summary: after not letting you finish, Michael’s friendly touches became less and less friendly, all still under the guise of friendship. 2 weeks later, you push him to his breaking point, forcing him to claim you.
cw: p in v, no protection, controlling!michael, mentions do the family, j*e is ‘he who shall not be named’, suggestion of cockwarming at the end, cussing, mdni, some fluff and angst, happy ending-in both ways.
a/n: no ai usage, tagged the people below who asked for part two. Works as a stand alone chapter but if you want to read part one it’s here. Very filthy so be advised. Enjoy!
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of waking up with your thighs pressed together and a slick, aching emptiness between them that no amount of squirming could fix. Fourteen days of Michael’s hands on you—in hallways, on his couch, in the backseat of his car when he offered you a ride—each casual touch landing like a match on gasoline. He’d palm your ass in the kitchen while reaching past you for a glass, and your cunt would clench so hard you’d have to grip the counter. He’d kiss your neck in greeting, lips lingering on the spot just below your ear that made your knees buckle, and then he’d pull back with that knowing half-smile and ask if you wanted to watch a movie.
Just friends, he’d say. Friends do this.
And you’d nod, because what else could you do? Call him a liar? Demand he acknowledge that he’d spent an entire evening buried inside you, pounding into you until you sobbed, only to stop the moment your orgasm crested? Demand he explain why he never let you finish?
You couldn’t. The words lodged in your throat every time.
So you swallowed them. Let them curdle into something hot and desperate that lived in the pit of your stomach. You went to work with damp underwear and came home to a cold shower that did nothing. You lay in bed at night with your own hand pressed between your thighs, seconds from relief, and then you’d hear his voice in your head—not until I say—and your fingers would still. You couldn’t even make yourself come anymore. He’d trained it out of you without ever saying a word.
Day seven, he found you in his kitchen wearing a sundress and spent ten minutes “helping” you reach a high shelf, his hips pressed flush against your backside while he stretched up for a box of pasta. His hard-on ground into the cleft of your ass through his sweatpants, and he hummed a song he's working on under his breath like nothing was happening.
Day ten, you fell asleep on his couch during a Thunderbirds marathon and woke up to his face buried in your lap, mouthing at the seam of your shorts, his breath hot and damp through the denim. He looked up at you with those deep brown hooded eyes and said, “You were having a bad dream. Just calming you down.” His lips glistened. You could smell yourself on his upper lip.
Day twelve—yesterday—you opened your underwear drawer and found three pairs missing. The ones with the little lace trim, the satin ones, the cotton with the strawberries. Gone. When you asked, Michael shrugged and said, “Laundry must’ve ate ‘em.” Then he kissed your forehead and told you you smelled nice.
You were losing your mind. Your body was a live wire, sparking at every accidental brush of his fingers. The ache between your legs had become a permanent resident, a background hum of want that colored everything. You were desperate. You were humiliated by how desperate you were. And the worst part—the part that kept you up at night, staring at the ceiling with your fists clenched in the sheets—was that he refused to name what you were to him.
Just friends.
Good girl.
Angel.
Never mine.
The Jackson family home in Hayvenhurst buzzes with pre-event chaos. You’ve been coming here since they first moved to California, back when Michael was still a kid with a big smile and bigger dreams, back when his brothers treated you like a baby sister and his mother fed you sweet potato pie until you couldn’t move. The house smells like hairspray and cologne and something baking in the kitchen. Down the hall, someone’s arguing about a missing cufflink. Janet’s laugh rings out from somewhere upstairs, bright and infectious.
You’re in Michael’s bedroom.
The door is closed. The curtains are drawn against the late afternoon sun, striping the room in slats of gold. His suit is laid out on the bed—black, tailored, the jacket still in its dry-cleaning plastic. Michael stands in front of the mirror in his dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, the fabric hanging open over the lean planes of his chest. The light stubble on his jaw catches the light. His fingers move deftly as he threads a cufflink through his left sleeve, and his reflection watches you in the mirror with the stillness of a predator.
You’ve been friends since they moved here. You’ve been in this bedroom a hundred times. But the air between you has never felt like this—charged, electric, the space thick with everything unsaid.
Your dress hangs from a hook on the back of his door. Emerald green silk, slinky and liquid, the kind of dress that moves like water when you walk. You picked it out three days ago from a boutique in Beverly Hills, and the moment you saw yourself in the fitting room mirror, you knew. The neckline plunges low, held up by thin straps and sheer willpower, and the back—the back dips so far that the lacy top of your thong peeks out above the fabric. It’s a dress that makes a statement. It’s a dress that demands an answer.
You unzip your jeans and shimmy them down your legs, keeping your back to him. The silk tank top you wore over follows, a whisper of fabric pooling on the floor. You’re in your underwear now—a matching set, deep green like the dress, the bra that lifts and frames your breasts until they threaten to spill over the lace. You feel his gaze on your skin like a brand. His fingers have paused on the cufflink.
The hanger scrapes against the hook as you lift the dress down. The silk is cool, liquid, settling over your shoulders and sliding down your body like a second skin. You adjust the straps. Smooth the fabric over your hips. The slit up the side opens over your left thigh with every breath.
“Zip me?” Your voice is light, casual.
Silence.
You turn. Michael hasn’t moved. His shirt still hangs open. The cufflink dangles from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes track down your body—the exposed swell of your breasts, the cinched waist, the slit that flashes thigh all the way up to where your hip meets your torso. His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers in his temple.
“What?” You tilt your head, playing dumb. “You don’t like it?”
His gaze lifts to yours. The deep brown of his irises has gone nearly black. “You’re not wearing that.”
The words land flat. No negotiation. No playful teasing. Just the cold steel of a command.
Something sparks in your chest—anger, finally, the anger you’ve been swallowing for two weeks. “I’m not?” You fold your arms under your breasts, deliberately, and watch his eyes flick down to track the movement. “That’s funny. Because I don’t remember asking.”
Michael’s nostrils flare. He sets the cufflink down on the dresser with a deliberate click. “That dress belongs in a bedroom, not at a charity gala with my whole family. Change.”
“No.”
The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve never said it to him before. Not like this. Not with your chin lifted and your heart hammering against your ribs.
His brow furrows. “Angel—”
“Don’t.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you intended. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that and then act like—like I’m just some girl who sits on your lap when you’re cold.” Your voice is shaking now, but you can’t stop. The words have been building for fourteen days, a pressure behind your teeth, and they’re finally spilling out. “You don’t get to put your hands all over me and kiss my neck and take my underwear and—and fuck me on your couch—and then tell me we’re just friends, Michael. You don’t get to deny me for two weeks and still think you have any say in what I wear.”
Michael goes very still.
The kind of still that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” you press on, voice thick. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. So I’ll wear what I want. And maybe tonight I’ll find someone who actually wants to claim me, since you clearly don’t.”
His eyes flash.
He moves so fast you don’t register it until his hand is on your hip and your back is against the door. The thud of your spine meeting the wood rattles the mirror on the adjacent wall. One hand grips the jut of your hip bone hard enough to bruise, and the other—the other finds the zipper at your side and yanks it down in one savage motion.
The silk slithers off your shoulder. Cool air kisses bare skin.
“Someone else?” His voice is low, dangerous, stripped of all pretense. The affable, teasing Michael is gone. The one who told you cockwarming was like holding hands, the one who buried his face in your lap and called it comforting—vanished. In his place is a man with fire in his eyes and a grip like iron. “You think someone else could touch you, after what I’ve done to this body?”
Your breath catches. “You— you said we were friends. You keep saying—”
“I lied.” He says it flatly, without apology. “I’ve been lying since the first time I put my hands on you. Is that what you want to hear? There’s nothing friendly about what I want to do to you, angel. Nothing casual. I’ve been trying not to scare you off, trying to give you time to catch up, and you— you think that means I don’t want to own you?”
He drags the dress down over your hips. The silk pools at your feet, a green puddle on the hardwood floor. You’re in nothing but the green bra and the lace thong now, and the way he looks at you makes your knees go weak.
“I’ve wanted to own you since the day we met,” he growls, stepping closer, crowding you against the door with the full length of his body. The heat of him seeps through your skin all the way down to your bones. “Every time you laughed at one of my jokes, every time you fell asleep on my shoulder, every time you bent over in those little shorts—I wanted to flip up your skirt and fuck you until you forgot your name. You think I’m not claiming you? Baby. Sweet girl.” His mouth descends on your neck, teeth grazing the tendon. “I claimed you a long time ago. You just didn’t notice.”
The sound that escapes you is half moan, half sob. “Then why didn’t you—”
“Because I’m selfish.” He bites down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after. “Because I wanted to see how far I could push you. Wanted to watch you get desperate for me, watch you wake up wet and go to bed aching, watch you fall apart a little more every day.” His hand slides from your hip to the front of your thong, palm pressing against the damp lace. He groans at what he finds. “And you did, didn’t you? You’ve been dripping for me for two weeks. Haven’t you.”
It’s not a question. He already knows.
“Yes,” you gasp anyway. The admission scalds your throat. “Yes, Michael, I can’t—I haven’t been able to—”
“Haven’t been able to what?”
“Come.” The word is a whimper. Your hips buck into his hand. “I’ve tried. I can’t. I hear you—in my head—and I can’t—”
His eyes darken further, something like triumph flickering in their depths. “That’s right. Because you don’t get to come unless I’m inside you. That’s the rule.” He presses harder against the soaked lace, and your vision swims. “You’re mine, angel. Your body knows it even if your mouth wants to fight about it. And you want to know why I didn’t let you come that night?”
You nod, frantic.
“Because I wanted you like this. Desperate. Begging. Ready to give me everything.” His fingers hook under the waistband of your thong. “And you’re ready now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
One tug. The flimsy lace tears like tissue paper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. The scrap of fabric falls away, and you’re bare beneath his hand, the slick evidence of your arousal coating his fingers.
Michael makes a sound low in his throat that’s somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “Look at you. Absolutely soaked for me.” Two fingers slide through your folds, spreading the wetness. “Did you wear this dress just to make me crazy? Just to see what I’d do?”
“Yes,” you confess, breathless. “I wanted—I needed you to— I needed you to finally—”
“Claim you.” He finishes the sentence, his fingers circling your clit with a featherlight touch that makes your whole body jolt. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”
“Claim me.” Your voice breaks. “Michael, please, I need you to claim me. I need to be yours. Not just—not just your friend, I can’t do the friend thing anymore, it’s making me crazy—”
He kisses you.
Not gentle. Not teasing. Hard, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your lips, and the taste of him—the taste you’ve been dreaming about for two weeks—fills your senses. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The other leaves your clit and grips your ass, hauling you against him, and the rigid length of his erection presses into your hip through his dress pants.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged. “Who do you belong to?”
“You.”
“Louder.”
“You, Michael. I belong to you.”
Something in him snaps.
He spins you around, your chest pressing against the door, your cheek flat against the cool wood. His body covers you from behind, solid and hot, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. His hands are everywhere—skimming your ribs, cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, sliding down to grip your hips with a possessiveness that makes your cunt clench on nothing.
“This bra,” he mutters against your skin. “Matches the thong. Matches the dress. You planned all of this.”
“I— yes—”
“Naughty girl.” He unclasps the bra with one hand, practiced and efficient. The straps slide down your arms, and then his palms are on your bare breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak into hard, aching points. “You wanted to make me lose control. Wanted to push me until I snapped.”
“Yes—”
“Congratulations.” His voice drops to a growl. “You got what you wanted.”
He fumbles with his belt, the clink of the buckle and the rasp of the zipper deafening in the small room. You feel him free himself—the hot, velvety length of his cock pressing against your bare ass—and a desperate whine leaks from your lips. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since you felt him inside you, and your body remembers. Your body has been counting the days.
“Please,” you gasp. “Please, Mikey, I need you inside me. Now. Please.”
He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head notching against your slick folds. “You want me to fuck you, angel? Want me to make you mine?”
“Yes yes yes—”
“Then take it.”
He thrusts inside you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
The stretch is a revelation. He’s so big, impossibly big, and your body seems to have forgotten—forgetten the way he fills you to the brim, the way the head of his cock kisses your cervix, the way your inner walls have to stretch and flutter and fight to accommodate something so thick. A scream tears from your throat, muffled against the door, your nails scrabbling at the wood for purchase.
Michael doesn’t give you time to adjust. He pulls back—a dragging withdrawal that lights up every nerve ending—and slams back home with a force that rattles the door on its hinges. Then again. Again. Setting a pace that is punishing and relentless, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the slap of his hips against your ass filling the room.
“Who do you belong to?” His voice is a growl against your ear, his hand fisting in your hair and pulling your head back. “Who fucks you like this?”
“You— you do, Mikey, only you—”
“That’s right.” Another thrust, so deep it makes your vision white out.
“Who gets to see you like this? Dripping wet, spread open, taking my cock like you were made for it?”
“Only you— oh god, only you—”
“No one else,” he pants, slamming into you. “No one else touches you. No one else even looks at you. You’re mine, angel. Mine. I don’t care what I said before— I lied. I’ve been lying since day one. Nothing about this”—he punctuates the word with a particularly vicious thrust—“is friendly. You understand me?”
You’re crying now, fat tears of overwhelm and relief and pleasure streaking down your cheeks. The words won’t come anymore. Just sobs and pleas and the broken, rhythmic moans he punches out of you with every stroke.
“Answer me.” He slows, grinding deep, the head of his cock pressing against that devastating spot inside you while his hand releases your hair and snakes around to find your clit. His fingers press down—firm, unrelenting pressure—and your back bows, a silent scream catching in your throat.
“I understand,” you manage, the words slurred and desperate. “I’m yours. I’m yours, Michael, please don’t stop, please let me come this time, please—”
His rhythm changes. Slower. Deeper. Each thrust a rolling grind that drags the length of him against your front wall while his fingers work your clit in tight, precise circles. The combined sensation is devastating. The pressure that’s been building for two weeks—the pressure you’ve been carrying around like a stone in your gut—starts to swell, coiling at the base of your spine.
“You want to come, angel?” His voice is strained, the first crack in his composure. “After two weeks of being a brat? After wearing this dress to make me jealous? After threatening to find someone else?”
“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean it, I swear, I just wanted you to—”
“I know what you wanted.” He kisses the side of your neck, surprisingly tender. “And I’m giving it to you. I’ve wanted to give it to you this whole time. Just needed you to admit what you were asking for.”
His hips piston faster now, driving toward something, his breathing gone ragged and uneven. The hand on your clit never stops, never falters, and the pleasure is cresting, building toward a peak you haven’t been allowed to reach since that night on his couch.
“Come for me,” Michael breathes against your ear. It’s not a suggestion. It’s permission. The permission you’ve been waiting fourteen days to hear. “Come all over my cock, angel. Let me feel it. Let me feel what I do to you.”
The orgasm hits you like a freight train.
It’s not a gentle cresting wave. It’s a cataclysm. Your body seizes, back arching, mouth opening on a howl that you muffle against your own arm. Your cunt clamps down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing spasms, the walls of your pussy gripping and fluttering and pulling him deeper. White light explodes behind your eyelids. Your legs give out—would collapse entirely if Michael’s arms weren’t around you, holding you up, holding you together while you shatter.
“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it, prolonging every spasm with deep, grinding thrusts. “That’s my girl. So good for me. So fucking good. Let it all out.”
The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each one a little smaller than the last, until you’re left limp and trembling in his arms, tears drying on your cheeks, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. You’ve never come like that in your life. You didn’t know it was possible to come like that.
Michael isn’t done.
He pulls out—the withdrawal a slick, obscene sound—and spins you around. Your back hits the door again, and then he’s lifting you, your legs hooking over his hips, your arms winding around his neck. He lines himself up and thrusts back inside in one motion, and the overstimulation makes you cry out, a sharp sound that’s half pain and half pleasure.
“One more,” he demands, voice wrecked. “You owe me one more. Two weeks of watching you walk around in those tiny shorts, bending over, putting on lip gloss, making me hard in front of my brothers— you owe me.”
He fucks into you with short, desperate strokes, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in harsh pants. The control he’s held onto for so long is fraying, thread by thread. His hips stutter. A groan tears from his chest that sounds almost pained.
“Where do you want me to come, angel?” The words are strained, barely a whisper. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Inside.” The word is immediate, instinctive. “Inside me, Mikey, please, I want to feel it—”
“Fuck.” The curse is ripped from him. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Please. I need to feel it. I need to feel you.”
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and the hot pulse of his release floods your insides. The feeling of it—the way his cock throbs and jerks inside you, the spreading warmth—triggers a second, smaller orgasm, your cunt milking him through every last spasm until he’s empty and shuddering in your arms.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your bodies still joined. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. Outside the door, you can hear the distant chaos of the Jackson household—a door slamming, someone shouting about a missing shoe, the faint strains of music from someone’s radio.
Michael lifts his head. His eyes are soft now, the fire banked into something warmer. He brushes a strand of sweat-damp hair from your forehead.
“You’re mine,” he says quietly. No question. No pretense. “For real. No more ‘just friends.’ You’re my girl. You hear me?”
You nod, throat too tight for words.
“Good.” He kisses you softly, once, twice. “Now put on a different dress. You’re still not wearing that green one in front of my mother.”
A wet, breathless laugh escapes you. “Okay.”
An hour later, you walk into the gala on Michael’s arm.
The dress you’re wearing now is charcoal grey, elegant and demure, with a high neckline and a hem that falls just below the knee. Conservative. Respectable. Entirely inappropriate for the things you were doing forty-five minutes ago, but the slight limp in your step and the fresh bruise blooming on your collarbone tell a different story.
The ballroom glitters with chandeliers and champagne flutes. He who shall not be named is holding court near the bar, his booming laugh carrying across the room. Katherine looks radiant in lavender, her arm linked through her husband’s. The brothers are scattered throughout the crowd—Jackie talking to a record executive, Tito laughing with a group near the stage, Jermaine and Marlon in what looks like a heated debate about basketball near the hors d'oeuvres table, Randy hitting on a girl at the table next to them. Janet spots you first and waves, her face brightening.
Michael’s hand is on your lower back. It hasn’t moved since you got out of the car.
The first person you encounter is a Motown producer you recognize from album covers, a paunchy man with a combover and a too-wide smile. He extends his hand to Michael, claps him on the shoulder, and then his gaze slides to you with obvious curiosity.
“And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, looking you up and down in a way that makes Michael’s grip on your back tighten.
Michael doesn’t hesitate.
“This is my girlfriend,” he says smoothly, pulling you closer. “We’ve known each other for years. Figured it was finally time to make it official.”
The word lands like a firework in your chest. Girlfriend. Not friend. Not angel with a wink and a nudge. Girlfriend, said out loud, to another human being, with no hedging or backtracking.
The producer beams. “Well, aren’t you a lucky man. Pleasure to meet you, miss.”
“Likewise,” you manage, because your brain has short-circuited.
Michael steers you away before the producer can ask more questions. His hand slides from your back to your hip, settling there with an ownership that feels entirely different from the casual touches he used to give you. Those were secret. Possessive but deniable. This one is a flag planted in the ground.
You make it three more steps before Janet intercepts you.
“There you are!” She throws her arms around you in a hug, and you hug her back, grateful for the grounding pressure of another human who isn’t Michael, whose touch doesn’t make your pulse spike. “Girl, you look gorgeous. What happened to that green dress you were so excited about?”
You feel Michael’s gaze on the side of your face.
“Changed my mind,” you say lightly. “Didn’t feel right for tonight.”
“Huh.” Janet’s eyes flick between you and her brother, noting the hand on your hip, the possessive tilt of his body. A grin spreads across her face. “Wait a minute. Are you two—?”
“Yep,” Michael says. Same easy tone he used to convince you cockwarming was platonic. Except now there’s nothing hidden behind it. Just certainty.
Janet’s grin widens. “Finally. God, you guys have been dancing around each other for ages. I thought I was gonna have to lock you in a closet or something.” She punches Michael’s shoulder. “Good for you, Mike. ‘Bout time.”
“Thanks, Dunk.” He smiles, and for the first time all night, it reaches his eyes.
Janet drifts off toward the appetizers, shooting you a thumbs-up over her shoulder. You turn to Michael, your heart still doing gymnastics in your chest.
“You meant that?” you ask quietly. “The girlfriend thing?”
He stops walking. Turns you to face him, his hands settling on your waist. Around you, the gala swirls in taffeta and tuxedos, but he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.
“I’ve been stupid,” he says, voice low. “Spent all this time telling myself I was being smart, taking it slow, keeping the upper hand. Telling you it was friendly when it was never friendly. Telling myself I wasn’t in over my head.” His thumbs rub small circles into the fabric of your dress. “I’m in over my head. Have been since the beginning. And I’m done pretending I’m not.”
“Michael—”
“I’m sorry I made you feel cheap.” The words are quiet, deliberate. “That wasn’t—that was never the point. The point was always you. You’re not a toy, angel. You’re everything. And I’m going to spend as long as it takes making sure you know that.”
