— AN EATER
thriller ! era synopsis — a short story of how michael grew a mustache. ( spoiler— it’s because he can’t stay away from your pussy )
Nervousness was practically vibrating between the two of you in the quiet of his bedroom, the heavy velvet curtains drawn shut to block out the rest of the world. You sat on the edge of the mattress, your fingers twisting together in your lap, while Michael hovered just a few feet away. He looked incredibly young, his signature curls framing a face that was currently completely smooth, save for the bright, anxious look in his eyes.
"Are you sure about this?" he whispered, his voice dropping into that soft, gentle register he used whenever he was trying to be extra careful with you. "I just... I want it to be perfect for you because we've never done this before."
"I'm sure," you breathed, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Just... be careful with me, Mike."
"Always," he promised, finally moving closer. He dropped to his knees between your thighs, his hands trembling slightly as they rested on your knees.
When he first leaned in, it was a little clumsy. He didn't quite know where to put his nose, and his initial movements were a bit too hesitant, a bit too fast, making you shift uncomfortably. He pulled back instantly, looking up at you with wide, worried eyes. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I'm doing it wrong."
"You didn't hurt me," you said softly, reaching down to cup his jaw, guiding him back. "Just slow down. Take your time. Right there..."
The moment he adjusted, finding the perfect rhythm, everything changed. A soft, involuntary gasp left your lips, and you gripped his shoulders. Hearing that sound did something to Michael. It was like a switch flipped inside his mind. He completely lost himself in the sensation of making you feel good, his tongue finding a steady, agonizingly perfect pace that had your toes curling in the air. By the time you arched off the bed, completely undone by a wave of pleasure you’d never felt before, Michael was staring up at you with a completely dazed, blown-out expression. It had officially changed his life.
From that afternoon onward, it became an absolute obsession.
The hesitancy was entirely gone, replaced by a relentless, desperate hunger to worship you. The moment the two of you were behind closed doors—whether it was the lock clicking shut in his home studio, the privacy divider rolling up in the back of a limo, or just a few stolen minutes in a green room—Michael was on his knees.
"Michael, wait, we only have ten minutes before your meeting," you gasped one afternoon as he practically tackled you onto the sofa, his hands already pulling at your clothes.
"Ten minutes is plenty of time," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with a sudden, intense heat that left you breathless. "Please. Just let me. I need to feel you, I need to taste you."
He didn't even care about his own release most of the time. He would get so intensely aroused just from the sound of your whimpers and the way your body shook under his hands that the sheer overstimulation would completely overwhelm him. More than once, while completely buried between your thighs, a sudden, ragged groan would escape his throat, his entire body going rigid as he ruined his custom pants, cumming hard without you ever even touching him. He would just lie there against you, panting and completely spent, a triumphant, dazed smile on his face.
As the weeks went on, he wanted to try everything. He became incredibly fond of face sitting, loving the absolute vulnerability of having you completely on top of him, letting him look straight up at you while he worked you into a frenzy. Other times, he’d pull you into a tight sixty-nine, the intensity of your slobbering mouth working his cock and the taste of your sweet arousal driving him so wild that he could barely keep his composure.
But then, the physical side effects of his new favorite hobby started to show.
It started as a faint, dark shadow right above his upper lip, a subtle peach fuzz starting to come in around his mouth. You didn't think much of it at first, until you remembered that old, ridiculous wives' tale.
One evening, while you were sitting on his lap in his room, you traced the soft hairs with your thumb. "You know... there’s a saying about why men suddenly start growing facial hair like this."
Michael blinked, wrapping his arms around your waist. "What saying?"
When you whispered the myth into his ear, his entire face flushed a deep, bright crimson. He let out a high-pitched, embarrassed giggle, hiding his face in your neck. "Oh my gosh, no way! That’s not real. Is it? You're just teasing me."
"I dunno, Mike," you laughed, running your fingers through his curls. "You never used to have this. Now it's growing in fast."
He looked in the mirror later that night, touching the shadow on his lip with a shy, incredibly proud little smirk. He clearly didn't mind the myth at all; if anything, it felt like a badge of honor. Within a few more weeks, that shadow fully filled out into a distinct, neat little mustache.
The real trouble started when his family started noticing.
You were all gathered at the family home for Sunday dinner, sitting around the large dining table. You were happily chatting with Janet when La Toya suddenly squinted across the table at her brother.
"Michael, what is that on your face?" La Toya asked, pointing a fork at him. "Are you trying to grow a mustache?"
The entire table went quiet. Jackie leaned over to get a closer look, laughing. "Man, look at that! Where did that come from? You’ve never been able to grow facial hair like that."
"Yeah, Mike, you look like you're tryna be all grown up all of a sudden," Marlon chimed in, chuckling. "What’s the occasion?"
You felt all the blood rush to your face, your face burning so hot you were certain everyone could see it. You choked on your sip of water, coughing into a napkin to hide your sheer panic. You knew exactly where that mustache came from. Every single hair on his lip was a direct result of his absolute obsession with your body.
Michael, however, didn't panic at all. He just offered a calm, incredibly polite smile, though his eyes darted over to you across the table, flashing a wicked, knowing look that made your stomach do flips. "I just thought it was time for a change, that's all. A new look for a new era."
"Well, I think it looks nice," Katherine said gently from the head of the table, completely oblivious to the silent crisis you were experiencing.
The second the two of you got back to his place and the bedroom door closed, you grabbed his arm, your face still burning. "Michael! Oh my god, I almost died, I swear. This is getting too out of hand."
"What is?" he asked, acting completely innocent as he stepped into your space, his hands immediately sliding down to your hips.
"The mustache! The... the reason for the mustache!" you cried out, trying to push him back, though your own body was already betraying you at his touch. "You do it too much. Every single time we have sex, every time we're alone, you just HAVE to do it. You're obsessed, Mike. You need to take a break."
Michael didn't care. He just chuckled, a low, confident sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, the slight prickle of his new mustache rubbing against your skin.
"I can't help it," he murmured, his hands sliding up under your shirt, his breath hot against your ear. "It's my favorite thing in the world. I'm not stopping."
Before you could even utter another protest, he was already pulling you down to the bed, completely intent on adding to his new look.
