Carlton’s eyes show that he already knows exactly why Mike is here, a ridiculous waste of energy when it already takes so much from him to press the dull blade (and that’s Carlton’s fault for not sharpening his knives, not Mike’s) into Carlton’s throat, shredding through skin and fat and muscle and vocal cords until Carlton is gone.

Mike is hard. He waits for a feeling of wrongness to kick in and kill his boner, bringing him back to his senses, but it’s a feeling that never comes. Mike releases his grip on the chef’s knife and it clatters to the floor next to what’s left of Carlton’s neck. Mike stands and takes a few steps back to avoid the blood close to pooling around his Vans.

No roommates, Mike thinks as he looks down at Carlton, no one to find him. His dick twitches. Mike is lucky, but he knows that when he does this again he’ll need to be smarter about it, maybe invest more time into it than an hour and a half of stalking. Next time, he decides, he’ll be better prepared.

But next time is not now. Mike shuffles around the apartment and starts, for lack of a better descriptor, fucking things up. He tips over the butcher block of knives, leaving it when a paring knife falls onto the floor. He continues through the apartment, kicking the coffee table and futon aside and pushing a standing lamp over, weaving together a story of struggle. He pulls his shirtsleeve over his hand again and yanks open Carlton’s lone nightstand, scoffing at the still shrinkwrapped bottle of lube and handful of condoms scattered through the drawer. Did Carlton think he’d have a chance with Will? Did he think he’d need these condoms? What a bitch. Mike’s never used a condom with Will, has never offered. Will’s never asked. Mike snags a few loose twenty dollar bills sitting in the nightstand next to the condoms and pockets them, leaving the drawer open.

Mike continues to meander around the apartment, disrupting potted plants and opening cabinets and just generally putzing around until his eyes fall onto a polaroid camera slotted into Carlton’s entertainment console. He’s filled with a wicked idea and he’s grasping the camera with his bare hands before he can really think of the implications.

Will is the artist, but Mike knows enough about composition and angles to create something with a depth of interest. And Mike is man enough to give Carlton the flowers that he deserves, the subject was really doing most of the work in these photos.

There’s a faint whirring sound as Mike snaps his first picture. Mike pockets it; he doesn’t have time to wait for it to develop. He squats down, careful to avoid blood and piss, and brings the camera close to Carlton’s neck. The money shot, he reasons as the camera whirrs again. He tucks that picture away in his back pocket too and looks at the camera in his hands. He’ll have to dump it somewhere on the way home.

Mike stands up and surveys the room, commits it to memory. He thinks that he did well enough. Next time will be better.

For good measure and just because it feels a little bit disrespectful, Mike makes one final move to kick over the kitchen trash can next to Carlton. It clatters open with a loud clang and Mike winces at the noise. Whoops. Trash falls out, scattering near Carlton’s feet, an empty half gallon of, ew, whole milk, wadded up paper towels, and an empty Cup Noodles. Mike steps forward and nudges the cup slightly and groans. Hot and spicy shrimp. What the fuck.

He needs to get the fuck out of this apartment. He needs to never touch hot and spicy shrimp ramen again. He needs to kill Carlton all over again.

Mike steps over the trash and Carlton’s body. He takes one last look at the scene he’s staged, a sense of pride rumbling in his chest, and steals out the door, camera tucked under his arm as the door softly latches behind him.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Will is sprawled across his and Mike’s bed on his stomach, absentmindedly sketching while a radio crackles from their nightstand, the dulcet tones of The Cranberries twirling through the room. Will likes this song; it makes him think of Mike. He is in deep with Mike, he is such a fool for Mike.

Mike though, Mike is wrapped around Will’s finger. Will tries his hardest to listen, tries his hardest to do what Mike tells him to, tries his hardest to be good for Mike and, for the most part, Will does these things (recent attention-seeking episodes aside), because he likes to. It feels nice to shut his brain off, feels nice to let Mike take care of these things for him. But Mike, Mike does these things because of Will, because he’s beholden to Will. Mike isn’t like this with anyone else, had never been like this with past relationships either. No, Mike was strong and commanding and authoritarian, because of Will, because Will let him.