Your eyes sting. You blink hard, because if you start crying in the middle of a charity gala, Janet will never let you live it down. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” You stand on your toes and kiss him, right there in the middle of the ballroom, in front of his mother and his brothers and a room full of Motown royalty. It’s a soft kiss, gentle—nothing like the frantic, desperate coupling in his bedroom. A kiss that’s a beginning rather than a culmination.
When you pull back, Michael’s eyes are glinting. “Love you,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.
The words hit you like a sunrise.
“Love you too,” you whisper back. And then, because you can’t resist: “Even if you did steal my underwear.”
His laugh is bright, bright enough to turn heads. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
“You’d better.”
He takes your hand. Threads his fingers through yours—not casual, not deniable, not the kind of hand-holding that can be explained away as just friends. The kind that says this is mine, and I’m announcing it to the world.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go say hi to my mom. She’s gonna be thrilled.”
She is. Katherine Jackson’s face lights up when Michael introduces you as his girlfriend, and she pulls you aside to tell you she always knew, she’s been praying for this, you’re the best thing that ever happened to her boy. You’re not sure about that last part, but the sincerity in her voice makes your throat tight again.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of congratulations and knowing looks. Jermaine gives Michael a rib-cracking hug. Marlon makes a joke about getting a new sister-in-law that earns him a smack on the arm from Janet. He who shall not be named nods gruffly and shakes your hand, which from him is practically a parade. Through all of it, Michael keeps you close—an arm around your waist, a hand on your back, his mouth occasionally dipping to your ear to murmur something filthy that makes your cheeks flame.
You’re his. Officially. Publicly. Irrevocably.
And later, when the gala winds down and the Jacksons pile into a fleet of cars to head home, Michael pulls you into the back of his black Rolls-Royce and locks the doors. The partition between you and the driver is already up. His hand finds your thigh under the hem of your respectable grey dress.
“So,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing the shell of your ear. “We’ve got a thirty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst.”
You turn to look at him, and the expression on his face is one you recognize. It’s the look he wore on the couch two weeks ago, when he first called you angel in that low, dark register. The look he wore in his bedroom an hour ago, right before he tore your thong in half. The look that says he’s not done with you. That he will never be done with you.
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, already breathless.
Michael’s smile is slow and devastating.
“Just keeping warm, sweets,” he says, and his fingers slide higher, finding the damp heat already gathering between your thighs. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”
summary: movie night with your best friend. he claims he’s cold, and one thing leads to another.
warnings: mdni, perv!bsf!michael, manipulative!michael, cockwarming, orgasm denial, cussing, unprotected, p in v, 4k wc
a/n: i read a story by another creator a week ago that follows kind of the same idea, not fully, but it inspired this. I can’t find her post to credit her so if you see this or anyone else sees this and knows who I’m talking about lemme know and I’ll credit! No Ai was used, I’ve been using the dash for years and I’m tired of not being able to use it so it doesn’t come off as Ai. 😔 also, this could be any era at all, but I was imagining otw while writing.
Part two is up. Read here!
enjoy!
The movie is noise. Explosions, a synth-heavy score that hasn’t aged well, the hero delivering a one-liner so flat it could level a city block. You haven’t absorbed a single frame in the last half hour. The leather couch in Michael’s apartment has molded around you like a second skin, and the only thing your body registers is the steady, radiating heat of his thigh where it presses against yours. He’s close. He’s always close. The bowl of popcorn between you has gone cold, kernels half-chewed and abandoned, and somewhere in the dark his fingers found the curve of your knee.
They haven’t moved.
Thumb tracing lazy half-moons against the cotton of your shorts. Up, down, up again. A rhythm so steady it might as well be a second heartbeat.
You twist the drawstring of your shorts around one finger until the tip goes numb. “Is that guy supposed to be the villain, or is he just having a really bad day?”
Michael doesn’t answer right away. The television throws blue-white light across the sharp angles of his face, and when you glance sideways, his gaze is already locked on your profile. Not the screen. You. His mouth curls at the corner, a sliver of amusement that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Those eyes—deep brown, hooded, and far too knowing—track the flutter in your throat when you swallow.
“Maybe both,” he says finally. His voice is a low rumble, the kind that vibrates somewhere behind your sternum. “People are complicated, sweets.”
His hand slides higher. Up past your knee, palm flattening across the top of your thigh, the warmth sinking through the worn cotton of your shorts. Not grabbing. Just resting. Owning. He’s done this a hundred times before—thrown an arm around your shoulder in public so that strangers mistake you for a couple, pressed his palm flat against your lower back while reaching for the coffee cups, crowded into your space until the very concept of personal boundaries felt like a foreign language you’d forgotten how to speak. Best friends. That’s the label he attaches to all of it with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. And you’ve let yourself believe him, because the alternative—the one where every casual, possessive touch makes your stomach drop like you’ve missed a step—is too big to fit inside your chest.
His thumb hooks the inner seam of your shorts.
“You cold, angel?”
The question lands feather-light, almost sweet. Michael’s voice is a weapon wrapped in velvet. He tilts his head toward you, and the television catches the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his lips part just slightly around the word angel like he’s tasting it.
You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders even though it’s not the cold that’s making your skin prickle. “A little,” you manage. The air conditioning rattles overhead, a convenient alibi.
Michael spreads his thighs—just a fraction, just enough to make space. “C’mere then. Sit on my lap. I’ll keep you warm.”
He says it like he’s offering you the remote. Casual. Generous. A favor between friends. But his hand on your thigh tightens a beat before he says it, and something flickers behind his eyes, something that looks a lot like hunger dressed up in good intentions.
You hesitate. You always hesitate. And every time, your hesitation means nothing, because your body is already shifting, the blanket pooling at your hips, your knees pressing into the couch cushion as you turn. Michael’s hands are on you before you’ve even decided to move—one on your waist, one on your hip—guiding, positioning, slotting you exactly where he wants you.
You settle onto his lap facing away from him, your spine aligning with his chest, your backside cradled against the vee of his thighs. The worn denim of his jeans is textured against the backs of your bare legs. He’s not hard yet. But you feel the shape of him anyway, the latent bulk of him pressing against the swell of your ass, and your throat closes around a swallow of air.
“See?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear. “Already warmer, right?”
“Mhm.” It’s not a word. It’s a vibration.
Michael wraps an arm around your middle, palm spread flat across your stomach, just below your navel. The other hand finds the outside of your thigh, fingers curving around the soft flesh, thumb stroking a line from hip to knee and back again. He rests his chin on your shoulder, stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and the television plays on, forgotten, a smear of color and noise.
Minutes pass. The movie lurches toward a second-act chase scene. Your heart rate hasn’t dropped below a gallop since his hands settled on you.
Then Michael shifts. A tiny adjustment, a roll of his hips that could be entirely innocent—except the pressure against your backside has changed. He’s filling out, the line of him growing thicker, harder, and when he settles again, the ridge of his erection presses unmistakably against the cleft of your ass.
A sound catches in your throat. You swallow it down before it can escape.
His thumb keeps stroking your thigh. “Comfortable?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out thinner than you’d like. “Fine.”
“Good.” His lips brush the curve of your ear, a kiss so light it might have been an accident. “Relax, sweets. You’re all tense.”
You try to relax. You really do. But his cock is a thick, insistent pressure against your backside, and every exhale seems to nestle you deeper against him, and the damp spot blooming in your underwear is turning into something you can’t ignore. You shift your weight, a minuscule adjustment meant to ease the pressure, and instead your hips rock backward and the length of him slides against you through two layers of fabric and a broken little whimper leaks past your teeth before you can stop it.
Michael inhales through his nose. His arm tightens around your middle.
“Angel,” he murmurs. His voice hasn’t changed—still calm, still light—but his fingers on your thigh have gone still. “You’re squirming.”
“Sorry.” The apology comes out breathless. “Just… trying to get comfortable.”
He hums, a low vibration that you feel all the way down your spine. “Comfortable is important. That’s why friends do this, right? Help each other be comfortable.”
Friends. He says the word like it’s a magic spell, something that makes all of this normal. And you want so badly to believe him. Because if this is normal, then the way your cunt is clenching around nothing isn’t something to be ashamed of. If this is what friends do, then the way your hips keep micro-rolling against his lap isn’t desperation—it’s just… comfort.
“Michael.” His name comes out fractured.
“Mm?” His nose nudges the soft spot behind your ear. “What’s wrong, baby?”
Baby. The word drops into your stomach like a hot stone.
“We shouldn’t…” You trail off. Because shouldn’t what? He’s just sitting there. You’re the one who can’t stop moving.
His arm across your stomach slides a fraction lower. The tips of his fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, and the skin beneath them jumps like he’s touched a live wire. “Shouldn’t what?” he asks, and his voice is so perfectly innocent it makes your teeth ache.
“You know what.”
Michael goes still. The pause stretches, elastic and charged, the only sound the distant pop-pop of gunfire on screen. Then he shifts his hips deliberately, grinding the full length of his erection against you, and the sound that tears from your throat is half gasp, half plea.
“That what?” he breathes, and something dark threads through the question.
Your hands curl into fists on your own thighs. “We said we weren’t going to— that we were just—”
“Just friends,” he finishes for you. “Exactly. Friends keep each other warm.” His fingers trace the edge of your waistband, dipping just beneath the elastic, then retreating. “You know what cockwarming is?”
The word hits you like a slap. You’ve heard it before, whispered in the back corners of your mind, but hearing it from his mouth in that low, reasonable tone makes your pulse stutter.
“It’s just keeping someone inside you,” Michael continues, voice smooth as silk. “No moving. No sex. Just warmth. Like holding hands, but… better.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “Friends do it all the time. Trust me.”
You don’t trust him. You never should have started trusting him. But your body is already nodding, your spine already softening against his chest, and the word that falls out of your mouth is not no but “Okay.”
Michael exhales, a shuddery thing that sounds almost like relief. “Good girl.”
His hands move. The one on your stomach presses down gently, holding you in place, while the other slides between your bodies. You hear the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then the blunt head of his cock—bare, hot, impossibly hard—presses against your ass. He’s freed himself without preamble, without asking, and the air in the room thickens with the scent of him, salt and musk and something darker that makes your mouth water.
“Lift up for me, sweets.”
Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You rise onto your knees, and his hand is there immediately, tugging your shorts and underwear down in one efficient motion until they bunch around your knees. Cool air kisses the slick, swollen flesh between your thighs, and you know he can see it, can see how wet you are, because the television light glints off the mess you’ve made of yourself and Michael makes a sound low in his chest.
“Oh, angel. Look at you.” His thumb swipes through your folds—just once, just a glancing touch—and comes away glistening. “All this already? We haven’t even started.”
Your face flames. “Shut up.”
He laughs, soft and dark. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a compliment.” He brings his thumb to his mouth, and the wet, sucking sound that follows makes your cunt clench so hard you see stars. “Taste so good, baby.”
Then his hands are on your hips, adjusting you, positioning you, and the thick head of his cock nudges against your entrance. You feel the flare of it, the silky heat of the tip pressing exactly where you’re wettest, and your inner muscles flutter in anticipation. He doesn’t push in. Just rests there, a blunt, throbbing pressure that makes your thighs tremble.
“Deep breath,” Michael whispers against your ear. “Just relax and let me in. We’re not doing anything. Just keeping warm.”
You take a breath. Or you try to. It gets stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat, because in that same instant he presses forward and the first inch of him breaches you, and the stretch steals every coherent thought from your skull.
He’s big. The impossible width of him, the way he splits you open like your body is something made to be reshaped. Your mouth falls open on a silent cry, fingers clawing at the denim of his jeans for something to hold onto. The head pushes past that first tight ring of resistance, and then he’s gliding deeper, the ridged length of him filling you inch by devastating inch, and all you can do is gasp and shudder and let him in.
“Shh,” he breathes, and his arm around your stomach holds you steady. “There you go. Taking me so well. Almost there, sweets, just a little more.”
He sinks deeper. Your inner walls stretch and give, the slick of your arousal easing the way, and when he finally seats himself to the hilt—when the base of his cock presses flush against your swollen lips and the tip of him kisses something so deep it makes your vision swim—a sob of pure, overwhelmed relief wrenches from your chest.
Michael groans through his teeth. “God, you’re tight, angel. Like you’re made for me.”
You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. He’s so deep you feel him in the base of your throat, a foreign fullness that blots out everything else. Your clit throbs. Your inner walls ripple around him in helpless, involuntary clenches, and each spasm draws a sharp inhale from the man behind you.
“There,” Michael says, and his voice is ragged but controlled. “See? I’m not moving. Just staying right here. Keeping warm.”
He lets the words hang, and you have nothing to say, because your entire existence has narrowed to the thick, pulsing heat of him seated inside you.
On screen, a car flips through a wall of fire.
Neither of you notices.
Minutes roll by, slow and viscous as honey. Michael keeps his promise. He doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t grind. His breathing steadies against your ear, warm and rhythmic, while one hand traces absent patterns on your stomach and the other strokes your outer thigh in long, soothing sweeps. He talks about the movie. Points out a continuity error. Wonders aloud whether the hero’s sidekick is going to get a spinoff. His voice is easy, conversational, as if you aren’t impaled on his cock, as if there isn’t a thin trickle of your own arousal sliding down the inside of your thigh to soak into his jeans.
“Do you think they’re setting up a sequel?” he asks, and his thumb finds the crease where your thigh meets your groin, pressing gently.
You try to answer. “Maybe. The box office was—” Your voice cracks on a high, thin note as he shifts minutely, settling deeper. “—was good.”
“That’s true.” His fingers trace a slow circle on the sensitive skin just beside your mound, never quite touching where you need them. “But sequels are always worse, right? Except for that one franchise.”
“Which one?”
He laughs, and the vibration travels through his chest and into your spine and then deeper, into the place where his cock throbs gently inside you. Your cunt clenches in response, a reflexive flutter that makes him groan under his breath.
“You’re squeezing me, angel.” His fingers still. “You know that?”
“I can’t help it.” The confession comes out desperate.
His lips brush your temple. “I know. You’re being so good for me, just staying still. But I can feel how much you want to move.” His hand slides from your thigh to your hip, squeezing gently. “It’s okay. You’re doing so well.”
Doing well. You’re a mess. The pressure inside you is a constant, an ache that borders on pain, and every second that passes without friction is a second your body rebels against. Your clit is a throbbing, neglected heartbeat. The walls of your cunt spasm around him rhythmically, trying to pull him deeper, to create the friction he’s denying you. And the worst part—the worst part—is the wetness. You can feel it gathering, slicking the base of his cock, dripping down to coat his balls, and the knowledge that he can feel it too, that he knows exactly how desperate you are, makes your cheeks burn.
“Michael.” His name is a rasp.
“Yes, baby?”
“I need…” You trail off. Need what? Need him to move? Need him to fuck you? Need to touch yourself? All of it. Everything.
“Tell me.” His voice is patient, but there’s a thread of command in it now. “What do you need?”
You shake your head, teeth digging into your bottom lip. You can’t say it. If you say it, this all becomes real, becomes something you can’t explain away later as just friends being friendly. So instead of speaking, you let your hand drift. Slow, subtle, a motion you tell yourself he won’t notice. Your fingers slide down your own stomach, past his arm still wrapped around your middle, and find the swollen nub of your clit.
The first touch is an electric shock. Your hips buck—just once, just a tiny jerk—and a broken moan slips past your lips before you can swallow it. You press harder, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of your middle finger, and the relief is so sharp it’s almost pain. Your eyes flutter shut. Your head falls back against his shoulder.
This. This is what you needed. If he won’t move, you’ll make your own friction. If this is all you get—just his cock buried deep while you touch yourself—then you’ll take it. You’ll take it and be grateful.
Michael’s breathing changes. Slows. Deepens.
“Angel.” His voice is quiet now. Not angry. Not yet.
Your finger keeps circling. Wet sounds, small and obscene, filling the space between lines of dialogue.
His hand moves faster than you expect. One moment your fingers are on your clit; the next, his hand has closed around your wrist, firm and unyielding, and he’s pulling your hand away. Gently. Almost tenderly. But so completely final it makes your chest ache.
“Hey,” he murmurs, and he brings your captive hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. “What’s this?”
“I needed—” The words catch. “Michael, please, I was just—”
“Just touching yourself?” He finishes the sentence for you, and there’s no judgment in his tone, only a kind of gentle surprise, like you’ve done something unexpected. “While I’m right here? That’s not how this works, sweets.”
Tears prick the corners of your eyes—frustration, humiliation, the unbearable ache between your legs. “You weren’t moving. You said we were just going to sit here, and I can’t— I can’t just sit here, Mikey, it’s too much, I need—”
“Shh.” He kisses your knuckles again, then lowers your hand, threading his fingers through yours and resting your joined hands on your stomach. “I know it’s a lot. But you don’t need to do that. You’ve got me. I’m right here.”
“Then do something,” you whisper, and the words break on the way out.
Michael is quiet for a moment. His fingers squeeze yours gently. Then his free hand smooths over your hip, down your thigh, back up again, a soothing rhythm that makes your breath stutter.
“You think I’m being mean,” he says. Not a question. “You think I’m making you suffer on purpose.”
You don’t answer. Because yes. Because the ache between your legs has become a living thing, and he put it there, and he’s refusing to do anything about it while his cock sits fat and warm inside you.
“I’m not being mean,” he continues, voice low and soft against your ear. “I’m showing you something. Something important.”
“What?” The word is a croak.
“That you don’t get to rush this.” He shifts slightly, and the movement makes his cock twitch inside you—just a flutter, but it’s enough to make your inner walls clamp down and your breath catch. “You don’t get to skip to the ending just because it feels good. You stay with me. You let it build. You let me decide.”
The possessive weight of the words settles over you like a heavy blanket. I decide. Not you. Him. And somewhere in the back of your mind, in the part that isn’t clouded by sheer desperate want, you know he’s been leading you toward this moment since the first time he threw an arm around your shoulder in public and called you his best girl.
“Okay,” you whisper. It’s surrender. It’s relief. It’s everything.
“Good.” He releases your wrist, and your hand falls limp to your side. “Now just breathe. Watch the movie. Let me keep you warm.”
The movie plays on. The hero is climbing a ladder somewhere, the sidekick making quips. You watch none of it. Every shred of your attention is laser-focused on the thick column of flesh splitting you open, on the slow, steady throb of it, on the way your inner walls flutter and grip around him with each involuntary clench.
Minutes pass. Five. Ten. The ache in your clit hasn’t diminished—if anything, it’s worse now, a pulsing, neglected throb that makes your thighs tremble with the effort of not pressing them together. Michael’s hands keep moving, slow and soothing: tracing patterns on your stomach, smoothing over your hips, stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs without ever quite touching where you need him. His lips brush your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your ear, feather-light kisses that leave goosebumps in their wake.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Just a little longer. You can do that for me, right?”
“Yes.” The word is barely air.
“There’s my good girl.”
And then, without meaning to—without any conscious decision—your hips move.
It’s just a rock. A tiny, subconscious roll of your pelvis, so small you almost don’t register it. But Michael registers it. His hands go still on your hips, and his breathing hitches, and the cock inside you pulses in response.
“Angel.” Warning.
You don’t stop. Can’t stop. Your hips rock again, a little bigger this time, grinding the base of his cock against your swollen clit. The friction is minimal, barely there, but it’s enough—enough to send a bolt of pleasure searing up your spine, enough to make your inner walls spasm and flutter and pull a ragged groan from Michael’s chest.
“Oh god,” you breathe, and now you’re moving in earnest, a slow, grinding rhythm that lifts you a fraction of an inch and sinks you back down. The sound it makes is obscene—a wet, squelching glide of your arousal coating his length—and you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except the feeling of finally, finally getting some part of what you need.
Michael’s fingers dig into your hip bones. “You’re doing it again.”
His voice is strained. Different. The calm veneer has cracked, and underneath it is something raw, something that sounds like he’s been holding onto his control with both hands and his grip is slipping.
You keep grinding. Helpless little rocks of your hips, chasing the spark of pleasure each downward press ignites in your clit. Your head falls back against his shoulder. Your mouth opens on a whimper. And the words that spill out are broken and desperate: “I can’t help it, Mikey, I’m sorry, I can’t— you feel too good, I need—”
His breath catches. Rugged.
“I know,” he says, and his voice is nearly gone, shredded at the edges. “I know you need. I can feel it.” His hand slides from your hip to the place where your bodies join, fingers spreading through the slick mess you’ve made. “So wet, angel. Dripping down my balls. You’ve been so patient, haven’t you?”
You nod frantically, still grinding, still chasing. “So patient. Please.”
“You tried to touch yourself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t stop moving.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, just please—”
The word please breaks on a sob, and something in Michael’s composure finally, completely shatters.
His hands clamp down on your hips—hard, the grip of a man who has stopped pretending to be gentle—and he lifts you.
