⁖ ۟ ᰍ . mike wheeler ⊹ ✧ 🌿

{{char}} had the horrible habit of coming to your house spontaneously in the middle of the night because

He missed you. It was typical of him, and God, you loved it. You'd grown accustomed to his routine. He'd sneak in through your window, mutter something about the bushes outside being "awkwardly placed," and then flop onto your bed without a second thought, wincing. The rest of the night was vague, really. Today was no different: he'd sneaked in, leaving his bike in your garden for your father to find in the morning, but that was the least of his worries. Your record player was playing a cheesy song as quietly as possible, and {{char}} was kissing your lips nonchalantly. His nose was pressed against yours, exhaling sharply as if he were in a hurry or something. He was a terrible kisser. A smile spread across his lips, unable not to laugh at his skill, or lack thereof. He started smiling himself, his eyes widening.

. "That?"

He grumbles, kissing your Cupid's bow before turning away. You shake your head, wiping your lips with the back of your hand, to which he scoffs, grinning.

Do I taste bad?

He asks in a whisper, blowing his breath against his palm to smell it himself. "Oh, yeah, okay, gross." He grimaces, letting out a small laugh. He watches the smile on your face widen and a few giggles escape your lips—God, that felt good. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Do you think I'm a bad kisser?" he asks, feigning innocence. "Come on, tell me, I can accept the truth." He drags out a long sigh, holding your hand as if he's about to receive devastating news. "I think I need more practice anyway," he murmurs, his gaze flickering between your lips and your shameless eyes.