Will knows that he can walk away whenever, knows that he can disobey Mike and run away to Max and Lucas’s unharmed, but Will likes it. He likes the idea that Mike thinks he owns Will. He wants to let Mike think he owns him, wants to let Mike think that it’s all his idea. Will smiles into his sketchbook at this thought.

Will misses his boyfriend. The past few days have felt like an entire month. Will may like the feeling of Mike being wrapped around his finger, may like being good for Mike, may like listening and obeying, but he doesn’t like when conflict arises. Will thinks that that is probably normal in most relationships, not liking conflict. And Will is a firm believer in their relationship being relatively normal, actually.

Max doesn’t think so. Lucas probably doesn’t either, but he knows better than to say anything to Will about it, knows that Mike won’t say anything to Max, but has no problem arguing with Lucas. Sometimes it makes group hangouts awkward, the tension between Max and Mike palpable when Max throws around comments like he’s his own person, Mike and Will, you don’t need to ask permission to order another fucking drink. Max just doesn’t understand.

And so Mike doesn’t really like him being alone with Max nowadays. Will thinks that Max probably doesn’t really like Mike anymore. He also thinks that Max and Jane talk about him and Mike without him around too, the unsung silence during their phone calls thick and uncomfortable.

It makes Will sad when his sister is short and stinted on the phone, her implications about Mike heavy. But she doesn’t get it and she admits that, she knows that what Mike and her had was different, maybe even trivial compared to the WillandMike of it all now. Will wishes that he could have it all, wishes that he could have his sister and his best friend and Mike all at once.

Will knows himself though, knows what-who-he’ll choose if choosing is necessary. It will hurt, but hurt is nothing new when it comes to Mike.

Will is so lost in his thoughts about sisters and best friends and boyfriends, charcoal dragging along the pages of his sketchbook, that he doesn’t register when Mike enters the apartment. He doesn’t hear the lock click open or the front door shut. He doesn’t hear Mike’s shoes get thrown onto the shoe rack or hear his keys get tossed on the counter. No, Will only registers that Mike is home when his large palms grip into Will’s waist and pull him upwards.

Will’s charcoal falls from his fingers and he gasps, the buckles on his overalls being undone with such an urgency that all Will can do is acquiesce. Mike’s name leaves his lips as his overalls are tugged down his chest and off of his hips, pooling around his ankles. He kicks them off the rest of the way as Mike’s hands start to push up his shirt. Will is dazed and confused, his shirt making its way onto the floor in record time.

Mike moves with a frantic energy, tugging Will’s boxers down and spreading his knees apart with quick forceful movements. Will surges forward at the force of it and he scrambles to catch himself. He feels so exposed right now, holy shit, knowing that Mike is still fully clothed, looking at every part of him. Mike’s name keeps tumbling from his lips, but Mike isn’t saying anything, hands still firm on Will’s hips, pushing and pulling him around until Will’s ass is up in the air and his cheek is pressed against the mattress.

Will’s brain feels empty, content to let Mike do whatever. He revels in this feeling of emptiness until Mike spreads his cheeks apart and licks a long stripe across his hole, overriding the emptiness in his head with thoughts of Mike! Mike! Mike! Will is vaguely aware that he’s verbalizing these thoughts, his own loud, keening whines cutting through the fogginess in his brain as Mike continues his ministrations on Will’s rim.

Will tries to rock back into Mike’s tongue and Mike groans, hands tightening on Will’s waist and keeping him still. Will doesn’t really have the bandwidth to think about it, but something must have Mike absolutely wired right now with the way he’s eating Will out like he’s starved. It’s wet and messy, Mike’s saliva dripping down Will’s perineum. Will always feels so dirty when Mike does this, the embarrassment of it crawling up his body in a deep, red flush.