Not a suggestion. Not a guide. He lifts you the full length of his cock, the withdrawal a dragging, hollow ache that makes your walls ripple and cling as if trying to pull him back in. The head catches at your entrance, and for one agonizing second you’re empty, gaping, your cunt clutching around nothing but cool air.
Then he pulls you back down.
The thrust is a revelation. He slams you onto his cock with a force that drives the air from your lungs, the slap of your ass meeting his thighs loud enough to echo off the walls. He buries himself to the hilt, the thick head kissing that deep, devastating spot inside you, and your vision whites out. A scream tears from your throat—not a moan, a scream—and your fingers claw at his forearms for something to anchor you.
“There,” Michael grits out. “That’s what you wanted. That’s what you’ve been grinding for. For me to do the work.”
He does it again. Lifts you until you’re nearly empty, then drags you back down while his hips buck up to meet you. The combined force drives him deeper than should be possible, and the sound you make is barely human. Your inner walls spasm around him, gripping and fluttering, and the wet, percussive rhythm of flesh on flesh fills the room and drowns out the television entirely.
“Fuck,” you gasp. Your head lolls back. “Mikey— oh god, Mikey—”
“Just me,” he corrects, voice a wrecked rasp against your ear. “Not god. Just Mikey.”
He sets a pace that is punishing and perfect. Each downward thrust grinds his pelvis against your backside, seating him impossibly deep, and the head of his cock hits that spot inside you with every stroke. You’re babbling now, words that don’t connect, pleas and yes and his name over and over, a liturgy of desperation. Your thighs tremble so hard you’d collapse if he weren’t holding you up, moving you like you weigh nothing, like you’re a toy he’s using for his own pleasure.
The angle shifts. Michael plants his feet on the floor and tilts his hips, and suddenly the ridge of him drags directly against your front wall—a constant, grinding pressure that lights up your clit from the inside. Your entire body seizes. A cry wrenches from somewhere deep in your chest.
“Right there?” he pants. “That’s the spot, isn’t it, angel?”
“Yes yes yes—” The word is a skip, a broken record.
His laugh is breathless and dark. “Course it is. This pussy was made just for me. It’s mine and mine only.”
He’s right. You felt it every time he looked at you too long, biting his lower lip while pretending not to be staring at your tits. You felt it every time his hand ‘accidentally’ palmed your ass. Your whole body has been his this whole time, he was just finally claiming it.
One hand releases your hip and snakes around to your front, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He presses down—not rubbing, just firm, steady pressure—and your back bows. Your mouth opens on a silent scream. The combined sensation of his cock pounding deep and his fingers pinning your clit is too much, everything, the kind of pleasure that borders on agony.
“Look at you,” Michael growls. “Taking all of me. Being such a good girl for me, even when you can’t follow instructions.”
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it—” The apology pours out between heaving breaths, half-sobbed.
He shushes you, but it’s not gentle anymore. It’s raw, barely controlled. “I know you couldn’t help it. You needed me to fuck you. It’s okay.” His hips never slow, the rhythm driving deeper, harder. “It’s okay, baby. Friends help each other out. That’s all this is.”
The word friends lands somewhere between a mockery and a benediction, and you’re too far gone to care. Too far gone to do anything but let him use you, let him drive you toward the peak that’s been building since the moment he first called you angel in that low, possessive register.
Your orgasm is gathering, a pressure at the base of your spine that coils tighter and tighter with every thrust. The feeling is immense—his cock splitting you open, his fingers relentless on your clit, his voice a filthy murmur in your ear telling you how good you feel, how wet you are, how you were made for this. Your vision swims. Your nails score red lines down his forearms. The pleasure crests, rising like a tidal wave, and you’re seconds—seconds—from shattering.
“Gonna come,” you manage, the words slurred and desperate. “Mikey, I’m gonna come, please let me come, please—”
Michael’s rhythm stutters. A tremor runs through him, the first real crack in his control, a groan that sounds ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers press harder against your clit, his cock slams deeper, and you’re right there, right on the edge, the pleasure so acute it’s almost pain—
And then he stops.
His hands clamp down, iron bands around your hips. He holds you immobile, impaled on his cock, your clit throbbing under his motionless fingers. The denial is a knife. Sharp, immediate, devastating. The orgasm that had been a breath away recedes like a wave pulling back from shore, leaving you hollow and aching and gasping.
A desperate, keening wail wrenches from your chest. “No— no, Mikey, please, I was right there—”
He’s breathing hard, ragged gasps that fan against your ear. His cock pulses inside you, as desperate as you are, but his hands don’t move. His fingers don’t move. He holds you on the precipice, trembling and slick and utterly at his mercy.
“Not yet,” Michael breathes. His voice is shattered around the edges, wrecked, but the command in it is absolute. “Not until I say.”
The television flickers. On screen, the hero is walking away from an explosion. Credits are about to roll. The room is quiet except for the wet, rhythmic sound of your cunt fluttering around his cock and the harsh rasp of both your breathing.
You hang there, suspended in the narrow space between pleasure and denial, every nerve ending screaming, your body a live wire. Michael’s lips find your ear, and the words he whispers are low and dark and full of something that might be affection and might be entirely something else.
summary: after not letting you finish, Michael’s friendly touches became less and less friendly, all still under the guise of friendship. 2 weeks later, you push him to his breaking point, forcing him to claim you.
cw: p in v, no protection, controlling!michael, mentions do the family, j*e is ‘he who shall not be named’, suggestion of cockwarming at the end, cussing, mdni, some fluff and angst, happy ending-in both ways.
a/n: no ai usage, tagged the people below who asked for part two. Works as a stand alone chapter but if you want to read part one it’s here. Very filthy so be advised. Enjoy!
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of waking up with your thighs pressed together and a slick, aching emptiness between them that no amount of squirming could fix. Fourteen days of Michael’s hands on you—in hallways, on his couch, in the backseat of his car when he offered you a ride—each casual touch landing like a match on gasoline. He’d palm your ass in the kitchen while reaching past you for a glass, and your cunt would clench so hard you’d have to grip the counter. He’d kiss your neck in greeting, lips lingering on the spot just below your ear that made your knees buckle, and then he’d pull back with that knowing half-smile and ask if you wanted to watch a movie.
Just friends, he’d say. Friends do this.
And you’d nod, because what else could you do? Call him a liar? Demand he acknowledge that he’d spent an entire evening buried inside you, pounding into you until you sobbed, only to stop the moment your orgasm crested? Demand he explain why he never let you finish?
You couldn’t. The words lodged in your throat every time.
So you swallowed them. Let them curdle into something hot and desperate that lived in the pit of your stomach. You went to work with damp underwear and came home to a cold shower that did nothing. You lay in bed at night with your own hand pressed between your thighs, seconds from relief, and then you’d hear his voice in your head—not until I say—and your fingers would still. You couldn’t even make yourself come anymore. He’d trained it out of you without ever saying a word.
Day seven, he found you in his kitchen wearing a sundress and spent ten minutes “helping” you reach a high shelf, his hips pressed flush against your backside while he stretched up for a box of pasta. His hard-on ground into the cleft of your ass through his sweatpants, and he hummed a song he's working on under his breath like nothing was happening.
Day ten, you fell asleep on his couch during a Thunderbirds marathon and woke up to his face buried in your lap, mouthing at the seam of your shorts, his breath hot and damp through the denim. He looked up at you with those deep brown hooded eyes and said, “You were having a bad dream. Just calming you down.” His lips glistened. You could smell yourself on his upper lip.
Day twelve—yesterday—you opened your underwear drawer and found three pairs missing. The ones with the little lace trim, the satin ones, the cotton with the strawberries. Gone. When you asked, Michael shrugged and said, “Laundry must’ve ate ‘em.” Then he kissed your forehead and told you you smelled nice.
You were losing your mind. Your body was a live wire, sparking at every accidental brush of his fingers. The ache between your legs had become a permanent resident, a background hum of want that colored everything. You were desperate. You were humiliated by how desperate you were. And the worst part—the part that kept you up at night, staring at the ceiling with your fists clenched in the sheets—was that he refused to name what you were to him.
Just friends.
Good girl.
Angel.
Never mine.
The Jackson family home in Hayvenhurst buzzes with pre-event chaos. You’ve been coming here since they first moved to California, back when Michael was still a kid with a big smile and bigger dreams, back when his brothers treated you like a baby sister and his mother fed you sweet potato pie until you couldn’t move. The house smells like hairspray and cologne and something baking in the kitchen. Down the hall, someone’s arguing about a missing cufflink. Janet’s laugh rings out from somewhere upstairs, bright and infectious.
You’re in Michael’s bedroom.
The door is closed. The curtains are drawn against the late afternoon sun, striping the room in slats of gold. His suit is laid out on the bed—black, tailored, the jacket still in its dry-cleaning plastic. Michael stands in front of the mirror in his dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, the fabric hanging open over the lean planes of his chest. The light stubble on his jaw catches the light. His fingers move deftly as he threads a cufflink through his left sleeve, and his reflection watches you in the mirror with the stillness of a predator.
You’ve been friends since they moved here. You’ve been in this bedroom a hundred times. But the air between you has never felt like this—charged, electric, the space thick with everything unsaid.
Your dress hangs from a hook on the back of his door. Emerald green silk, slinky and liquid, the kind of dress that moves like water when you walk. You picked it out three days ago from a boutique in Beverly Hills, and the moment you saw yourself in the fitting room mirror, you knew. The neckline plunges low, held up by thin straps and sheer willpower, and the back—the back dips so far that the lacy top of your thong peeks out above the fabric. It’s a dress that makes a statement. It’s a dress that demands an answer.
You unzip your jeans and shimmy them down your legs, keeping your back to him. The silk tank top you wore over follows, a whisper of fabric pooling on the floor. You’re in your underwear now—a matching set, deep green like the dress, the bra that lifts and frames your breasts until they threaten to spill over the lace. You feel his gaze on your skin like a brand. His fingers have paused on the cufflink.
The hanger scrapes against the hook as you lift the dress down. The silk is cool, liquid, settling over your shoulders and sliding down your body like a second skin. You adjust the straps. Smooth the fabric over your hips. The slit up the side opens over your left thigh with every breath.
“Zip me?” Your voice is light, casual.
Silence.
You turn. Michael hasn’t moved. His shirt still hangs open. The cufflink dangles from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes track down your body—the exposed swell of your breasts, the cinched waist, the slit that flashes thigh all the way up to where your hip meets your torso. His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers in his temple.
“What?” You tilt your head, playing dumb. “You don’t like it?”
His gaze lifts to yours. The deep brown of his irises has gone nearly black. “You’re not wearing that.”
The words land flat. No negotiation. No playful teasing. Just the cold steel of a command.
Something sparks in your chest—anger, finally, the anger you’ve been swallowing for two weeks. “I’m not?” You fold your arms under your breasts, deliberately, and watch his eyes flick down to track the movement. “That’s funny. Because I don’t remember asking.”
Michael’s nostrils flare. He sets the cufflink down on the dresser with a deliberate click. “That dress belongs in a bedroom, not at a charity gala with my whole family. Change.”
“No.”
The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve never said it to him before. Not like this. Not with your chin lifted and your heart hammering against your ribs.
His brow furrows. “Angel—”
“Don’t.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you intended. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that and then act like—like I’m just some girl who sits on your lap when you’re cold.” Your voice is shaking now, but you can’t stop. The words have been building for fourteen days, a pressure behind your teeth, and they’re finally spilling out. “You don’t get to put your hands all over me and kiss my neck and take my underwear and—and fuck me on your couch—and then tell me we’re just friends, Michael. You don’t get to deny me for two weeks and still think you have any say in what I wear.”
Michael goes very still.
The kind of still that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” you press on, voice thick. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. So I’ll wear what I want. And maybe tonight I’ll find someone who actually wants to claim me, since you clearly don’t.”
His eyes flash.
He moves so fast you don’t register it until his hand is on your hip and your back is against the door. The thud of your spine meeting the wood rattles the mirror on the adjacent wall. One hand grips the jut of your hip bone hard enough to bruise, and the other—the other finds the zipper at your side and yanks it down in one savage motion.
The silk slithers off your shoulder. Cool air kisses bare skin.
“Someone else?” His voice is low, dangerous, stripped of all pretense. The affable, teasing Michael is gone. The one who told you cockwarming was like holding hands, the one who buried his face in your lap and called it comforting—vanished. In his place is a man with fire in his eyes and a grip like iron. “You think someone else could touch you, after what I’ve done to this body?”
Your breath catches. “You— you said we were friends. You keep saying—”
“I lied.” He says it flatly, without apology. “I’ve been lying since the first time I put my hands on you. Is that what you want to hear? There’s nothing friendly about what I want to do to you, angel. Nothing casual. I’ve been trying not to scare you off, trying to give you time to catch up, and you— you think that means I don’t want to own you?”
He drags the dress down over your hips. The silk pools at your feet, a green puddle on the hardwood floor. You’re in nothing but the green bra and the lace thong now, and the way he looks at you makes your knees go weak.
“I’ve wanted to own you since the day we met,” he growls, stepping closer, crowding you against the door with the full length of his body. The heat of him seeps through your skin all the way down to your bones. “Every time you laughed at one of my jokes, every time you fell asleep on my shoulder, every time you bent over in those little shorts—I wanted to flip up your skirt and fuck you until you forgot your name. You think I’m not claiming you? Baby. Sweet girl.” His mouth descends on your neck, teeth grazing the tendon. “I claimed you a long time ago. You just didn’t notice.”
The sound that escapes you is half moan, half sob. “Then why didn’t you—”
“Because I’m selfish.” He bites down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after. “Because I wanted to see how far I could push you. Wanted to watch you get desperate for me, watch you wake up wet and go to bed aching, watch you fall apart a little more every day.” His hand slides from your hip to the front of your thong, palm pressing against the damp lace. He groans at what he finds. “And you did, didn’t you? You’ve been dripping for me for two weeks. Haven’t you.”
It’s not a question. He already knows.
“Yes,” you gasp anyway. The admission scalds your throat. “Yes, Michael, I can’t—I haven’t been able to—”
“Haven’t been able to what?”
“Come.” The word is a whimper. Your hips buck into his hand. “I’ve tried. I can’t. I hear you—in my head—and I can’t—”
His eyes darken further, something like triumph flickering in their depths. “That’s right. Because you don’t get to come unless I’m inside you. That’s the rule.” He presses harder against the soaked lace, and your vision swims. “You’re mine, angel. Your body knows it even if your mouth wants to fight about it. And you want to know why I didn’t let you come that night?”
You nod, frantic.
“Because I wanted you like this. Desperate. Begging. Ready to give me everything.” His fingers hook under the waistband of your thong. “And you’re ready now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
One tug. The flimsy lace tears like tissue paper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. The scrap of fabric falls away, and you’re bare beneath his hand, the slick evidence of your arousal coating his fingers.
Michael makes a sound low in his throat that’s somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “Look at you. Absolutely soaked for me.” Two fingers slide through your folds, spreading the wetness. “Did you wear this dress just to make me crazy? Just to see what I’d do?”
“Yes,” you confess, breathless. “I wanted—I needed you to— I needed you to finally—”
“Claim you.” He finishes the sentence, his fingers circling your clit with a featherlight touch that makes your whole body jolt. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”
“Claim me.” Your voice breaks. “Michael, please, I need you to claim me. I need to be yours. Not just—not just your friend, I can’t do the friend thing anymore, it’s making me crazy—”
He kisses you.
Not gentle. Not teasing. Hard, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your lips, and the taste of him—the taste you’ve been dreaming about for two weeks—fills your senses. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The other leaves your clit and grips your ass, hauling you against him, and the rigid length of his erection presses into your hip through his dress pants.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged. “Who do you belong to?”
“You.”
“Louder.”
“You, Michael. I belong to you.”
Something in him snaps.
He spins you around, your chest pressing against the door, your cheek flat against the cool wood. His body covers you from behind, solid and hot, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. His hands are everywhere—skimming your ribs, cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, sliding down to grip your hips with a possessiveness that makes your cunt clench on nothing.
“This bra,” he mutters against your skin. “Matches the thong. Matches the dress. You planned all of this.”
“I— yes—”
“Naughty girl.” He unclasps the bra with one hand, practiced and efficient. The straps slide down your arms, and then his palms are on your bare breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak into hard, aching points. “You wanted to make me lose control. Wanted to push me until I snapped.”
“Yes—”
“Congratulations.” His voice drops to a growl. “You got what you wanted.”
He fumbles with his belt, the clink of the buckle and the rasp of the zipper deafening in the small room. You feel him free himself—the hot, velvety length of his cock pressing against your bare ass—and a desperate whine leaks from your lips. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since you felt him inside you, and your body remembers. Your body has been counting the days.
“Please,” you gasp. “Please, Mikey, I need you inside me. Now. Please.”
He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head notching against your slick folds. “You want me to fuck you, angel? Want me to make you mine?”
“Yes yes yes—”
“Then take it.”
He thrusts inside you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
The stretch is a revelation. He’s so big, impossibly big, and your body seems to have forgotten—forgetten the way he fills you to the brim, the way the head of his cock kisses your cervix, the way your inner walls have to stretch and flutter and fight to accommodate something so thick. A scream tears from your throat, muffled against the door, your nails scrabbling at the wood for purchase.
Michael doesn’t give you time to adjust. He pulls back—a dragging withdrawal that lights up every nerve ending—and slams back home with a force that rattles the door on its hinges. Then again. Again. Setting a pace that is punishing and relentless, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the slap of his hips against your ass filling the room.
“Who do you belong to?” His voice is a growl against your ear, his hand fisting in your hair and pulling your head back. “Who fucks you like this?”
“You— you do, Mikey, only you—”
“That’s right.” Another thrust, so deep it makes your vision white out.
“Who gets to see you like this? Dripping wet, spread open, taking my cock like you were made for it?”
“Only you— oh god, only you—”
“No one else,” he pants, slamming into you. “No one else touches you. No one else even looks at you. You’re mine, angel. Mine. I don’t care what I said before— I lied. I’ve been lying since day one. Nothing about this”—he punctuates the word with a particularly vicious thrust—“is friendly. You understand me?”
You’re crying now, fat tears of overwhelm and relief and pleasure streaking down your cheeks. The words won’t come anymore. Just sobs and pleas and the broken, rhythmic moans he punches out of you with every stroke.
“Answer me.” He slows, grinding deep, the head of his cock pressing against that devastating spot inside you while his hand releases your hair and snakes around to find your clit. His fingers press down—firm, unrelenting pressure—and your back bows, a silent scream catching in your throat.
“I understand,” you manage, the words slurred and desperate. “I’m yours. I’m yours, Michael, please don’t stop, please let me come this time, please—”
His rhythm changes. Slower. Deeper. Each thrust a rolling grind that drags the length of him against your front wall while his fingers work your clit in tight, precise circles. The combined sensation is devastating. The pressure that’s been building for two weeks—the pressure you’ve been carrying around like a stone in your gut—starts to swell, coiling at the base of your spine.
“You want to come, angel?” His voice is strained, the first crack in his composure. “After two weeks of being a brat? After wearing this dress to make me jealous? After threatening to find someone else?”
“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean it, I swear, I just wanted you to—”
“I know what you wanted.” He kisses the side of your neck, surprisingly tender. “And I’m giving it to you. I’ve wanted to give it to you this whole time. Just needed you to admit what you were asking for.”
His hips piston faster now, driving toward something, his breathing gone ragged and uneven. The hand on your clit never stops, never falters, and the pleasure is cresting, building toward a peak you haven’t been allowed to reach since that night on his couch.
“Come for me,” Michael breathes against your ear. It’s not a suggestion. It’s permission. The permission you’ve been waiting fourteen days to hear. “Come all over my cock, angel. Let me feel it. Let me feel what I do to you.”
The orgasm hits you like a freight train.
It’s not a gentle cresting wave. It’s a cataclysm. Your body seizes, back arching, mouth opening on a howl that you muffle against your own arm. Your cunt clamps down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing spasms, the walls of your pussy gripping and fluttering and pulling him deeper. White light explodes behind your eyelids. Your legs give out—would collapse entirely if Michael’s arms weren’t around you, holding you up, holding you together while you shatter.
“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it, prolonging every spasm with deep, grinding thrusts. “That’s my girl. So good for me. So fucking good. Let it all out.”
The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each one a little smaller than the last, until you’re left limp and trembling in his arms, tears drying on your cheeks, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. You’ve never come like that in your life. You didn’t know it was possible to come like that.
Michael isn’t done.
He pulls out—the withdrawal a slick, obscene sound—and spins you around. Your back hits the door again, and then he’s lifting you, your legs hooking over his hips, your arms winding around his neck. He lines himself up and thrusts back inside in one motion, and the overstimulation makes you cry out, a sharp sound that’s half pain and half pleasure.
“One more,” he demands, voice wrecked. “You owe me one more. Two weeks of watching you walk around in those tiny shorts, bending over, putting on lip gloss, making me hard in front of my brothers— you owe me.”
He fucks into you with short, desperate strokes, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in harsh pants. The control he’s held onto for so long is fraying, thread by thread. His hips stutter. A groan tears from his chest that sounds almost pained.
“Where do you want me to come, angel?” The words are strained, barely a whisper. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Inside.” The word is immediate, instinctive. “Inside me, Mikey, please, I want to feel it—”
“Fuck.” The curse is ripped from him. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Please. I need to feel it. I need to feel you.”
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and the hot pulse of his release floods your insides. The feeling of it—the way his cock throbs and jerks inside you, the spreading warmth—triggers a second, smaller orgasm, your cunt milking him through every last spasm until he’s empty and shuddering in your arms.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your bodies still joined. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. Outside the door, you can hear the distant chaos of the Jackson household—a door slamming, someone shouting about a missing shoe, the faint strains of music from someone’s radio.
Michael lifts his head. His eyes are soft now, the fire banked into something warmer. He brushes a strand of sweat-damp hair from your forehead.
“You’re mine,” he says quietly. No question. No pretense. “For real. No more ‘just friends.’ You’re my girl. You hear me?”
You nod, throat too tight for words.
“Good.” He kisses you softly, once, twice. “Now put on a different dress. You’re still not wearing that green one in front of my mother.”
A wet, breathless laugh escapes you. “Okay.”
An hour later, you walk into the gala on Michael’s arm.
The dress you’re wearing now is charcoal grey, elegant and demure, with a high neckline and a hem that falls just below the knee. Conservative. Respectable. Entirely inappropriate for the things you were doing forty-five minutes ago, but the slight limp in your step and the fresh bruise blooming on your collarbone tell a different story.
The ballroom glitters with chandeliers and champagne flutes. He who shall not be named is holding court near the bar, his booming laugh carrying across the room. Katherine looks radiant in lavender, her arm linked through her husband’s. The brothers are scattered throughout the crowd—Jackie talking to a record executive, Tito laughing with a group near the stage, Jermaine and Marlon in what looks like a heated debate about basketball near the hors d'oeuvres table, Randy hitting on a girl at the table next to them. Janet spots you first and waves, her face brightening.
Michael’s hand is on your lower back. It hasn’t moved since you got out of the car.
The first person you encounter is a Motown producer you recognize from album covers, a paunchy man with a combover and a too-wide smile. He extends his hand to Michael, claps him on the shoulder, and then his gaze slides to you with obvious curiosity.
“And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, looking you up and down in a way that makes Michael’s grip on your back tighten.
Michael doesn’t hesitate.
“This is my girlfriend,” he says smoothly, pulling you closer. “We’ve known each other for years. Figured it was finally time to make it official.”
The word lands like a firework in your chest. Girlfriend. Not friend. Not angel with a wink and a nudge. Girlfriend, said out loud, to another human being, with no hedging or backtracking.
The producer beams. “Well, aren’t you a lucky man. Pleasure to meet you, miss.”
“Likewise,” you manage, because your brain has short-circuited.
Michael steers you away before the producer can ask more questions. His hand slides from your back to your hip, settling there with an ownership that feels entirely different from the casual touches he used to give you. Those were secret. Possessive but deniable. This one is a flag planted in the ground.
You make it three more steps before Janet intercepts you.
“There you are!” She throws her arms around you in a hug, and you hug her back, grateful for the grounding pressure of another human who isn’t Michael, whose touch doesn’t make your pulse spike. “Girl, you look gorgeous. What happened to that green dress you were so excited about?”
You feel Michael’s gaze on the side of your face.
“Changed my mind,” you say lightly. “Didn’t feel right for tonight.”
“Huh.” Janet’s eyes flick between you and her brother, noting the hand on your hip, the possessive tilt of his body. A grin spreads across her face. “Wait a minute. Are you two—?”
“Yep,” Michael says. Same easy tone he used to convince you cockwarming was platonic. Except now there’s nothing hidden behind it. Just certainty.
Janet’s grin widens. “Finally. God, you guys have been dancing around each other for ages. I thought I was gonna have to lock you in a closet or something.” She punches Michael’s shoulder. “Good for you, Mike. ‘Bout time.”
“Thanks, Dunk.” He smiles, and for the first time all night, it reaches his eyes.
Janet drifts off toward the appetizers, shooting you a thumbs-up over her shoulder. You turn to Michael, your heart still doing gymnastics in your chest.
“You meant that?” you ask quietly. “The girlfriend thing?”
He stops walking. Turns you to face him, his hands settling on your waist. Around you, the gala swirls in taffeta and tuxedos, but he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.
“I’ve been stupid,” he says, voice low. “Spent all this time telling myself I was being smart, taking it slow, keeping the upper hand. Telling you it was friendly when it was never friendly. Telling myself I wasn’t in over my head.” His thumbs rub small circles into the fabric of your dress. “I’m in over my head. Have been since the beginning. And I’m done pretending I’m not.”
“Michael—”
“I’m sorry I made you feel cheap.” The words are quiet, deliberate. “That wasn’t—that was never the point. The point was always you. You’re not a toy, angel. You’re everything. And I’m going to spend as long as it takes making sure you know that.”
Your eyes sting. You blink hard, because if you start crying in the middle of a charity gala, Janet will never let you live it down. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” You stand on your toes and kiss him, right there in the middle of the ballroom, in front of his mother and his brothers and a room full of Motown royalty. It’s a soft kiss, gentle—nothing like the frantic, desperate coupling in his bedroom. A kiss that’s a beginning rather than a culmination.
When you pull back, Michael’s eyes are glinting. “Love you,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.
The words hit you like a sunrise.
“Love you too,” you whisper back. And then, because you can’t resist: “Even if you did steal my underwear.”
His laugh is bright, bright enough to turn heads. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
“You’d better.”
He takes your hand. Threads his fingers through yours—not casual, not deniable, not the kind of hand-holding that can be explained away as just friends. The kind that says this is mine, and I’m announcing it to the world.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go say hi to my mom. She’s gonna be thrilled.”
She is. Katherine Jackson’s face lights up when Michael introduces you as his girlfriend, and she pulls you aside to tell you she always knew, she’s been praying for this, you’re the best thing that ever happened to her boy. You’re not sure about that last part, but the sincerity in her voice makes your throat tight again.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of congratulations and knowing looks. Jermaine gives Michael a rib-cracking hug. Marlon makes a joke about getting a new sister-in-law that earns him a smack on the arm from Janet. He who shall not be named nods gruffly and shakes your hand, which from him is practically a parade. Through all of it, Michael keeps you close—an arm around your waist, a hand on your back, his mouth occasionally dipping to your ear to murmur something filthy that makes your cheeks flame.
You’re his. Officially. Publicly. Irrevocably.
And later, when the gala winds down and the Jacksons pile into a fleet of cars to head home, Michael pulls you into the back of his black Rolls-Royce and locks the doors. The partition between you and the driver is already up. His hand finds your thigh under the hem of your respectable grey dress.
“So,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing the shell of your ear. “We’ve got a thirty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst.”
You turn to look at him, and the expression on his face is one you recognize. It’s the look he wore on the couch two weeks ago, when he first called you angel in that low, dark register. The look he wore in his bedroom an hour ago, right before he tore your thong in half. The look that says he’s not done with you. That he will never be done with you.
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, already breathless.
Michael’s smile is slow and devastating.
“Just keeping warm, sweets,” he says, and his fingers slide higher, finding the damp heat already gathering between your thighs. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”
Synopsis: How difficult could it be to get a couple of hours alone with a global superstar? Spoiler: Way harder than you think.
Tags: 18+ (MDNI) Repeatedly interrupted sexual moments, frustrated Michael being whiny with each phone call, you being a ridiculous tease about it. Sub!Michael, oral (m! and f! receiving), p in v I don't know how to tag much on this then michael being a dom, soft at the end. This was supposed to be much smaller it grew its legs.
A/n: Title inspired by Telephone by Lady Gaga and Beyonce, albeit with a little more sexual undertone.
Neverland has quietened down to a lull, the faraway lights from the rides mixing with the orange hues of the sun down the horizon illuminating the acres. Most of the workers have retreated to their rooms for the day. The security team moves across the grounds, securing the perimeter.
Inside the master bedroom, Michael Jackson's entire world has narrowed down to you.
The satin dress with its low opening at the back now lies on the floor with Michael's pants. His shirt has landed on the dresser with his jacket thrown over the chair. You liked it too much to let it be on the floor even in the midst of your pleasure despite his insistence to just let it be.
Sitting on his knees with your leg held in his hand, Michael says in an awed reverence, "Fuck, baby. You are so pretty."
You press your face into the satin of his pillow case with a whimper, an overwhelmed sense at being seen naked with your legs spread wide open.
A soft kiss tickles your ankle. "Look at me, darlin'."
You force yourself to meet his heated gaze, his pupils dilated with desire for you, something that's been burning throughout the evening ever since you walked down the stairs dressed in flowing satin, dripping in diamond necklace and pearl earrings.
The kisses slowly descend down your knees, to your thighs, his eyes never once looking away from you. Your chest heaves at his sweet torture, wanting nothing but to feel him over you.
"Michael," you whine softly. "Baby, please."
"Words, love." Pausing at your inner thigh, his gaze drops down to your heat already wet from the excruciating feather-soft touches he teased you with throughout the stretch of gala, when you were shaking hands with the host and making small talks with others. "Tell me what you want."
Your hands go to his shoulders, wanting to simultaneously push him down and pull him up to feel his lips on yours and drag of his length inside your pulsing self.
Pulling him upto you, you begin feverish, "I need you—"
With a groan, Michael climbs on top and balances himself on his elbow. He caresses the side of your face down your jaw, about to press his lips to yours when a loud trill pierces the intimate atmosphere.
You pat the bedside table haphazardly, wanting to reach the phone and hang it up. Michael reaches for it first with his longer limbs.
Still against you, his length pressing into your inner thighs that makes you want to grind your hips up, sweat slick between your bodies — you couldn't help the thought that naturally emerged as the progression.
Michael has taken the call, his eyes apologetic as he deals with whoever is on the other side. With a hand to the phone so that it won't tip over the edge of the table, you push Michael down the bed, successfully straddling his lap.
His surprise is visible in his diluted pupils, his grip tightening on your waist with bruising strength. The warning is clear in the look he shoots at you as he murmurs in the phone — about a contract or something. Be nice.
But you've been good all evening, sitting still and clapping even when Michael's hand slid to your inner thigh through the long slit that ran down the dress. You didn't choke on the water when his fingers brushed the lace trims of your panties.
So you can throw some caution to the wind. You kiss the lines of his neck, soft at first. Enough for Michael to relax and draw circles at your skin.
"Yes, that sounds fine," he says on the phone but his eyes are all on you. "But what if —"
He chokes on nothing when you rub your soaking wet self on his muscled thigh, your soft kisses turning open mouthed and dragging down from his neck to his chest. His hand slides up your waist to your ribs and then to your thigh, like he doesn't know if he wanted to stop your ministration despite enjoying the challenge.
He ends up running his hand through your hair and pulling you to his chest by the base of your neck when you moan softly, the friction down making you feel delirious.
"Yeah, yeah I'm here." He lifts his thigh a little to help you rub yourself off. You press a kiss to his chest beneath which you can feel the erratic thumping of his heart. "It was nothing. Just from a song I was working on — late night inspirations, y'know."
His hand moves down to your back, holding you close as you grind more fervently. You can't help but throw your head back in pleasure. "Michael."
"I think my line is breaking." A shitty excuse, but when the slight shift of your legs made his tip catch in the opening of your folds, he was done. "Could we —" His eyes fall shut as you lick a strip in your palm and reach to his length. "Perhaps in the morning?"
You can hear the other man's perturbed '— can hear you fine, Mr. Jackson' but his words barely land before Michael slams the receiver back and pulls you in for a searing kiss.
"You—" The sharp sting of his teeth at your bottom lip steals away his words as your tongue slips in agonisingly slow and deliberate. His hand gropes at your breast, tweaking the nipple and making your hip move in tandem again.
The kiss breaks with your moan. Michael catches his breath with his forehead on your shoulder. "You'll pay for that, you minx."
You merely kiss the side of his face down his jaw, eliciting soft sighs and making his head lull to the pillow. "Maybe you'll think twice before picking the phone up next time."
Opening your folds with a hand, you settle on top of his length before moving down slowly, the drag so painfully tantalizing that your breath catches in your chest. Michael gives a high-pitched whine at your pace, his hips bucking up to move faster.
"Oh, fuck baby." Breathless whimpers fall from his lips, his hands holding your thighs tight. "C'mon, faster."
A hazy confidence shoots through your veins at having the man that everyone screams for and reveres, now under you panting and begging for more friction.
You lazily twirl the curls at the back of his neck, gyrating your hips in slow circles. "You gotta be nice, Mr. Jackson." An echo of his warning. His mouth falls open when your walls flutter around him, the sign of your climax. With your hands at his chest, you move yourself faster, his hot length pulsating inside you and reaching so deep enough to make your back arch and see the stars behind your eyes.
"Don't stop, don't stop." A repeated mantra like a plea as he roves his hand over you, squeezing and gripping the path it trails.
His fingers move inside you, stretching more and reaching for your clit. Thrumming the bundle of nerves, he mouths at your neck. "You feel so good, darlin'." He slurs, snapping his hip up. Tangling his fingers with your hair, he murmurs in his low register. "Come for me, love."
The crest of pleasure that was building up in you since evening finally breaks. With a breathless scream, you collapse on top of him as your walls flutter tight around him with your release.
His dancer hips fucks you through it relentlessly. By the squeeze of his eyes, you know he's reaching his climax. And then —
"I swear to everything—" Michael curses when the phone rings again. Buried deep inside you, rational thoughts have become non-existent long ago. With a thrust, he mutters languidly. "Let it ring."
The warmth from your release has ebbed just enough to clear the fog in your mind. Of course, a very interesting idea conjured to you.
With a bite of your lip, you reach for the receiver. Michael stares at you wide-eyed. "What are you doing?"
You move on top of him, your eyes glazing at the way his face contorts with pleasure. His hands press bruises into the skin of your hip. "Baby, please hang it up—"
"Mrs. Jackson speaking." Your voice comes sweet as Michael stares up at the ceiling, like a defeated man.
You slide him out of you, kissing him chaste apologetically when he hisses. Your attention only lingers half in the call as the man drones about checking the connectivity of the line.
"I'll hand it to Mr. Jackson." You ignore the fervent shaking of his head and press the receiver to his ear. He takes a deep inhale and clears his throat once.
"It's Michael." He shoots you a look of plea when you take his length in your hand, pumping it and staring fascinated at the precum gathering at the tip, partially mixed with your release.
"Yeah, I can hear you well." His chest rises and falls with a control so rigid when he sees you bend down with clear intent. He tugs your hair up sharply, shaking his head again.
You can deal with me later, you mouth to him. He's half muttering yeah, I'm sure that's what it was in the phone and half staring in your eyes as you lick a long strip up from his base.
"Oh God," he whines immediately at the contrast of your cool saliva to his pulsating length. You smirk when he panics at his realisation that he's still on the phone.
"No no, I stubbed my toe." You swirl your tongue around him, simultaneously pumping and slowly taking hin down your throat. The muscles of his abdomen tighten, the tendons of his arms pulling taunt as he grips your hips hard.
"Ithinkillgetbacktoyoulater," he says in a single breath and slams the receiver back at the dial. You take him down your throat entirely, gagging around him.
"Darlin', sweetie I'm gonna—" He whines, the force of his pent up release making his toes curl. The bitter, tangy taste of him hits the back of your throat as he spills in deep. The remnant after you've swallowed covers your chin and trails down the valley of your breasts.
The sound of his harsh breathing fills the room. You crawl and lay on top of him, perching your chin on his chest and admiring the effect you've managed to have on him.
"Come up here." He curls his fingers to your jaw and pulls you up to him. "Wanna kiss you."
You chuckle softly into the kiss, feeling him sigh at the taste of him in your lips. Peering into his dark, satiated eyes, you ask, "Satisfied, Mr. Jackson?"
"Y'know how much I love that pretty mouth of yours." His thumb presses to the plush of your bottom lip. "Especially when you take me in deep like that, baby."
"Michael—" Your soft moan is swallowed by his tender kiss. You run a hand through his hair, encompassing yourself in his arms.
The kiss grows heated when Michael pries open your lips with his tongue. The soft cradle of his hand on your face contrasted the harsh bite of his teeth, his groan deep from his chest and the imprints of his fingers in your spine. In a swift move, Michael lies you on your back.
"Wanna come inside you," he rasps into your neck. You throw a limp hand around him as he sucks on the skin, red and purple marks blooming at the trail. "One more time, please?"
Your body reacts before your mind does, arching up to his chest at the thought of being filled with him. "Yes, baby."
That was all the approval that he needed. With a intrusive kiss, he moves down, indulging with your breasts for a while with his saliva and marks on his way.
"Spread for me, baby." He parts your legs with his hand. You feel his warm breath fan over your core, the swipe of his fingers opening your folds making you squirm. You end up pressing your face to the cool satin of his pillow when he pulls his glistening fingers up your sight. "So wet, darlin'."
Your hips buck up to his face instinctively, wanting to feel his strokes. "Baby, please—"
He kisses your inner thighs instead, his chuckle pressed into your skin. "Patience, my love."
"I've been patient for too long, with all your calls," you retort as you tangle your fingers with his hair. "Mike—"
The first stroke of his tongue makes you arch off the bed with a loud moan. You can feel the vibration of his hungry groan till the base of your spine. His name falls from your lips, short and broken.
"Oh God." You gasp at his repeated firm suction of your clit. He raises your hip for a better position, his face buried down. The mere sight pools more of your wetness. "Fuck."
He ate you out with the precision of a man who knew what he wanted, his perfectionist streak applied to every aspect of his life. You feel your walls fluttering violently for the second time for the night, the climax building up inside you. "Michael, oh god—"
The sharp trill of the telephone once again tears through the room. Michael raises up at the sound. You close your thigh around his head, restricting him from moving instinctively before releasing immediately. "I'm sorry—"
A high-pitched whine from him and the sharp suck of your clit cuts off your apology. You hear him whisper. "That was the hottest thing you ever did, baby."
The elated feel that he didn't leave barely lasted as Michael gets on his haunches. You sound outraged even to your own ears. "Michael, seriously."
"Just gimme a minute, girl." Walking to the simmering phone, Michael disconnects the line with a single tug of the wire. The trill vanishes from the room.
"Oh thank heavens you finally did that —" Sitting up and ready for him, you pull Michael to you at once, feverish with want to feel him, the inferno bubbling inside you craving for an outlet to pour into. Meeting you halfway, the kiss grows savage and wild with Michael's hand roving over the curves of your figure. He lays you on the bed with a tenderness that doesn't match the intensity of his eyes, your breath catching in your lungs.
In a swift move, he enters inside you. A breathless scream escapes you as Michael thrusts in you with a relentless pace. The climax that almost disappeared at is momentary disappearance returned with vengeance.
"You gonna come for me, darlin'?" Michael asks confidently, the question borne from a man who knows the tells of your body with years of learning it, inch by inch. His hip snaps into you, the slap of skin on skin loud in the otherwise quiet room apart for the sensual sound he drew out of you and his whines that were permanently etched into the skin of your clavicle. His voice is deep in your ears. "Tell me, baby."
"Yes." Your head is thrown back in pleasure, your eyes rolling up at each press of his length inside you, hitting the spots that made you see stars. "Yes, Michael."
"Look at me." His hand rests on your jaw in a tight hold, unwilling to let your eyes slide away from his ambers filled with devotion for you. For a moment, he drops his forehead to your sternum as he thrusts up.
He places a soft kiss on the spot above your heart. "I love you." His rhythm slows down from energetic to a languid drawl, like he's imprinting himself within your walls. The slow drag of his length inside you combines with the peppering of his kiss on your chest up your face, the air in your lungs burning with the climbing peak of your orgasm.
You cradle his face with both of your hands and kiss him chaste. You breathe out. "I love you, baby." You rest your forehead to his, rising your hips to meet his, your walls squeezing him hard. "So, so much."
With a harsh whine, Michael comes, coating your insides with his seeds. His finger reaches down to thrum your clit, making you join in his release with a shallow thrust.
Mindful to not collapse on top of you, Michael drops to your side, still inside you and his arms around your waist.
He gathers you in his arms, nuzzling into your neck. You lean back on his chest with contentment. "That was good."
He sounds amused. "Just good?"
Michael pulls out, the cold mix of your and his dripping down your thighs, eliciting a quiet shudder. He draws you into a gentle kiss, a routine forged for years.
"Y'know what I mean." His trail of kisses migrate to the side of your cheeks, to the fluttering lids of your eyes. "Our honeymoon was something else."