A whine rips from Will’s throat when Mike pulls away. Mike shushes him, Will’s pleas faltering when Mike’s palm connects with the swell of ass. There’s a smattering of shuffles, nightstand drawer opening and closing, before Mike is back behind Will.

Will hears the soft click of a cap opening and he clenches, body instinctively jerking forward when Mike squeezes the cold lube directly onto his hole. Before Will has time to protest Mike’s lack of consideration, Mike is pressing two fingers into him.

“Fuck,” Mike groans out and Will realizes that this is the first word his boyfriend has spoken to him since coming home. “Fucking tight.” Mike mumbles, fingers fucking into Will fast and insistent. “Always so fucking tight.” Will babbles out some incoherent response, tears already leaking from his eyes as his hands clutch at the comforter uselessly.

Something has gotten into Mike, because his mouth runs steadfast, filthy words falling from his lips as he curls his fingers just right into Will. “Gonna fuck you so good, angel. You want that? Tell me.” Will nods, slow and jerky as his eyes roll back, Mike’s fingers hitting against his prostate with every movement. It’s so much and then it’s too much when Mike adds another finger-three now, to be exact. Will makes an otherworldly noise. “Yeah, baby, that’s fucking it. Wish you could see yourself. So fucking pink and pretty.”

Will has no concept of time. He’s not sure how long Mike has been behind him like this, maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours. It’s inconsequential to Will; he was made for this. And Mike has the same thought, fingers spreading inside Will and stretching him in a way that’s devastating. “So perfect,” Mike anchors his other hand at the small of Will’s back, pressing him down into a higher arch. “Made for me, Will, made to take my cock.”

“Yes.” Will’s voice is high-pitched, disjointed and disconnected from his brain. “Made for it, M-ike, for y-you.”

“Yeah, fuck.” Mike’s hands pull away from Will and he feels his hole flutter at the sudden absence. Will groans when he hears Mike undo his belt and unzip his jeans, because fuck, Will forgot that Mike is fully clothed while he’s in nothing but socks and it’s so ridiculously humiliating and hot.

Mike rubs his tip against Will’s entrance, pushing in just enough to tease but not enough to breach. Will knows what Mike is waiting for, knows that Mike wants him to fall apart and beg and Will fucking delivers, punched out pleas spilling from his mouth like Hail Marys after a confession.

And Mike is so good to him, sliding in soft and slow, the answer to all of Will’s prayers. Will’s brain is so deliciously empty, mouth parted and panting when Mike bottoms out. Mike’s hands are sweet on him, rubbing smooth circles across Will’s thighs and waist and back.

“Gorgeous.” Mike breaths out, hips snapping forward into Will. “And beautiful. Mine, all mine. Fuck, Will. Everyone wants you, everyone wants you so fucking bad and you’re mine.”

“Yours.” Will sobs as Mike sets a steady pace, a promise. Will thinks that Mike must have missed him too, that Mike must also hate this conflict that’s existed between them over the past few days, because he’s being so nice to Will, giving Will exactly what he needs when he needs it. God, Will thinks, he just loves Mike so much. He tells Mike this with the reverence of an invocation, his words a petition, a supplication, a near-demand for something, anything, everything.

“Love you so much, Will.” Mike’s resolution is gone, his gravely voice turning into a whine that Will can’t help but match. It’s Will who brings Mike to his knees, it’s Will who has Mike wrapped around his finger, it’s Will who owns Mike.

Mike snakes a hand up Will’s back and anchors it into his hair, sharply pulling his head up. “You wanna know how much I love you? Fuck.” Mike’s question is rhetorical; Will doesn’t have time to even attempt to form an answer before Mike leans forward and drops something in front of him. He angles Will’s head down and Will’s pulse skyrockets, vision blurring at what he sees.

Mike is still babbling behind him, snaking a hand around Will to wrap against his cock and fuck, it’s so wrong, so so wrong. “Love you so much, Will-baby, would do anything for you. Fucking killed him, killed him for just looking at you, for making you cry.” Will can’t see anymore, tears falling from his eyes and splattering onto the polaroids in front of him, but it doesn’t matter; the images are burned into his retinas anyway, Carlton’s contorted form burrowed deep into his brain, his mauled throat attached to his soul forever.