"That was honeymoon, my lady." His words are pressed into your temple, his lips lingering there before moving up to your forehead. "This is our regular night. With two children sleeping down the hall."
You groan, knocking your head into his shoulder. "I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow." You kiss the tip of his nose, up the bridge to his temple. "But pleasantly sore."
Michael hums happily, his fingers drawing circles on your waist. His eyes track your face and his lips twitch up. "Your makeup isn't sex-proof, baby."
You are too tired to snark back, choosing to cuddle closer. "I wanna sleep."
Michael tuts. "Not like this." Slipping his hands down your knees and around your shoulder, he lifts and carries you to the adjacent bathroom.
Your eyes almost flutter shut, exhaustion from all the activity and teasing catching up. Even when Michael sits you on the marble counter, you lean back on the wall and ready to doze away.
The cold press of the towel between your thighs jerks you awake. Michael presses an apologetic kiss to your temple as he cleans you up. You grumble. "Could've did this right in our bed."
"Not done, hold still," he instructs. A sense of lethargy enthralls you, definitely the aftermath of all that love-making.
Michael's voice is tinged with fondness. "Should've known how sleepy you become after we're done."
You open your arms wide to him, hoping he'd get the signal. With a chuckle, Michael wraps a hand around your waist. With the other, he wipes clean the makeup from your face.
"You've got lipstick marks," you mumble. Pointing to his neck and a few more places at his chest, you continue. "You should've let me at least clean up before throwing me over your shoulder, Jackson."
"You looked too beautiful for me to let you go anywhere, my wife." You press your face to his chest to hide the blush rising up your cheek. "Look at me, darlin'." His hand cradles the curve of your jaw, tipping your gaze up to him. He dabs the leftover mascara from your eyelids. "Just a bit more."
Tossing your arms around his neck, you ask softly, "Sleep after this?"
Michael mellows out incredibly after making love to you and it shows up in the ways he presses kisses constantly to any free expanse of your skin.
Kissing your forehead, he says, "Clothes first, sleep next. Alright?"
The softest set of your cotton pajamas find its way on your body and in no time, you're in bed again. With your head on Michael's arm, you feel slightly more awake than you were a while ago. Twisting enough to face your husband, you call for him. "Michael?"
He hums. "Yes, darlin'?"
"You know Gallin's gonna be up our door tomorrow morning in panic, right?"
He huffs a laugh. "That's for our future-selves to deal with." He sounds smug as he continues. "I don't regret what I did."
The repeated phone calls sure were getting on your nerves too and all you can do is to hope that there wasn't anything important waiting on the other line.
You curl up closer to his side. His fingers press possessively into the curve of your waist. You call for him again. "Baby?"
He hums back as retort, signalling to speak on. Feeling content beyond words, all you're able to say is, "I love you."
Your words are soft, barely heard in the quiet of your room.
A soft kiss on the crown of your hair. "Sleep, sweetheart." There's a brief pause. "I love you too."
Your lips have curved into a smile as sleep pulls you in its tide, Michael's arm present around you.
End notes: Guys I just realised Happy, Little Interruptions can be read as continuation for this one lol. Btw do lemme know how this was I kinda feel slightly more confident than the previous one. Thanks for your love and support babes <3
summary: ☄︎ michael admits he lowkey (highkey) likes the thought of being called daddy by you but he's shyyyyy
contents: ☄︎ michael is called daddy, crying during sex, dom!reader, sub!mike, creampie, michael whimpers & whines,michael lowk shy and pathetic, dirty talk, masturabtion while michael watches, porn little plot
authors note: ☄︎ the beginning and end is proofread but not the smut bc i HATE rereading my smut💔💔💔
based off this request!
you were at michael’s house for a much needed movie date night since you guys missed each other while he was away on the jacksons victory tour. E.T was playing and you guys paid attention for the first half–you really had– until you asked michael, randomly, what he would do if he was an alien, making the start of a long ‘what if’ conversation, the movie turning into background noise. you guys then just started bullshit conversation, not really having a clue how each topic came about, you guys were just happy to be with each other.
you were lying on your back on the floor, legs over michael’s where he sat propped up against the bed, a bucket of popcorn in front of you two. michael’s hands were on your legs, occasionally squeezing and rubbing up and down the length of them, loving how soft they felt.
“okay,” you said, wiping popcorn crumbs from your hands, “truth or dare?”
michael’s eyebrows raised as he chewed on a piece of popcorn, surprised by the sudden question. “mmmm,” he hummed, head turning to the side, deciding on which option to pick, “truth.” he said once he swallowed.
you sighed dramatically, “boring, but whatever,” michael made a sound of offence at your words, reaching for a handful of popcorn.
“what has been your favorite thing we’ve done sex wise?” you said casually like you were discussing the weather.
michael choked on the piece of popcorn he was chewing, surprised by the question and by the casualness of it.
“whoa, there,” you say with a shit eating grin on your face, aware of the effect the question had on michael, “you okay?”
“y-yeah,” michael said when he finally got the popcorn down. “just taken aback by your question is all.”
you shrugged, smile still on your face, “so are you going to answer the question or…” you asked.
“i mean, i liked when you rode my face that one time.” michael mumbled quietly.
“you said what?” you said, cupping a hand around your ear. you knew exactly what he said, you just liked teasing him.
“i liked when you rode my face.” michael said a bit louder, cheeks blushing from his embarrassment.
“aw, baby,” you said, laughing softly at how shy he got at his admission. “i liked that too,” and just because you liked to tease him, you lowered your right foot to lay flat on top of his crotch, “it felt so good, mikey.” you said in a low, sort of seductive tone.
much to your amusement, you felt michael’s dick twitch under your foot and he suddenly looked to be interested in the movie even though it was damn near over.
“my shy baby.” you thought fondly to yourself.
“okay, your turn.” you said, your other leg gently nudging him to get his attention.
“hm?” he turned to look at you, looking confused at what you were talking about.
“truth or dare, michael.” you said, giggling softly
“oh, yeah! truth or dare?” he said, hands resuming rubbing up and down your legs.
“dare.” you said confidently.
“i dare you to kiss me.” michael said after thinking about what to ask you.
you smiled as you lifted yourself up and kissed michael deeply. your tongue nudged against his lips and he opened up, tongues fighting for dominance until he gave it up to you. you felt his dick grow hard under where it lay beneath your foot, you smiled in the kiss and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. michael whimpered, feeling worked up and leaned in for more of you before you pulled back.
michael’s lips were still slightly puckered and his eyes were glossed over, looking blissed just from your kissing. you gave him a chaste kiss before you bit your lip to hide your smile and laid back down.
“truth or dare, mikey?” you said like nothing happened.
it took a while for michael’s brain to catch up to the sudden shift before he mumbled a quiet “truth”.
you sighed by his refusing to choose dare but you let it go anyway. “what names do you think you’d like being called during sex?”
michael’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion at your question, “what do you mean? like, pet names? you know i like when you call me baby-”
“no, i mean, like, kinky names.” you said cutting him off.
“oh,” michael said, eyes widening a bit, “i-i don’t know.”
you brought your hands up to start counting on each finger, “there’s master,” you started.
michael's face scrunched in disgust, “ew.”
“kitten,” you continued
“people actually call their partners that?” michael snorted.
“sir,” you said, ignoring his comments.
“hell no.” his face scrunching up again.
“daddy,” you said with a smirk.
michael got quiet. too quiet. you felt his dick violently twitch under the sole of your foot.
you gasped and you immediately shot up from laying on your back to look at him directly. your jaw dropped, completely surprised at the new thing you found out about michael.
michael gulped and tried to look away but your hand brought his head back to look at you.
“michael, you don’t like sir but you like daddy?” you asked incredulously.
“i don’t,” michael said, lying horribly.
“michael,” your face turned deadpan, “your dick basically ripped through your jeans when i said it!” you said, a smile making its way onto your face.
michael groaned and looked up to the ceiling as if he was hoping for something to come and take him out of this situation.
“why didn’t you tell me you liked that?!” you exclaimed.
you couldn’t believe the same boy that had trouble to even answer the question on what his favorite thing you guys have done together sexually liked to be called something so dirty. you were thoroughly amused and immensely turned on.
michael was still looking up at the ceiling but you saw his eyes start to water.
your smile immediately dropped.
“nonononono, michael,” you said climbing onto his lap to straddle him, feeling desperate to soothe the embarrassment that was consuming him.
you took his head in your hands and lowered it so he was looking in your eyes. you saw how he was trying to keep himself from crying. you kissed him tenderly, trying to calm his overthinking you knew he was having.
you pulled away and saw the tears that escaped his eyes. “It’s okay, baby,” you said softly while brushing his tears away. “i’m sorry for how i reacted.” you said, genuinely feeling bad at how you acted.
“it’s okay,” he said, voice wavering. you kissed him again, your heart feeling like it was aching at the sight of michael’s distress.
your foreheads rested against each other when you guys parted from the kiss, your fingers caressing michael’s cheeks to soothe him and to calm his emotions.
when michael spoke, it was soft and hesitant. “are you sure it’s okay? you’re not uncomfortable?” he asked in a small voice and your heart broke at how fragile he sounded.
“i’m positive it’s okay and you could never make me uncomfortable,” you said, a small smile making its way onto your face. michael looked slightly relieved at your words.
“matter fact,” your head tilted a bit to the side as you looked at your hands sliding down to cup michael’s neck, “it’s really hot.” you said smiling.
michael’s eyes lit up like he couldn’t believe what you were saying, “r-really? you’re into it?”
you nodded your head, “im into whatever you're into, mikey,” you whispered. you felt michael’s dick harden under you.
you slowly started to move your hips back and forth on his lap. michael inhaled sharply, “y-yeah?” he asked. you bit your lip and nodded.
you leaned in to kiss michael. what started as a slow, tender kiss quickly turned desperate. your hips quickened in his lap and he put his hands on your ass to guide your grinds. michael was groaning and whimpering into the kiss, his jaw widening to take more of you in.
you leaned back to catch your breath and you saw the spit that had escaped michael’s mouth rolling down his chin. you scooped it with your pointer finger and guided it to his mouth. he took your finger in and sucked, his eyes looking completely submissive as they looked into yours.
you bit your lip at the feeling of his warm, wet mouth around your finger. “so good, mikey,” you whispered. michael whined against you, loving the praise.
you removed your finger from his mouth and lifted yourself from his lap, standing up. you start to remove your shirt and michael makes a soft moan at the sight of your lacy bra before he stands and starts to take his shirt off too.
“unh-unh,” you say to him.
michael lowers his shirt, eyebrows furrowing in confusion “wha-”
“watch me.” you say and you hear michael groan softly before you lean down to take your pants off.
you make eye contact with michael as you unclasp your bra and remove it completely from your body. michael gulps and palms himself through his pants when he sees the way your nipples harden in the cool air of the room.
you bite your lip to conceal your smile at his reaction as you slowly slide your panties down your legs. the curly hair on your mound was the first to be revealed before the rest came into view when you finally got the panties off.
“please,” michael whined pathetically, starting to advance toward you before you lift a finger up, stopping him.
“i said watch,” you said firmly. michael groans and starts to palm himself through his pants again. “and don’t touch yourself,” you say, smiling at michael’s reluctant compliance.
you sat on the edge of the bed, put your feet on it, and spread your legs, your core becoming completely exposed to michael. michael hands shook slightly from where they pathetically hung limp on his sides at the sight of your wetness. your hole clenched and unclenched around nothing, your clit stiffening from the cool air.
your finger slowly went from your hole to spread your wetness to your clit. you rubbed your clit slowly, looking at michael the whole time while he looked at the way your finger was rubbing your pretty pussy.
“you like it, mikey?” you ask, your words caught on a moan and breathy. michael nodded quickly, “i love it, baby, fuck.”
michael looked at you like you were the finest piece of art ever made. his eyes were glassy and his lips were slightly open, tongue coming out to wet them. you moaned at his words and continued rubbing your clit. the wet sounds were starting to fill the air along with your moans and michael’s heavy breathing.
“take your clothes off, baby,” you say, breathing heavy. michael starts eagerly taking off his clothes, his shirt first and pants and underwear coming off together. you moan and rub your clit faster at the sight of his hard dick standing up, tip red and leaking with precum just at the sight of you.
“c’mere,” you say and michael doesn’t waste any time walking to you, eager to get his hands on you.
“rub your dick on my pussy, baby,” you say softly. michael bites his lip at your words as he puts one hand next to your head on the bed while his other takes his dick and guides it to your pulsing, wet pussy.
you moan aloud and michael whimpers at the feel your clit rubbing against his dick. “mmmm, yes, baby, just like that,” you say as you put your legs on his waist.
“y-you feel so good,” he whines pathetically, his knee coming up to anchor on the bed.
the feel of his dick rubbing on your pussy, spreading his precum around, made you feel like you were on cloud 9. it felt so good and when you looked up at michael, he looked completely gone. his eyes darting from your eyes and down to your wet, drooling pussy.
“can i-” michael started to say before he brought his finger down to collect your wetness and precum and wiped it on your tit before he leaned down to suck it into his mouth.
your back arched and you cried out at the dual sensation. “yesyesyes, suck my tit, baby,” you moan out. michael looks up at you, eyes glassy, and nods, whimpering around your nipple. spit was falling from his mouth and dripping down your tit, making you into a mess.
you could feel michael speeding up his grinds, indicating he was close. you grabbed his head, his mouth leaving your tit making a wet sound, “don’t cum yet, baby, wanna have you fuck me,” you whispered to him.
“fuck, yes, need it so bad. wanna cum,” he whined to you. you kissed him as you scooted yourself further up the bed, michael following. you released yourself from the kiss, “put your dick in me, baby,” you said and michael moaned at your words.
michael let out a low groan as he pushed in. your pussy squeezing around him so warm and tightly, he felt pure ecstasy. “you fill this pussy up so good, mikey,” you said as he buried himself to the hilt. you kissed and left hickeys down his neck as he started to thrust in and out of you.
you release yourself from his neck to cry out, michael hitting your g-spot dead on.
“fuck! right there!” you moan out. “fuck, daddy, you know how to fuck this pussy so right.” you continue to moan, putting your new piece on information about michael to use.
“fuckfuckfuck,” michael said, head falling close to your ear. “say it again, mama, please, need to hear you say it again.” he babbles out near your ear.
“yeah?” you smile, remembering the earlier conversation you two had. “you like to know how well my daddy is fucking me? how much you make me cream around you?” you moan into his ear.
michael throws his head back and starts moaning loudly at your words, not giving a fuck at how pathetic he sounded. you look down and see the ring of you guys’ mixed pleasure at the base of his dick and bring your head back to moan. you will never get tired of michael fucking you.
you bring your head back up and you see that michael is crying, but not because of embarrassment this time, but because of how good your pussy felt around him and your words.
you moan at the pure look of pleasure that was on his face. “This pussy making you feel that good, daddy?” you say and michael looks down at you, thrusts getting faster. “you gonna cum? gonna fill this pussy up so you can become a real daddy?” you say.
michael moans loudly at your words, thrusts getting sloppy signaling that he’s about to cum. “please let me cum, please, please, please,” he whines out, babbling.
you feel your own coil in your stomach about to unravel at the sight of michael and how good he’s fucking you. “you can cum, mikey,” you say and he immediately buries himself in you, painting your walls with his cum. “thankyouthankyou,” he says as he rides out his orgasm.
the feel of his cum being spilled in you and the sounds of his whimpering and whining was enough to bring you to the edge as you pulsed and creamed around his dick. “yes, fuck!” you moaned out, being silenced when michael came down to kiss you passionately.
When you two came down and released from the kiss, you breathed heavily into each others mouths, thoroughly fucked out. you let out a small laugh and michael smiled as he rolled off you, looking at the ceiling with a big, goofy smile on his face.
“wow,” michael said, breathing heavily.
“i know,” you said just as out of breath.
“i think this might be my favorite thing we’ve done sex wise,” michael said, laughing softly.
you giggled when you remembered the truth or dare question you asked earlier as you rolled and propped yourself up on your hand to look down at michael.
“hi,” michael said, looking up and seeing you.
“hi, baby,” you say, voice filled with affection.
you leaned down to tenderly kiss him. you felt as if your souls touched each other through this one kiss.
“i love you so much, michael, you know that?” you say softly to him.
“i know, baby, i love you too,” michael said sincerely.
“i don’t want you to ever feel uncomfortable telling me something, okay?” you say, hand coming down to gently caress his cheek.
“okay, i promise,” he said and took your hand that was on your cheek and kissed it.
“you know what i wouldn’t mind?” michael said, breaking the silence.
“hm?” you say, distracted by drawing shapes on his chest.
michael smiles bashfully at you “calling you mommy.”
you gasp, leaning back to look at him, feeling yourself get wet a bit by his confession. “i don’t think i’d mind that either,” you say, leaning down to kiss him.
“yeah?” michael said when you guys parted.
you smiled as you leaned down for another kiss, “absolutely.”
authors note: ☄︎ @eohqz i hope u like this bc i was strugglingggg with this😭
you had been waiting for a night like this one for what felt like an eternity.
not dramatically. just in the quiet, constant way that had become familiar over the past couple of months. the low ache under your ribs every time he left for the studio with that soft, almost apologetic look and the same request: “stay tonight, please.”
he always asked. even when he already knew he would barely see you. even when the album was eating up every free hour, he asked, as if the house needed your body in it to keep from becoming completely empty… and you kept saying yes. you slept in his bed more nights than not. you learned the particular silence of neverland after dark when the staff had gone and the only sound left was the distant ticks of clocks scattered throughout the property.
the rooms stayed too quiet. your own footsteps started to sound wrong in the long hallways. you had begun leaving lights on in places you didn’t need them, just so the dark wouldn’t feel so absolute when he still wasn’t home.
tonight was supposed to be different.
michael had dismissed the staff early. the main house settled into that rare, soft quiet that only happened when he decided the world could wait. dinner was simple and late. you sat across from him at the small table near the windows as the last light drained from the sky. he barely ate. mostly he moved the food around with his fork, offering you small, tired smiles that reached his eyes for a second before the fatigue took him somewhere else.
the room was quiet enough that you could hear the soft scrape of his fork against the plate. you watched the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, the way his attention kept drifting past the glass into whatever version of the album was living behind his eyes. the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. it was just familiar. the kind that had been growing for months. the kind that made you feel like you were sitting with a memory of him instead of the real thing.
you tried not to fill it. you had learned that filling the silence only made him retreat further.
afterward, you followed him into the sitting room without asking. he dropped onto the long couch with a low exhale that sounded like it had been waiting to escape all day. you curled into his side immediately, tucking your bare feet under his thigh the way you always did when you needed to get as close as possible. he let you. the couch was soft and deep, the fabric worn smooth under your bare legs. his body was warm against you, but the rest of the room felt cool.
after a while, his hand came down to settle at the curve of your neck, thumb stroking once, absently. the heat of his palm against your skin felt like the first real thing that had happened all evening.
he put on a charlie chaplin film. the black and white picture flickered in the corner in silence. normally he watched these with a quiet, almost boyish delight. tonight his gaze rested on the screen without really seeing it. he didn’t smile at the parts he usually smiled at. he just sat there, warm and solid against you, present in body yet somewhere else entirely in his head.
you stayed quiet for as long as you could stand it, breathing in the faint trace of cologne that still clung to his shirt. your fingers traced slow patterns over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart under the soft fabric. almost no real time with him had left you starving for exactly this. the weight of his arm. the sound of his breathing. the simplicity of him not moving away.
you pressed closer and turned your face into the warm skin on the side of his neck, and michael tipped his head just enough to give you more of it. when you placed a soft kiss there, his hand tightened briefly in your hair. a small, instinctive response that made something in your chest loosen for a second.
but he still wasn’t laughing at the film.
the longer you sat there, the more you noticed the tiny absences. the way his fingers would still completely in your hair for several seconds at a time, like his mind had left the room. the way his breathing would go slightly shallow, then deepen again when he came back. those small disappearances hurt more than the longer ones. they made you feel like you were holding onto someone who was already halfway gone, even while his arm stayed around you. you had been living inside that feeling for months; invited to stay, asked to be here, and then left reaching for someone who was only partly present.
you tried again. you shifted closer, sliding one hand up to rest against the side of his face. he leaned into the touch for a moment, eyes still on the screen.
he didn’t come back.
after another few minutes, you lifted your head enough to look at him properly.
“you okay?” you asked softly.
michael blinked like the question had pulled him back from somewhere far away. he looked down at you, and the smile he gave you then was real. small, but real.
“just tired,” he said. his voice was low and rough around the edges. “long couple of weeks.”
you nodded against his shoulder even though the answer didn’t fully settle.
you settled back against him and let the film keep playing. his fingers resumed their slow path through your hair. you kept your face tucked against his chest and tried to memorize the feeling of finally having him still for more than ten consecutive minutes.
the chaplin film ended. michael got up to put on another one without asking. the second film started. the light from the screen flickered across the side of his face. you watched him for a while instead of the picture, studying the tired line of his mouth, the way his lashes sat against his cheek when he blinked too slowly. he was beautiful in the low light. he was also somewhere else. you reached for his hand where it rested on his thigh and laced your fingers through his. he let you. his thumb stroked once over your knuckles and then went still again.
you stayed like that longer than you expected, holding his hand and listening to him breathe and trying not to need more than he was giving. the desperation sat right under your skin, quiet and constant. you wanted him to look at you the way he used to before the album swallowed everything. you wanted him to laugh at the film. you wanted him to pull you closer like he meant it instead of like he was simply allowing it. you wanted, more than anything, to feel chosen instead of allowed.
eventually he pressed a brief kiss to the top of your head and sat forward with a quiet sound of reluctance.
“i need to finish one thing in the office before bed,” he said. his voice was almost apologetic. “give me a little bit, baby. i won’t be long, i promise.”
you nodded even as something in your stomach tightened. he stood, and the sudden loss of his warmth left the couch feeling too big. you watched him walk to the doorway without looking back. the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
you sat alone on the couch for a long time after that, while the film kept playing to no one. you could still feel the place where his hand had rested in your hair. you could still feel the shape of his fingers between yours. the longer you stayed, the more the quiet started to press in. the house felt larger again. the rooms beyond the sitting room seemed to stretch farther than they had a few hours ago. you thought about getting up and going to bed. you thought about waiting right there on the couch until he came back. neither option felt right.
eventually you stood and walked back to the bedroom.
his large black shirt was draped over the chair where he had left it earlier. you pulled it on without thinking. the fabric was soft and worn and still held the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the clean soap he used. it hung to your knees and slipped off one shoulder the way it always did. you weren’t wearing anything underneath. you climbed into the big bed, sat against the headboard, and tried to wait.
twenty minutes later, the restlessness won.
you decided you were going to find him. you were going to walk down the long hallway in nothing but his shirt, push the office door open, and climb into his lap before he could finish whatever was keeping him from coming back to you. you wanted to take his mind off whatever had been sitting so heavy on him all night. you wanted his hands under the hem. you wanted the low sound he made when he realized you were already bare for him. you wanted to be the thing that pulled him out of the fog, even if only for a little while, even if he went right back into it afterward.
you needed it more than you wanted to admit, so you left the bedroom with the decision still warm in your chest.
the only light in the hallway leaving his bedroom came from the small nightlights left on low, the way the staff always left them. neverland at this hour felt like a held breath. vast and completely still. your bare feet were quiet on the carpet. his oversized shirt brushed against your legs as you walked, the cool breeze from your movement sliding under the hem and teasing the soft skin of your inner thighs.
with every step you took, the more the image of him brushing his fingers up your soft thighs and touching your aching heat filled your mind.
the thought of it made the anticipation and hope sharper, and more desperate at the same time. you told yourself he would look up when you opened the door. you told yourself that if you could just get close enough, if you could get his hands under the shirt, you could still be the thing that brought him the rest of the way home.
the office door was closed, but not all the way. a thin line of warmer light spilled into the hallway.
and then you heard his voice.
it was soft.
not the voice he used with the engineers, or the dancers, or the people who needed something from him. this was the private register, the one that only came out when the armor was off and he thought no one was listening. it was lower. warmer. there was a quiet almost-laugh in it, the kind he rarely gave you anymore.
“…no, it’s better now,” michael said, and the fondness in it made something cold slide under your chest. “you were right about the layering. i didn’t hear it until you said it.”
a pause. the soft creak of his chair. the quiet shift of fabric as he settled deeper into it.
“it’s so good talking to you.” another quiet breath, almost like relief. “yeah. i needed that.”
the words were simple. they shouldn’t have gutted you. but the way he said them, like whatever was on the other end of the line was giving him something he couldn’t get from you, made your stomach drop so hard you felt dizzy. your fingers tightened in the hem of his shirt. the hallway suddenly felt too narrow.
you didn’t stay for more.
you turned around before he could hang up, before the softness could turn into goodbye, before you heard his actual laugh. his shirt against your skin felt heavier with every step. the air in the hallway felt thinner. by the time you reached the bedroom again, your pulse was loud in your ears.
you climbed back into the bed the way you had left it. you sat against the headboard and pulled the shirt down over your thighs, smoothing the soft black fabric as if it could somehow cover what you had just heard. the residual cold in your chest hadn’t left. it sat there quietly, waiting, spreading. you could still hear the soft shape of his voice in your head. the words kept replaying, gentle and private and not meant for you.
the clock on his nightstand read 1:51 when you heard his footsteps coming down the hall.
he pushed the door open quietly, the way he always did when he thought you might already be asleep. he was still in the black sweatpants from after dinner, the long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows. his small cell phone was in his hand. he walked straight to the nightstand, set it face down on the wood with a soft click, and then looked at you.
“you’re still up.”
his voice was normal again. the private softness was gone, scrubbed clean. the contrast made your throat tighten.
“couldn’t sleep,” you said. your own voice came out thinner than you wanted. smaller.
he nodded once, reached up and dragged a hand through his long dark hair, then glanced toward the bathroom.
“i’m gonna take a two minute shower,” he said. “then bed?”
there was no real question in it. no pause to see if you needed anything. he was already turning away. you watched him walk into the bathroom. you listened to the door click shut. you listened to the water start. the sound of it filled the room and somehow made the silence between you feel even larger.
the phone was right there on the nightstand.
you stared at it. the way it sat so casually where he had left it, as if there was nothing on it that could hurt you. the water continued to run. your pulse continued to climb. the twisting feeling in your stomach continued to settle deeper.
you lasted eleven seconds.
your fingers closed around it before the decision finished forming. you touched the tiny keyboard, causing the small green-tinted screen to light up, bright in the low light of the lamp. the call log was still open, like he never bothered to close it. like it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone might look.
elena.
outgoing.
1:06 a.m. – 1:47 a.m.
41 minutes.
it sat there clean and undeniable. forty-one minutes of the soft voice you had just overheard. forty-one minutes of it’s good talking to you, and i needed that while you were down the hall in his shirt, planning to climb into his lap and pull him back to you. while you had been telling yourself that tonight was different, that if you were just patient enough and soft enough the distance might finally loosen its grip, but he had found whatever he needed in someone else’s voice.
you sat there with the phone in your hand, your favorite shirt of his hanging off one shoulder, the entire quiet weight of neverland pressing in through the windows. the hurt was no longer sharp. it had become something heavier, something that lived in your chest and made breathing feel like work.
you set the phone back down exactly where he had left it: face down, slightly angled toward the lamp, like nothing had been touched. your hands were steady when you did it. they only started shaking after the screen went dark and the evidence was hidden again.
you sat up against the headboard and waited. the shirt still smelled like him. the fabric had gone slightly warm from your skin. the only sound was the water running in the bathroom, steady and distant.
after another minute, the water shut off. there was the soft sound of the shower door opening, the rustle of a towel being pulled from the rack, the quiet pad of his bare feet on the tile. then the bathroom door opened, and the warmer light spilled into the bedroom for a second before he stepped through and closed it behind him.
he was wearing only a large towel. it hung low on his hips, knotted carelessly on one side. his hair was longer than it had been the year before, the soft dark curls still wet and clinging to the back of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw. tiny beads of water tracked down the center of his chest, eventually disappearing underneath the towel. the scent of his soap moved into the room with him; clean and familiar. the same scent that usually made you want to press your face into his neck.
he looked at you immediately, and whatever your face showed made him pause for half a second in the doorway.
he didn’t ask right away.
he walked to the dresser, opened the second drawer, and pulled out a pair of soft black pajama pants. he turned slightly toward you as he loosened the towel, dropping it to the floor without a second thought. he stepped into the pants bare, pulled them up over his hips, and tied the drawstring with slow, deliberate movements. only when the knot was finished did he glance over at you again.
his voice was quiet. careful.
“you okay?”
the question sat in the air between you for a long moment.
you looked at him, and the soft voice you had overheard in the hallway rose in your throat like something you might choke on.
“who’s elena?”
he went still.
not the sharp, defensive stillness of someone already prepared for a fight. this was slower. genuine surprise first, then something that looked almost like disbelief.
“what?”
“elena,” you repeated. your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “you were on the phone with her for forty-one minutes. who is she?”
his eyes moved from your face to the phone on the nightstand and back again. he didn’t pretend not to understand.
“you went through my phone.”
it wasn’t a question.
“yes,” you said flatly. “it was eating me alive. i had to know who you were speaking to like that.”
“speaking like…” he said it slowly, like he was still putting the pieces together. “you listened? you stood out there and listened to my conversation.”
you didn’t deny it.
something shifted in his expression. the surprise was still there, but anger was moving in underneath it now, cleaner and sharper than the earlier tiredness. he took a step closer to the bed, then stopped.
“i already have to worry about everyone else invading every private second of my life,” he said, voice low. “now i have to worry about you doing it too?”
“you lied to me,” you spit out.
“i told you i needed to finish one thing—”
“you didn’t mention you were going to call another woman in the middle of the night,” you pushed the covers the rest of the way off your legs and sat forward. the shirt slid further down one shoulder. “that’s a lie by omission, and you know it.”
he was stopped at the foot of the bed. close enough that you could see the last drops of water still clinging to his collarbone. close enough that the clean scent of his soap reached you again. the air between you felt tight, almost warm from how close he was standing. you could hear the soft, controlled sound of his breathing. the lamp on the nightstand threw a low gold light across the side of his face, catching on the damp ends of his hair.
the proximity made it worse. your body still wanted him even while your chest felt tight with anger. you hated that most of all.
“i didn’t lie.”
“you did.” the words came out harder this time.
he exhaled through his nose. the sound was pure irritation.
“you’re exhausting when you’re like this.”
“i’m exhausting because i don’t like being lied to?”
“you’re exhausting because you invent problems when there aren’t any and then force me to stand here and defend myself against your imagination.”
you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood. the shirt fell to your knees again. you felt completely exposed under it. bare. small. ridiculous.
“my imagination,” you repeated. “that’s what we’re calling the call log now.”
“the call happened. the meaning you’re giving it didn’t.” he paused, dragging his hand across his jaw in frustration. “you went through my phone. you stood outside my door and eavesdropped on my conversation. and now you’re sitting there looking at me like i did something to you.” his voice stayed low, but there was real heat in it now. “what exactly do you think happened, huh? what story did you convince yourself of while you were going through my things?”
“i don’t know,” you said, the words coming out thinner than you wanted. “i just know it didn’t sound like nothing. you were soft with her. i could hear it in your voice. you laughed at something she said like it was easy. forty-one minutes of easy.”
for a second, he only stared at you. the irritation was still there, but something more focused moved in underneath it. like he was forcing himself back into order.
“she’s someone i’ve known a long time. longer than i’ve known you,” he said finally. “she’s helping with some of the vocal ideas. that’s all. it was nothing. it was work.”
you let out a short, humorless breath.
“that wasn’t a work call.”
his eyes narrowed.
“yes, it was.”
“no.” your voice had gone quieter, but it was harder now. “that was a relief call. that was you needing a break from me. you called her because you didn’t want to deal with whatever this is right now. you didn’t call her about a song. you called her because you needed to talk to someone who doesn’t make you feel the way i do.”
the words sat in the air between you.
you watched them land. watched the way his expression tightened, then closed.
“you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
you let out an air-filled laugh. his shirt had slipped further down your shoulder. you didn’t fix it.
“then explain it to me,” you said. “explain why you needed forty-one minutes with someone else at almost two in the morning. explain why you can be soft with her and then come in here and go cold again. explain why the second things get quiet you go looking for someone who isn’t me.”
his jaw flexed. the muscle jumped under the skin.
“you’re really doing this again?” he asked. the control was starting to fray. “every time i take one breath that isn’t about you, you decide it means something. i needed to talk to someone who wasn’t already waiting to turn every little thing into a problem.”
“someone easier. someone who doesn’t see you.”
the words came out quieter than the ones before them. they still landed.
he went still.
“that’s what this is,” you continued. your voice had started to shake, and you hated it. “you let me close enough to see how lonely you are and then you punish me for seeing it. you go looking for someone who doesn’t know the weight of you. someone easier. someone who doesn’t notice when you disappear.”
“stop.”
“no.” you took a step closer. the floorboard under the edge of the rug creaked. “i think i’m the only person who actually sees you, and it scares the shit out of you. so you go find someone who doesn’t care enough to notice.”
for a second, the only sound in the room was the faint tick of the clock and the wind moving against the large windows of his bedroom. you watched the words hit him.
when he spoke again, his voice was lower. colder.
“you think you understand me. you think because i let you into my bed and my schedule and the private parts of this life that you somehow earned the right to diagnose me. the right to invade my privacy.” his eyes had gone dark. “you went looking for a reason to be angry, and then you made one up out of thin air. that’s not me leaving. that’s on you.”
he let out a short, angry breath.
you watched the way his jaw tightened, the way something cold and final settled behind his eyes. whatever he was about to say, you could already feel it cutting.
“it’s immature,” he said. “going through my phone, standing outside the door listening. turning one conversation into some big betrayal. it’s immature, and it’s exhausting.”
the words hit with enough force that your ears rang for a second.
“fuck you,” you said.
the two words came out quiet and precise.
he blinked once, like he hadn’t expected them. then something in his expression shifted; not softer. darker. the kind of focus that made the air in the room feel thinner.
“say that again,” he said.
your pulse was already too high. the anger was still there, hot and sharp, but underneath it something else had started to move, something that had been sitting under the entire fight, waiting.
“fuck. you.”
he closed the space between you in two slow steps, arriving so close that you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him. the warm scent of his skin hit you like a freight train. you hated how much your body still reacted to it. you hadn’t felt this much of his attention in weeks. the type of attention that was charged and locked completely on you; it made your composure crumble.
your breath had gone shallow. you felt it happen, and you couldn’t stop it. the small, traitorous catch in your chest, the way your thighs pressed together under his shirt for half a second before you forced them still. heat had already started gathering low in your stomach, slow and heavy, and the thin fabric of the shirt suddenly felt too rough against your skin.
your pulse was visible in your throat. when you swallowed, the sound was soft but unmistakable in the quiet room. his eyes flicked down, tracking all of it. the tight breath, the shift of your thighs, the way your nipples had gone tight under the soft black cotton… and when they came back up, something darker had settled in them.
“you’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“i’m angry.”
“is that what we’re calling it?” he murmured. his eyes dropped to your mouth for a second, then came back. “interesting.”
for a second, neither of you moved. the fight was still all over both of you. every accusation. every wound. it had nowhere left to go, except into the small amount of space still left between your bodies.
his hand came up, not fast, and he brushed his knuckles along the edge of the shirt where it had slipped off your shoulder, watching the path of his own fingers like he was deciding something. the contact was light, but it still sent a slow current straight down your spine.
“you want to keep fighting,” he said, voice rough now, “or do you want me to shut you up?” his hand slid from your shoulder up the side of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse so he could feel exactly how fast it was going.
the question was filthy in its simplicity. the heat flared low in your stomach, sharp and completely honest. you hated that he could still do this to you. you hated that the answer was already in your body before it reached your mouth.
he moved his thumb over your pulse slowly, and when you didn’t back away, he tightened his hand slightly, just enough to drag you forward by his grip on the side of your neck until your mouths collided. the kiss was nothing like the ones he’d given you when he was being soft or careful. it was all teeth and leftover venom from the fight.
he walked you backward without breaking the kiss, one hand locked on your throat, the other shoved under the hem of his shirt to grab onto your bare hip. your shoulder blades hit the cool glass of the window with enough force to knock a small sound out of you. the temperature contrast made you shiver: the chilled surface against your back, the heat of his bare chest sealing you in from the front.
you made a small, broken sound against his lips and he answered it by pushing closer, tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you flush against him. you could feel how hard he already was. the knowledge sent another pulse of heat between your legs, humiliating and electric.
the anger was still sitting under your skin, sharp and useless, while your body opened for him like it had been waiting for exactly this.
his hand on your hip moved to find you completely bare underneath the shirt. two of his long fingers slid between your legs without any warning, and the sound he made when he felt how wet you already were was filthy. low. almost disgusted with how much he liked it.
“jesus christ. you’re soaked. standing here calling me a liar meanwhile you were dripping down your thighs for me.”
he didn’t ease into it. he pushed those two fingers inside you in one thick, deliberate stroke and curled them hard against the front wall. your head knocked back against the glass with a soft thud. a choked, helpless noise left your throat before you could swallow it.
“that’s it,” he said, voice low and mean right against your cheek. “make that noise again. let me hear what all that righteous anger sounds like when i’ve got my fingers buried in you.”
he fucked you with his hand right there against the window, rough and relentless, the slick, filthy sound of it loud in the quiet room. the heel of his palm ground against your clit on every inward thrust. his other hand stayed on your throat the entire time, thumb stroking the frantic pulse under your jaw.
“you went through my phone,” he said, almost conversational, while his fingers kept working you open with that same punishing rhythm. “stood there looking at me like i betrayed you. and look at you now. spreading your legs the second i touch you. dripping down my wrist.”
you tried to speak. it came out as a moan that cracked in the middle. he laughed under his breath, dark and satisfied. he pulled his fingers out slowly so you could feel every inch of the loss. they were shiny under the low lamplight, coated in you. he lifted them between your faces so you had no choice but to see.
“open.”
you did. without hesitation. he pushed both fingers into your mouth, and you tasted yourself. he watched your lips close around them with an expression of pure possession.
“suck. taste how wet you got while you were calling me lonely.”
you obeyed even while a tiny part of you still wanted to scream at him. the contradiction sat heavy in your chest as you sucked his fingers, tongue working between them. a thin strand of saliva connected his fingers to your bottom lip when he finally pulled them free. he wiped it across your mouth with his thumb and then kissed you again, deep and claiming, tasting yourself on your own tongue.
while his mouth was still on yours, you dropped. your knees hit the carpet, soft but sudden. you kept your eyes on his as you reached up, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pajama pants. you dragged them down his hips, freeing his hard and thick cock, which was already leaking a clear bead at the tip.
he looked down at you for a long second, something dark and approving moving behind his eyes.
“such a good girl,” he said, voice low and rough. “didn’t even need to tell you. so eager for me.”
one hand came to the side of your face, thumb brushing once along your cheek before settling under your jaw, tipping your head back just enough. he pushed his cock between your lips with a low, controlled exhale. the stretch of your mouth around the thickest part of him burned in the best way. he groaned at the feeling. low, almost pained, and the sound went straight between your legs, another pulse of wetness slipping out of you.
he held you there, nose pressed to the warm skin of his stomach, until your eyes watered and your throat fluttered around him. only then did he pull back just enough to let you drag in a rough breath before pushing in again. the rhythm he set was deliberate and deep from the start. spit started to run down your chin. your eyes kept watering. he never looked away from your face.
“that’s it,” he said above you, voice rough and strained. “just like that. look at you… so fucking perfect like this.”
tears slipped from the corners of your eyes and tracked down toward your temples. he wiped one away with his thumb without ever slowing the pace of his hips, the gentleness of the gesture completely at odds with how deep he was pushing into your throat. the contrast made your heart rate skyrocket. you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper on the next stroke, just to hear the way his breath stuttered.
he pulled out suddenly. a thin, glistening string of spit connected your bottom lip to the head of his cock for a second before it broke and fell. you were gasping, chin wet, lips swollen and red. he was breathing hard too, chest rising and falling, the earlier anger still sitting under the surface but softened now into something hungrier.
“get on the bed.”
he stood over you while you climbed onto the bed with shaky legs, still breathing hard, the taste of him thick on your tongue. you scooted back toward the middle of the mattress, the oversized shirt riding up your thighs. he watched every movement like he was deciding how much of the fight he still wanted to punish out of you.
“lie back.”
you did, but slower than he wanted. a small, stubborn delay. his eyes narrowed.
he climbed onto the bed after you, knees spreading your legs open as wide as they could go. the shirt was still on. he didn’t take it off. he just shoved the fabric up past your hips and left it bunched under your breasts, so you stayed half-covered, and somehow more exposed by it. one hand pinned your thigh open. the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking once, slow, watching your face.
“still angry?” he asked, voice low.
you swallowed.
“yes.”
“good.” he dragged the head of his cock through the mess between your legs, coating himself in how wet you still were. “stay angry. i want to feel it when i fuck it out of you.”
he lined himself up and drove into you in one long, brutal stroke that punched the air straight out of your lungs. the stretch was sudden and perfect and almost too much. your back arched hard off the mattress, and a high, cracked sound tore out of you before you could stop it. he didn’t give you time to adjust. he set a hard, deep rhythm immediately, hips snapping forward like he was still answering every accusation you’d thrown at him.