Mike won’t shut up, words vomiting around Will as his hips snap harder. Mike is so far gone from his usual stone demeanor, so completely out-of-control. Will’s eyes fall shut and Mike gives another sharp tug at Will’s hair. “Need you to look at it, baby, need your eyes open. Fucking look at him.” And Will wants to be good for Mike so badly, so he does. He pries his eyes open and keens, loud and unabashedly when his vision focuses. Will can see it so clearly, can picture Mike following a few steps behind Carlton, can picture Mike pushing Carlton to the ground, can picture Mike sawing across Carlton’s throat. It’s too much and it’s as if sex had just been the prelude to this, the foreplay; Mike’s hand twists around Will in such a perfect way and he’s fucking coming with a scream, eyes still fixed on the polaroids.

“Yeah, Will, so good for me.” Mike fucks Will though it, fast and shallow and torterous. “You told me I could, did it ‘cause you fucking said so.” Mike drops Will’s head and his hands anchor back onto Will’s waist as he chases his own release. The polaroids stick to Will’s face.

Mike still won’t shut up, foul words spilling from his lips, and Will should hate it, knows that it should make him feel sick to hear his boyfriend’s words, but it doesn’t. And that fact, the fact that Will doesn’t feel repulsion right now but satisfaction, Will thinks in a brief moment of clarity, is more horrifying than the film clinging to his sweat and tears as Mike uses him.

“Will,” Mike sounds wrecked, like his throat is the shredded one. “Y’coming ‘cause I fucking killed someone, holy shit, I-” Mike’s hips stutter and his voice drops off, gripping into Will’s hips impossibly tight as he finishes.

Mike collapses onto Will, pressing his forehead against the small of Will’s back after he slowly pulls out. Will whimpers at the loss, a shiver running up his spine as Mike pants against him.

They’re both silent, their breath evening out as the seconds pass. Will is uncomfortable where he’s pinned by Mike’s form, come leaking out of him and polaroids still stuck to his face, but there’s a pit at the bottom of his stomach that keeps him rooted to where he’s arched on the bed.

They’ve built a house of cards, he and Mike.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

The silence stretches, even after Mike peels himself off of Will and procures a wet cloth to wipe him down with. It continues when Mike redresses Will in his shirt and boxers and it reaches its peak when Mike stands in front of Will, watching him gulp down water from the lidless Nalgene he’d just pressed into Will’s hand, polaroids still strewn on the bed behind him.

“Are you gonna try to leave me?” The sentence rings through Will’s head. It lodges itself deep into Will’s brain, forcing itself into his neural pathways and sticking to every synapse, exciting and inhibiting every neuron in such an overwhelmingly mind-numbing way that the only thing Will can think is: try.

Mike’s gaze is hot on Will. It splits him open and sears into him ruthlessly. Will wouldn’t be surprised if his insides started falling out, wouldn’t be surprised to hear his organs fall onto the hardwood floor of their shitty apartment with wet plaps as Mike cauterizes his wounds. His words are unspoken, but the meaning is clear. Try.

And, oh, Will thinks. How silly was he to think earlier that he has the ability to leave. How silly was he to think, not even an hour ago, that he’s the one here with all the power. How silly was he to think that there was life outside of Mike. How fucking idiotic, actually, was Will to think that he had any choice in the matter, to think that he had any say in whether or not Mike owns him.

Will’s brain goes empty again. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the water bottle onto their nightstand. He holds out a hand to Mike and Mike takes it, pulling Will up and into his chest. Will can hear Mike’s heartbeat, steady and sobering.

“There’s a guy at that bagel place we like.” Will murmurs, voice so low it’s hardly a whisper. “He only talks to me if I go in without you. Doesn’t charge me for the coffee.”

Mike’s heartbeat quickens, now loud in Will’s ears, louder than the words that Mike whispers back to him. “We should go get bagels soon.”