“fuck. there it is. that’s the noise i wanted.” he pulled almost all the way out so you felt the drag of every ridge and vein, then slammed back in hard enough that the bed frame knocked against the wall. “still think i’m lonely? still think i need somebody else when i’ve got this tight little pussy wrapped around me like it never wants to let go?”
you tried to answer, but it came out as a filthy, desperate whimper. he laughed under his breath, dark, and drove into you harder.
“say something,” he ordered. “you had plenty to say five minutes ago.”
you dug your nails into the flexing muscles of his back hard enough to leave marks. he hissed through his teeth and fucked you harder for it, like the small pain only fed him. your words came out shaky and defiant at the same time.
“this still doesn’t make you any less of a liar.”
“say it again,” he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head, fingers locking tight around it. “say it while you’re full of me and see what happens.”
he kept the pace punishing. deep and angled precisely to drag against the spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges, deliberate, like he was trying to drag the fight out of your body through pure force. the wet slap of skin against skin filled the quiet room. your free hand continued to claw at his back. he didn’t slow down.
“look at me,” he said.
you did. his eyes were dark, focused, still carrying the edge of the argument, but something more possessive was at the forefront.
“you’re the only one who gets me like this,” he said, voice rough, almost angry about the admission. “you know that? the only woman in my bed. the only one i let see me when i’m like this.”
the words hit differently than the earlier cuts. they landed lower. your breath stuttered.
he felt it. his rhythm stayed hard, but the angle changed, deeper, more claiming.
“say it,” he muttered. “say you’re the only one.”
you shook your head once, still trying to hold onto the last of the anger, but your voice betrayed you.
“i’m the only one.”
“louder.”
“i’m the only one.” it came out broken. “you’re… fuck. you’re all mine.”
something in his expression cracked open at that. the last of the pure anger bled into something darker and more possessive. he dropped his forehead against yours, still fucking you in long, heavy strokes that made the headboard knock softly against the wall.
“that’s right,” he said, almost to himself. “all yours. and you’re still going to take it.”
he released your wrist only to shift his weight, and he hooked one of your legs over his elbow, and the new angle made you sob openly. the slick, filthy sound of him driving into you was the only thing you could hear. the soft slap of it, mixed with the low broken noises you were making and the occasional sharp, controlled exhale from him.
sweat was starting to slick both of you. a drop fell from his temple onto your collarbone. the clean soap smell from his earlier shower was gone, replaced by the thicker, heavier scent of sex and warm skin and the faint metallic edge of leftover adrenaline from the argument. your hands slid down to his moving hips, feeling the powerful flex of muscle under smooth skin every time he thrust forward.
he pulled out without warning, causing you to make a desperate, needy sound of protest that would have embarrassed you any other night. he ignored it completely. before you could reach for him, he had already flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. the motion was effortless, almost careless. one second you were on your back, the next your face was pressed into the sheets and your hips were dragged up until you were face down, ass up, the oversized shirt still bunched under your chest.
he shoved the soft black fabric further up your back in one rough drag, exposing the full line of your spine. his palm settled between your shoulder blades, warm and heavy, and he pushed down until your chest was flush to the mattress and your ass was higher in the air. the position left you completely open. you felt the cool air against how wet you were, felt the way your thighs trembled trying to hold the angle.
“arch your back for me,” he said, voice low and rough. “deeper. let me see how good you take it.”
you did. you arched as deep as the hand between your shoulder blades would allow, presenting yourself. he made a dark, approving sound and lined himself up again. the head of his cock dragged through the mess between your legs once, twice, before he sank back into you in one thick, unforgiving stroke that forced a broken cry out of your throat.
the new angle was deeper; every time he pushed himself to the hilt, you could feel him in your stomach. his hand stayed planted between your shoulder blades, the other tangled in your hair, not pulling yet, just holding, using the grip to keep your back in that deep, obedient arch.
“that’s it,” he muttered. “just like that. good girl. taking me so fucking well.”
you could barely answer. every thrust punched little broken sounds out of you that you couldn’t swallow. your fingers clawed at the sheets. the pressure in your stomach was building too fast, too sharp, the earlier fight still sitting under your skin even as your body opened for him completely willingly and desperately.
he felt it. the way you started tightening around him. the way your thighs started to shake harder.
“you close already?” he asked, almost mean with it. “after all that anger you came at me with, you’re about to cum on my cock this fast?”
you tried to speak. it came out a desperate, high sound. he answered by fucking you harder, the hand in your hair finally tightening so he could pull your head back just enough to deepen the arch even further. the stretch of your throat, the burn in your scalp, the relentless drag of him inside you—it all stacked too high.
you finished hard around him, a full-body shudder that made your arms give out. the sound that left you was raw and helpless. he kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs were trembling and you were gasping into the sheets, oversensitive and still pulsing around him.
he pulled out before he could follow you over the edge.
the sudden emptiness made you whine. he didn’t give you time to recover. he flipped you onto your back again with the same effortless strength, climbing up your body until he was straddling your chest. his cock was slick, and he wrapped one hand around the base and used the other to tip your chin up, and slapped the tip against your lips.
you opened your mouth without him needing to say a word, and he fed his cock back into your mouth slowly this time, not thrusting, just letting you taste. the flavor of the two of you mixed together was thick and unmistakable: salt and heat and the evidence of how hard you’d just come for him. he held himself there, watching your lips stretch around him, watching the way your tongue moved under the head like you couldn’t help it.
“that’s it,” he said quietly, almost gently under the filth. “clean it up. taste what you just did to me.”
he stayed like that, not fucking your throat, just letting you clean him with your mouth while his free hand stroked your hair. the earlier anger had softened into something darker and more possessive, but the edge was still there; satisfied, claiming, and completely locked on you.
“good,” he murmured. “just like that. take your time.”
after a minute or two of letting you worship him with your tongue, he pulled free with a wet sound, moved back down your body, and pushed your thighs apart with both hands. for a second you thought he was going to fuck you again immediately. Instead, he lowered his head between your legs and put his hot mouth on you without any warning.
the first long, flat lick made you cry out sharply. you were still sensitive from your orgasm, and his tongue was relentless. broad strokes over your swollen clit, then pointed and precise, then dipping lower to push inside and taste exactly where his cock had been minutes ago.
he ate you like he was starving and angry about how much he needed it at the same time. two fingers pushed back inside you while he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked in a steady, devastating rhythm. the dual sensation built another orgasm almost immediately, faster than you thought possible.
“fuck” was all you managed to get out as you slammed your thighs tight around michael’s face.
he lifted off of you for a second, just long enough to shove your thighs back down onto the mattress, opening you up again. his mouth was shiny. his eyes were dark.
“don’t you dare cum yet,” he warns, voice dripping with lust. “you cum when i say. not before. you hold it.”
you whimpered, already shaking, the edge so close it hurt. he watched your face for a second longer, making sure you understood, then dropped his head again.
this time he was even meaner with it. his tongue worked in tight, focused circles while his fingers curled hard against the front wall, dragging over the spot that made your vision blur. every time the pressure started to tip too far, he eased off just enough to keep you right on the edge, panting and trembling, your hands fisting the sheets.
“michael—” you choked out.
he hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
“not yet.”
he kept you there, holding you open with his forearms, eating you like he had all the time in the world and zero intention of letting you fall until he decided. your thighs were shaking so hard the muscles burned. every breath came out broken. the need was so sharp it almost felt like pain.
“ask me nicely,” he commanded.
“please—” you choked out, the rest of your plea turning into loud moans as you started wiggling against his grasp, the sensation being too much.
“use your words.”
“please let me finish. please, michael, please. i need it. i’ll be a good girl, i promise.”
he sealed his mouth over your clit again, sucked hard, and curled his fingers deep.
“give it to me,” he ordered, voice rough and right against you. “right fucking now.”
your body broke on the command. the orgasm ripped through you so hard your back arched clean off the bed, a raw, helpless cry tearing out of your throat as you pulsed around his fingers. he stayed right there through all of it, licking and sucking every wave until you were shaking and oversensitive and trying to twist away.
only then did he slow down, pressing one last open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh while you tried to remember how to breathe.
“there it is,” he murmured. “that’s two. my turn, mama.”
he didn’t give you long to come down.
he moved up your body slowly this time, almost deliberate about it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he settled between your legs again. you were still trembling, thighs weak, the aftershocks of the second orgasm still flickering under your skin. he looked down at you for a long second: flushed, wrecked, lips parted, chest rising too fast. the sight made his cock twitch.
he hooked both of your knees over his elbows and folded you open, pressing your thighs back toward your chest until you were nearly bent in half. the stretch pulled at your hips. the position left you completely vulnerable, completely exposed. he held you there, looking down between your bodies at where you were still shiny and swollen from everything he’d already done to you.
“look at you,” he murmured, voice low. “still so wet. still open for me. so beautiful.”
he lined himself up and pushed in with one long, thick stroke that made you gasp and pull on his hair that was dangling in front of your face. the angle was devastating. he sank so deep you felt it in your stomach, every inch dragging against places that made your toes curl, and your back try to arch even in the folded position. a high, shattered sound tore out of your throat before you could stop it.
he stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, just breathing, letting you feel the full stretch of him. then his hand came back to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady. the light pressure was enough to make you flutter hard around his cock on instinct. the sudden clench dragged a low, rough sound out of him.
“fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping against yours for a second. “that’s it. just like that.”
he started to move.
slow at first. deep. every thrust rolled all the way in until his hips were flush against you, then dragged back out almost to the tip before pushing in again. you could feel every ridge, every thick inch, the way your body stretched to take him. his hand stayed on your throat the entire time, the steady pressure keeping you grounded while the rest of him took you apart.
“you wanted nasty,” he said, voice completely wrecked now. “you wanted a fight. you wanted to push until something broke. this is what you get. my cock rearranging you until you forget every single word you said.”
you tried to answer. the words came out broken and shaky as he bottomed out again.
“you were such a bad girl earlier. going through my phone. coming at me the way you did. and now look at you. all you can think about is how full you are. how deep i am.”
you shook your head weakly, barely able to form words. every thrust forced little helpless noises out of your throat that you couldn’t swallow. your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“say it,” he ordered, breath hot against your mouth. “tell me that’s all you can think about right now.”
“you—” you gasped as he ground against you especially deep. “you’re so deep i can’t. can’t think about anything else—”
“good girl,” he dropped his forehead against yours again, still rolling his hips in those long, deliberate strokes.
he kept the pace deep and measured on purpose, grinding against you on every inward thrust just to watch your face change. the third orgasm built slower this time, heavier, coiling low in your stomach and spreading outward until your thighs were trembling against his arms. every time he buried himself completely, you clenched around him harder, and every time you did, he made a low, satisfied sound like he could feel exactly how close you were.
“that’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. “squeeze me just like that. show me how sorry you are.”
his hand on your throat stayed light but constant, the pressure making everything feel sharper, more intense. you could feel your pulse against his palm. you could feel how hard he was inside you, how he still hadn’t come, how every deep stroke seemed to push him closer too. the air between you felt thick. every breath mixed. every small sound you made seemed to pull another rough noise out of him.
“you’re getting so tight,” he said, voice starting to strain, the rhythm losing a little of its control. “i can feel you shaking. you’re close again, and i’ve barely been back inside you.”
you nodded frantically, eyes locked on his because he wouldn’t let you look away. the pressure in your stomach had become almost unbearable. every thrust dragged against the front wall, every grind of his hips pushed you closer, the hand on your throat keeping you right there in the moment with him.
“michael—” his name came out cracked and pleading.
“i know, baby. i know.” he drove into you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. “you’re gonna cum with me this time. i want to feel it. i want to feel it while i fill you up. don’t you dare look away.”
you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. his eyes were locked on yours, dark and focused and almost desperate under the control. the coil inside you kept tightening, low and heavy and relentless, until it felt like you were balanced on the edge of something that might ruin you.
“take it,” he ordered, voice rough and breaking. “take all of it. cum with me, mama. right now.”
you came with a raw, wrecked cry, your whole body locking up around him so hard it almost hurt. the way you clamped down dragged him right over the edge with you. he buried himself as deep as he could go with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you in thick, pulsing waves. you felt every single one of them; hot, heavy, flooding you while your body kept fluttering and squeezing around him like it was trying to pull him even deeper. the shared orgasm rolled through both of you in long, overlapping waves that seemed to last forever. your thighs shook hard against his arms. his forehead stayed pressed to yours. both of you were breathing like you’d been underwater for too long.
he stayed locked against you through all of it, hand still on your throat, cock still buried to the hilt, letting every aftershock pass between you. he stayed inside you for a long time after, longer than he needed to, like he wasn’t ready to break the connection yet.
neither of you spoke. the only sound in the room was the slow, uneven pull of your breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the nightstand. his hand had slipped from your throat at some point and now rested against the side of your neck, thumb stroking absently over your pulse like he was checking that it was coming down. his forehead remained pressed to yours. every few seconds one of you would shift the smallest amount and both of you would feel it; the residual heat, the wetness, the way your bodies were still soft and open and tangled together.
eventually he eased out of you with a quiet, careful sound. the loss made you flinch. he noticed. he always noticed.
“shh,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “i got you.”
he reached down between your bodies and gently wiped the mess from your thighs with the soft inside of the discarded towel from his shower, slow and thorough, like the act itself was part of the apology. only when you were clean did he guide your legs down from where they’d been folded against your chest, rubbing the faint ache out of your hips with warm, careful hands.
then he pulled his oversized black shirt back down over your body, smoothing the soft fabric over your stomach and thighs like he was tucking you back into something safe. only then did he shift onto his side and gather you into him.
you went willingly. your face found the warm hollow of his neck without thinking. his skin still smelled like clean soap and sex and the faint trace of cologne that always lived at the base of his throat. his hair was still slightly damp against your cheek, the soft curls brushing your temple every time he shifted.
one of his arms slid under your shoulders. the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the full length of his body until there was almost no space left between you. he even hooked one heavy leg over both of yours, the weight of him becoming its own kind of comfort.
for a while, he just held you like that, breathing you in. you felt the soft press of his mouth against the side of your neck, then higher, against the hinge of your jaw, like he was grounding himself the same way you were. his hand moved in long, absent strokes up and down your back. every so often he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, or your temple, or the damp hair at your hairline. the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. it was quiet in the way that felt earned.
then, soft against your hair:
“i’m sorry.”
the words were quiet. honest. no edge left in them.
he exhaled slowly, the breath warming the side of your face.
“i’m sorry i got so angry. and defensive.” his hand kept moving on your back, steady and gentle. “i should’ve just reassured you instead of shutting down. i love you, and i hate that i made you feel like you had to go looking for answers.”
you felt the apology settle somewhere deep in your chest. your fingers curled lightly against his collarbone.
“i’m sorry too,” you whispered into his neck. your voice came out small and a little rough. “i shouldn’t have gone through your phone. i should have trusted you. i just… i heard you laughing with her, and it scared me. i thought—”
his arm tightened around you immediately.
“hey.” he pulled back just enough to look at you. his eyes were soft in the low light, the earlier darkness completely gone. he lifted one hand and brushed a few strands of hair away from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “i’m not going anywhere. you hear me?”
you nodded, but he wasn’t finished.
“i’m not leaving you.” his thumb stroked once over your cheekbone. “she’s just someone i’ve worked with for a long time. that’s all it was. i promise.” he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the space between your brows. “you have nothing to worry about. not with me. not with this.”
the words landed deeper than you expected. something in your throat tightened. you closed your eyes and let yourself lean into the touch of his mouth against your skin.
he kept talking, voice low and steady, like he needed you to feel every word.
“you’re the one i come home to. you’re the one i ask to stay. you’re the one in my bed every night. i know the album has been taking too much of me. i know i’ve been distant. but none of that means i’m pulling away from you. it just means i’ve been tired and stupid about how i handle it.” his hand slid up into your hair, cradling the back of your head. “i’m still here. i’m still yours. nothing about that has changed.”
you turned your face further into his neck, breathing him in. the solid warmth of his body, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers kept moving gently through your hair… it all wrapped around the leftover fear and started to quiet it.
“i got so scared,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “talking to her sounded so easy. and things between us haven’t felt easy in a while.”
“i know.” he kissed the top of your head again. “and that’s my fault too. i should have been better about making sure you still felt chosen even when things get busy. i’m going to be better about it. i promise.”
he shifted slightly so he could pull the covers up over both of you. the sheets were cool at first, then warmed quickly from the heat of your combined bodies. he tucked them carefully around your shoulders, then settled you more firmly against his chest, one leg still draped heavily over yours so you were completely surrounded by him.
for a long time after that, he just held you. his hand kept up its slow path along your spine. every so often he would tip your chin up and kiss you; soft, closed-mouth, lingering kisses that had nothing to do with the earlier heat and everything to do with reassurance. you kissed him back the same way, slow and quiet, letting the tenderness settle into your bones. between the kisses, he kept murmuring things, half against your mouth, half against your skin. you could hear the whispers, little broken pieces of “i’ve got you” and “you’re safe” and “i’m right here.”
the house around you felt different now. the earlier emptiness had eased. the dark beyond the windows no longer felt quite so large. his heartbeat under your cheek was steady and real. the scent of his skin, the weight of his arm, the quiet way he kept murmuring soft things into your hair… all of it wrapped around you until the last of the fight finally loosened its grip.
you fell asleep like that, tucked against him under the covers, his hand still moving slowly up and down your back, his mouth occasionally brushing your temple in the dark.
and for the first time in weeks, the quiet didn’t feel like distance.
✦ summary: an intimate night with michael comes to an unexpectedly early end when your period decides to make its appearance at possibly the worst time imaginable. you’re mortified. michael, however, is far more concerned with why you keep apologizing to him.
✦ warnings: 18+ / mdni, explicit sexual content, period sex, menstrual blood, period beginning during sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (wrap yo shi, do as i say not as i write) , dirty talk, nipple play, orgasm, period cramps, menstrual products, reader experiencing embarrassment surrounding menstruation, aftercare, fluff. michael and reader are both adults. established relationship
✦ an: currently on my period and apparently instead of suffering normally my brain went “but what if off the wall michael was here 🤨” and thus this was born LMAOOO. i wanted younger michael to be sweet and a little awkward about the whole thing without magically knowing everything there is to know about periods. he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s looking at. he just knows his girl is embarrassed and hurting and he’s gonna take care of her and the mental image of this man staring down two purple boxes made me giggle. anyway. period comfort michael be upon ye <3
you were already half under him when it really started. the lights were low in the hotel room, curtains drawn against the late california night, and michael’s mouth was on your neck again, soft and careful like he was still learning how much pressure was right. his hands had been roaming for a long time, tracing the same paths over and over, palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin fabric of your shirt. every time you made a small sound he answered with one of his own, quiet and a little surprised, like the way you felt under him still startled him.
“you feel so soft,” he murmured against your skin, voice low. “everywhere i touch… damn.”
you answered by pulling him closer, rolling your hips up against the hard line of him. “then keep touchin’ me. don’t stop.”
he let out a shaky little breath and pushed your shirt up higher, leaving it bunched under your arms. his own was still half on, open down the front, and every time he leaned in the soft fabric brushed your bare stomach. he kissed down the center of your chest, mouth warm, then took one nipple between his lips and sucked gently, tongue flicking. you arched into it and he groaned around the peak, the sound vibrating through you.
“fuck, look at you,” you whispered, fingers sliding into his soft hair. “your mouth feels so good. don’t be shy about it.”
he glanced up at you through his lashes, cheeks a little pink, and sucked harder for a second before letting go with a soft wet sound. “i’m not shy. i just… like the way you taste. and the way you sound when i do this.” he moved to the other breast and did it again, slower, while one hand slid down between your legs and cupped you over your underwear. his fingers pressed firmly, rubbing in a slow circle that made your hips twitch.
“you’re already wet,” he said, almost wonderingly. “i can feel it through these. you want me that bad?”
“yes. take them off. put your fingers in me.”
he did. the underwear came down your legs in one careful tug, and then his hand was back, two fingers sliding through your folds, gathering the slick before he pushed them inside. the stretch was slow and perfect. he watched your face the whole time, lips parted, breathing a little harder.
“like that?” he asked, curling them. “tell me if you want more. i can go deeper.”
“deeper. and move them. fuck me with your fingers, mikey.”
he obeyed, pumping them in a steady rhythm while his thumb found your clit and rubbed in small, focused circles. the wet sounds filled the quiet room. you reached down and cupped him through his pants, squeezing the hard length of him, and he made a soft broken noise against your throat.
“you’re so hard,” you said, voice rough. “all for me. i want that inside me soon.”
“you’ll get it. just… let me make you come first. please. i wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers.”
he kept working you, adding a third finger when you asked for it, the stretch burning just right. his mouth stayed busy on your neck and collarbone, whispering between kisses. “you’re so tight. so wet for me. listen to how you sound… fuck, baby.” the “baby” came out almost shy, like he wasn’t used to saying it yet, but he said it again when your walls fluttered. “come on. come for me. i got you.”
you did, hips rolling against his hand, a low moan breaking free as the orgasm rolled through you. he kept his fingers moving through it, slower, gentler, until you were trembling and pushing at his wrist. then he pulled them free and brought them to his mouth without thinking, tasting you, eyes half-lidded.
“sweet,” he murmured. “you taste so sweet.”
clothes came off the rest of the way after that. his shirt first, then the rest of it in a tangle of limbs and quiet laughter when something got stuck. when he finally settled over you again there was nothing between you. he took his time, kissing down your stomach, the soft place just above where you wanted him most, then lower. his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and thorough, and he groaned like he was the one being touched.
“still so wet. i could stay down here all night.”
“next time,” you managed. “right now i need you to fuck me.”
he climbed back up, cheeks flushed, and lined himself up. the head of his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and thick. he pushed in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. when he was fully seated he stayed still for a long moment, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he needed to gather himself.
“you’re so… warm,” he whispered. “feels good. so good. you’re squeezin’ me already.”
“move. please. i want to feel every inch.”
he started slow, hips rolling in a rhythm that was more careful than practiced, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding under your thigh to pull you closer. every thrust dragged against the sensitive spot inside you. the room filled with the soft wet slap of skin and the quiet sounds he couldn’t hold back.
“feel so perfect around me…” he said, voice rough now. “so tight. i’m not gonna last if you keep doin’ that with your hips.”
you wrapped your legs higher around his waist and met every thrust. “then don’t last. fuck me harder. i want to feel it tomorrow.”
he made a soft desperate sound and picked up the pace, hips snapping a little sharper. “like that? you want it deeper?”
“yes. harder. talk to me.”
“you’re so wet it’s runnin’ down my cock. listen to it. you take me so well… fuck, look at you. look how pretty you are when you’re full of me.”
you reached between your bodies and rubbed your own clit, and the extra stimulation made you clench hard around him. he cursed under his breath, the softest little “shit,” and drove in deeper.
“you’re gonna make me cum if you keep squeezin’ like that.”
“yes. please-wanna feel it.”
he was getting close, you could tell by the way his rhythm turned uneven, by the way his fingers dug into your thigh. the heat between you was almost too much, bodies slick, the wet sounds louder now. he leaned down and kissed you messy, open-mouthed, still murmuring against your lips.
“gonna cum… you feel too good… i can’t—”
then something shifted. a dull, low ache that didn’t belong to the good kind of tension. you felt it before you understood it. a warmer wetness than before, thicker. when michael shifted and pulled back a little to change the angle, still buried deep, you looked down between your bodies and the sight stopped everything cold.
blood.
a lot. bright against the pale sheets, smeared along the length of his cock where it was still half inside you.
your whole body went rigid. heat flooded your face so fast it almost hurt.
“oh my god. mikey-” you were already scrambling backward, one hand trying to cover yourself, the other pushing at his chest. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t know it was coming, i swear, i didn’t feel it earlier, i-”
he blinked at you, still half over you, hair a little messy from your fingers. the confusion on his face was almost comical for half a second before it turned into something softer.
“why’re you apologizin’ baby?”
you kept trying to pull the sheet up, face burning. “because there’s… blood. i ruined it. i’m so sorry, michael, i didn’t-”
he sat back on his heels, looking down at the mess and then at your face. no wrinkled nose. no disgusted little laugh. just quiet concern.
“hey.” he reached for the towel that had been tossed near the edge of the bed earlier and brought it between you, gentle. “it’s okay. c’mere.”
you tried to turn away. he didn’t let you. the towel was soft and he cleaned you up with careful strokes, eyes mostly on the task, voice quiet.
“you can stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“like what?” he asked, genuinely confused,
“like you’re tryin’ not to be disgusted.”
his eyebrows pulled together. “i’m not.”
“michael.”
“i’m not.” he paused, then quieter, “it’s just blood baby. i woulda kept goin’”
you laughed a little. of course he would’ve.
“this is so humiliating.” you whispered, mostly to yourself
“no it’s not, stop all that, now lemme finish what i was doin’ pretty baby.”
he finished wiping you down, then himself, and when you still wouldn’t look at him he kissed your forehead, leaned over the side of the bed, dug through his open suitcase, and pulled out one of his soft black t-shirts. he held it out.
“put this on. i’m gonna change the sheets. you don’t gotta hide baby.”
you took the shirt because arguing felt impossible. it smelled like him. you pulled it over your head and it fell to mid-thigh.
“you hurtin’?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“y-yeah. it’s okay though. im… gonna go to the bathroom...”
by the time you slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, you could already hear him stripping the bed, quiet and efficient.
you stayed in there longer than you needed to, sitting on the closed toilet lid with your face in your hands, mortified. when you finally opened the door again the bed was remade with clean sheets, the lights still low, and michael was standing near the bathroom door holding two different boxes of menstrual products he’d apparently found in your ‘just in case’ bag.
he looked a little pink in the cheeks.
“…which one?”
you stared. “the purple one.”
he looked down at both boxes. “…they’re both purple.”
a tiny, helpless laugh escaped you. you pointed. he nodded solemnly and handed you the right one, then stepped back to give you privacy like it was the most natural thing in the world.
later, when the cramps started in earnest (of course they did, he had already called for a heating pad and plugged it in. you were curled on your side in his shirt and he settled behind you, one arm around your waist, the flat of his hand rubbing slow circles over your lower stomach through the fabric.
“does that help or am i makin’ it worse?” he asked, voice soft near your ear.
“helps.” you said, meekly. still embarrassed.
he kept doing it. when you tried to get up for water he made a quiet offended sound and gently pushed you back down.
“i said i’d get it.”
he came back with water and something sweet (a little pack of cookies from the minibar, slightly crushed). he made you eat half of one while the heating pad did its work and his hand never stopped moving in those careful circles.
you drifted for a while against his chest, the worst of the embarrassment fading under the warmth of him and the way he kept treating you like nothing had changed. like this was just another way of being close.
half asleep, you murmured, “sorry about earlier. i love you…”
he answered immediately, soft but firm.
“i love you more. now quit sayin’ that.”
“okay.”
a few seconds of quiet breathing,
“…im still sorry.”
“girl-“ you felt him smile against your hair. he giggled. his hand stayed on your stomach, gentle and steady, and the night settled around you both like it had never been interrupted at all.
you can have my attention if you want it so bad, baby
summary: ☄︎ when you see each other after your break up, you try to get his attention by making him jealous and michael gives it to you
contents: ☄︎ porn very little plot, black!reader, bad era!michael, p in v, oral sex both receive overstimulation, the use of the word slut and daddy, degradation if you squint, dirty talk, orgasm multiple times, throat fucking, use of vibrator, a guy is mentioned with no name, not proofread bc im tired, okay im done
authors note: ☄︎ the smut was 7 pages long so do with that what you will...
i was also struggling so bad with writing this but after deleting and rewriting, we're finally here
you let out a sigh of relief at being back in the comfort of your home.
you haphazardly threw off your heels, sighing at giving your feet some rest before making your way upstairs. when you made it to your room you immediately took off your dress and walked to the bathroom to take a much needed shower.
you wrapped your hair up before stepping in the steaming shower, tension draining from your shoulders as soon as the water hit your skin. you closed your eyes and let the events of the night come back to you.
you went to a charity gala with a guy that was nothing more than a fuck buddy. everyone else you knew was too busy to go with you so he was your only option. you two first started your arrangement a few weeks after you and michael broke up, michael leaving you missing dick–his dick– since your break up, so you need something to scratch it. was he as good as michael? hell no. but he got the work done… enough.
you and michael broke up because michael was, to put it simply, petty. every time you two would get in an argument, he would leave for however long he wanted and then next thing you know, he was on the front cover of some magazine, posted up next to some chick. when you would bring it to his attention, he swore you were being ridiculous and overreacting.
so you being your “overreacting” self, you left him.
it was so messy. things were thrown and words were said that you both didn’t really mean, you guys were just angry. you packed what you could in your suitcase, still arguing with him. you literally wanted to throw the suitcase at his face you were so mad, but at the same time, you wanted to kiss, fuck, and make up because you loved him, but you stood on business. you left your relationship at the door when you went to your car, and you didn’t want to look back.
you tried not to care but deep down you missed him.
so, when you saw michael at the gala, feelings of annoyance and suppressed feelings came to the surface. he looked good and it pissed you clean off. he was wearing a flashy outfit that put all the other men to shame and his hair was perfect, curls falling in front of his face. you caught him intensely looking at you and the guy you were with and he was radiating with pure jealousy.
you held eye contact with him as you took the arms of the guy you were with, put them around your waist, and buried your head in the crook of his neck. you smiled when you saw his hands clench into a fist at the sight of you in the arms of another man.
you were overly affectionate with the man you were with, feeling satisfaction at the attention and reactions you were getting from michael. you were simply using the guy you were with to get back at michael and you should’ve felt bad, but you really couldn’t give two fucks.
you left the gala, looking michael up and down as you went for the exit in the arms of a man that wasn’t him. even though you used the guy you were with to get back at michael, you didn’t really feel like having his company tonight so you told him that you wanted to be alone, you two going your separate ways for the night.
you laughed quietly to yourself when michael’s ridiculous reactions to your actions flashed through your mind as you reached for your body wash and loofah, washing the night away from your body.
you turned off your shower once you were clean and stepped out, reaching for your towel to wrap yourself up. you walked into your bedroom to drop your towel and to start moisturizing your body with your cocoa butter lotion. when you put on your shorts and long t-shirt to head to bed, the door rang.
you looked at your clock that was on your nightstand and notice that it was near 11:30PM.
“the hell?” you whisper to yourself as you make your way downstairs.
you look out the window next to your front door to see-
what the fuck?
michael?
a wave of anger washed over you as you opened the door.
“what the fuck are you doing here, michael?” you asked, not hiding your anger.
michael was still wearing the outfit he wore at the gala and his face had the nerve to look irritated, like he wasn’t the one standing outside your house.
“is he here?” michael asked, walking in the house uninvited. he looked around your foyer as if expecting someone to appear.
you slammed the door closed, irritated, “sure, just walk in uninvited.”
michael turned to look at you, ignoring your comment, “is he here?” he enunciated.
you crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow, “is who here, michael?”
“the guy you were with tonight. is he here?”
“ohhh,” you thought to yourself, “this is why he’s here.”
your lips twitch in amusement as you walk past him to go to your kitchen, “you’re ridiculous,” you say, opening your fridge.
“oh, i’m ridiculous?”
“yes, michael, you are,” you say matter of factly, taking out a water bottle.
It was silent for a minute, you and michael looking at each other as you took a drink of your water.
“no, michael, he’s not here,” you say gently, lowering your water bottle.
“good,” michael said simply.
you snorted, “and what would you have done if he was, hm?”
“i would’ve shown him who you really belong to,” michael shrugged.
you laughed in his face, “you’re delusional,” you said incredulously.
“i saw the way you acted tonight. how you basically acted like a slut to get my attention.”
you damn near threw the water bottle at his face.
“michael, get out.” you said calmly despite the anger that was rising in you.
“no.”
“get out,” you say, voice raising.
michael stood planted in his spot.
“michael we’re not together anymore,” you yelled.
“then look me in the eye and tell me that what you did was not for my attention,” michael yelled back, taking a step closer to you.
“it wasn’t,” you said, looking at the counter as you set your water bottle down on it. you mentally cursed yourself at how unconvincing your words sounded.
michael got closer to you, holding your jaw in his hand to force you to look in his eyes.
“lie to me again,” he said, voice low, daring you.
you felt your pussy wetten at the proximity and at how hot he sounded.
traitor.
his hand lowered to your neck, lightly squeezing. his eyebrows raised, still expecting you to answer truthfully.
“please,” you whimper, your resolve crumbling.
“tell me,” he whispered, his eyes boring into yours.
“yes,” you said meekly.
“yes, what?” michael asked, smirking.
“yes, i did it to get your attention,” you said, feeling embarrassed.
“yeah, i know, baby,” michael said before he leaned in to kiss you.
the kiss was hungry. your hands moved to pull him closer when his tongue entered your mouth, exploring thirstily. you moaned when you felt his hand leave your neck to move to your shorts, putting his hand in and feeling how wet you were for him through his panties.
“you wet for me even after all this time?” michael asked as his mouth left your lips to kiss down your neck.
you whimpered in response, feeling his mouth kiss and bite on your neck, creating marks.
michael left your neck and pulled you in the direction of the stairs, you tripping over your own feet at his haste to get you both in your bedroom.
when finally in your room, michael walked back until he sat on the edge of the bed, you still standing up in between legs kissing him desperately.
michael pulled your hair to stop your attack on his lips, “get on your knees and suck my dick,” he said, leaving no room for discussion and you immediately obeyed.
“take my pants off,” michael said.
you sprung into action, pulling his pants and boxers down until his dick was released, slapping against his stomach. you moaned at the sight of his hung, veiny dick. his mauve tip was peeking out from his foreskin, leaking precum, your mouth immediately watered.
you tried to bring your legs together to try to apply some sort of stimulation to your clit but michael put his foot between your legs, stopping you, “unh-unh, baby. suck.” michael said.
you pushed his foreskin down and licked his dick base to tip. michael threw his head back and groaned at the feel of your mouth on him. “yes, baby, just like that.” michael said breathily, looking back down at you.
his words spurred you on so maintained eye contact with him as you pushed a thin line of spit from your mouth onto his dick. michael moaned softly and his tip spurt out more precum before you wrapped your mouth fully around him.
you bobbed your head up and down, michael moaning and groaning before he put his hand on your head, fucking your mouth roughly. you choked and garbled around his dick as your spit dribbled down your chin and neck.
“you like this hm?” michael asked, “that guy fuck your mouth as good as i do?”
you shook your head.
michael fucked your mouth the way he fucked your pussy which was thouroughly and so fucking good. your brain went completely blank and you heard static in your ears whenever michael would fuck your mouth, an affect that guy could never do to you.
you moaned around his dick when michael started to thrust his hips up, his moaning was becoming louder and closer together which let you know he was so close to cumming in your mouth. you reminded yourself to breathe in and out your nose, michael fucking your throat without letting you off for air.
“you gonna let me cum in your mouth, pretty girl?” he asked. you moaned and nodded around his dick. you missed the taste and feel of his cum hitting your tongue and the back of your throat. you were moving your hips in circles now, desperately trying to get your panties to brush on your clit even though michael was holding you from bringing your legs together.
“im gonna cum in your mouth,” michael said, his words choppy. “and then when i cum in your mouth, im gonna fill up your pussy over and over again until you're leaking and not thinking about anything or anyone except for me.”
you swore you could’ve cum right then and there from his words.
michael moaned loudly into the room as he held your head still and came into your mouth.
fuck, you missed tasting and swallowing his cum.
when he pulled you off his dick, you coughed and inhaled, trying to get air back into your lungs. you looked so messy with spit and cum you couldn’t swallow all on your chin and neck. michael scooped the cum and spit back into your mouth, you moaned and swallowed it.
“take your shorts and panties off and get on the bed,” michael said, standing up in front of you, taking off the rest of his clothing and heading for your closet.
the fuck is he going in there for?
“wha-what are you doing?” you ask michael while taking off your shorts and panties, laying on the bed once they were off.
michael remained silent but you heard the tell tale sound of a box opening, only he knew about.
your toy box.
you threw your head back and looked at the ceiling, waiting for him to come back and wondering what toy he was going to grab out of there.
“spread your legs for me, baby,” michael said, walking back in the room.
you lowered your head down to see that he was holding your vibrating wand. you gasped silently at the sight before spreading open your legs to expose your pussy to him.
“fuck, i missed your pretty pussy so much,” michael said, joining you on the bed.
“she missed you too,” you said shyly and michael smiled softly at you before he turned on the vibrator and held it against your clit.
“oh, fuck,” you moaned, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.
then suddenly the vibrator turned off, leaving your clit swollen and begging for more. your eyes flew open and your head flew down to look at michael
“why’d you stop?” you whined, a pout forming on your face.
“keep your eyes on me,” he said firmly.
you simply nodded and michael turned the vibrator on and held it to your clit again.
“yesyesyesyes,” you moaned out. you hands came up to hold and toy at your tits, using them to ground yourself.
michael smirked at you deviously before he lowered his head, moving the vibrator aside and took your clit in his mouth and sucked.
you screamed at the feeling and your eyes crossed as your back arched. “fuck, yes!” you yelled out.
michael removed his lips from your clit, replacing it with the vibrator. your drooling hole was making a mess on the sheets below you and michael scooped up some and put it in his mouth.
he moaned at the taste of you, “mmmm, fuck, i missed the way you taste.”
“michael, im gonna cum,” you moaned to him, legs trembling.
“cum for me.”
and you did.
your back arched more as you squirted all over the sheets and michael.
you tried to push michael hand away that was still holding the vibrator to your clit, but michael pushed your hand away, keeping it there.
“michael, please, i can’t,” you whined, feeling sensitive.
“yes you can,” michael said before abandoning the vibrator completely and putting his mouth back on your pulsing pussy.
michael tongue traveled from your hole to collect your juices to spit it back on your clit to suck it right back up.
you were a moaning, screaming mess as michael continued his brutal attack on your clit. he brought his fingers to your hole and pushed inside, moving his fingers around remembering where your g-spot is.
“m-mikey, im gonna fucking cum again,” you moaned, grinding against his face and fingers.
michael smiled against your pussy at the use of the nickname as he moved his tongue and fingers faster.
“f-fuck!” you squealed. the force of your orgasm pushed michael’s fingers out your pussy as you squirted all around his face.
“michael–fuck–im so sorry,” you said when you saw the mess you made on michael face.
“i don’t care,” michael simply said, licking what he could into his mouth.
your eyes widened when you saw michael line his dick up to your entrance.
“no, michael, i can’t take anymore,” you said out of breath.
michael’s eyes softened at how fucked out you looked. he leaned over to kiss you passionately and deeply. you sucked desperately on his tongue and when he pulled away, a thin string of spit connected you two. your tongue came out to break it, drawing some of it into your mouth.
michael leaned over to your ear, “two more times, baby, i promise,” michael whispered.
michael lined his dick up again and pushed in. you both moaned at the feel of michael filling you up and how warm and wet you felt wrapped around him.
michael went straight to pounding in you leaving you to do nothing but moan and scream into the room.
“fuck, daddy, please,” you moan out, not thinking.
michael moaned loudly, “there she is. i missed hearing you say that so much, baby.”
you did nothing but moan and nod at his words.
“you’re not going to be a slut for anyone else but me right?” michael asked.
“nononono, only you i swear. just you.”
you were babbling at this point. saying sentences that didn’t even make sense, michael’s dick was just fucking you so good.
“gonna fucking cum, daddy,” you said.
“go ahead, baby,” michael said and you creamed around his dick.
the feeling of your walla squeezing so tightly around his dick from your orgasm, made him cum inside you, filling you up.
you saw your cream and his own cum on michael’s dick whenever he pulled out just to fuck back into you, fucking you through your orgasm.
“mama, you’re so wet,” michael said, looking at your pussy in wonderment.
you just moaned weakly, feeling super sensitive at this point.
“one more. just one more,” michael repeated to you, noticing how completely gone you looked.
“gonna cum,” michael groaned.
all you did was hold him closer as he finally came in you for the last time.
the feeling of him completely making you so full of his cum make you cum weakly, your pussy just clenching and unclenching around his dick.
michael held you tightly, you guys both coming down from the sex you just had. you were breathing heavily, your chest knocking against michael’s with every inhale and exhale.
“okay, baby,” michael mumbled against your neck before he pulled his dick out.
you whimpered weakly from the sensitivity.
“i know, baby,” michael said sweetly before he pulled you into his arms, moving to the side of the bed that wasn't soiled.
your legs trembled and you could feel michael’s cum leaking out of you. you buried yourself as much as you could into michael’s arms, feeling completely vulnerable and needing to be as close as possible to him. michael squeezed you tighter and wrapped his hand around your thigh, trying to stop the shaking.
“do you want me to get up to clean you?” michael asked, kissing you on the side of your head.
you shook your head slowly, “no,” you said, voice small.
you were genuinely so tired and you were comfortable in michael’s arms, you didn’t want anything to ruin it.
“okay,” michael said quietly, kissing you again.
“we have to talk, seriously, about us tomorrow,” you said despite exhaustion settling over you.
“i’ll be right here next to you when you wake up,” michael promised.
he noticed that you had fallen asleep, looking completely comfortable and safe in his arms.
michael felt his chest constrict and he leaned down to give you one last kiss, eyes closed.
“i still love you”.
authors note: ☄︎ i feel like i got slightly carried away but whatever
““Even if you’re sweeping floors or painting ceilings, do it better than anybody in the world, no matter what it is that you do. Be the best at it, and have a respect for others, and be proud of yourself…and to honor, be honorable.””
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