Flashlight (Michael Clifford)
Part Three (Part One, Part Two)
Blurb: On one of your evening mental-health walks, you notice a light moving through a house that has been uninhabited for some time, due to your neighbor's death. When you investigate, there's a suspicious looking man walking around the house, no overhead lights on, just a flashlight in his hand.
Warnings: explicit talk of grief; mentions of death; intense yearning; piercing!Michael ; sub!Michael; just Michael fucking Clifford in general ; sadness; smut: marking, bruising, softdom dynamic, unprotected sex (sorry lol wrap it up people), praise, cockwarming if you squint
Note: I definitely may have fully exposed myself as a Michael girl with this. My bad. I'm genuinely flushed and tired. Oh my god. Let me know what you think. I love your comments and unhinged thoughts. Also, there's one more part after this. xoxo
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When you awake, you're not entirely certain you even slept. For the first time in the last year and a half, you had no nightmares. You don't even recall dreaming in general, just a restful, atypical sleep. When you blink open your eyes, light creeps in through the glass-paned door leading out to the porch, so you know you also slept later than usual.
Only then do you process the arm you feel beneath your neck, the way you are comfortably warm, and the sound of light breathing filling the room that is definitely not yours.
You turn your head to the left and find the man laying on the side of your bed that has been empty for so long. His dyed hair is mussed over his face, his right arm tucked under you, and the other resting at his side. He is fully clothed in his baggy t-shirt and cargos, not even a sheet over him. You are suddenly, and horrifically aware that you are lacking an absolute stitch of clothing on your bottom half tucked beneath the blanket.
Last night comes back to you: the weed, the way you cried when you absolutely do not do that with strangers, Michael looking up at you from his knees, the way his fingers and mouth worked you so easily to the point where you are ninety-nine percent sure you experienced the best orgasm of your life. And you hadn't even actually fucked. Imagine if you had--
You stop your thoughts. You decide that you're never fucking touching weed again. Hell, anything that could inebriate you enough to let an attractive stranger suck you dry then drink you down like a Caprisun pouch should be off the table.
But as you watch over him, you know the truth. You would have done it stone cold sober. Even as he sleeps, his eyelashes flutter with each breath, the piercings a stark contrast to the pale skin, and his lips are still so pink. You remember the way they enraptured yours, the dance of his tongue over your neck. Even lower. It was so good. Nothing had been that good in a long time. You're certain, actually, that nothing had ever been like that.
But that doesn't matter. It was one night.
Michael said it himself, on his knees in mid plea, "Even if it's just for tonight, let me."
He was high, dealing with grief of coming here to handle things for his grandmother, and there was so much uncertainty. You know first-hand how people act when they're grasping for control. He doesn't need more complication to an already tumultuous situation. He hadn't even decided if he was going to be staying. The likelihood of him going back home to Australia is strong.
So why dwell on one great night of whatever fling you had when it wouldn't matter in the long run? No need in getting caught up, might as well just move on with it.
Besides, you can't catch lightning in a bottle more than once, and that's what last night was. Unbelievable. A one-time only stroke of luck.
That's what you tell yourself, at least, as you pull yourself from the bed, carefully manipulating your body as to not awake the beautiful man beside you.
You won't lie to yourself about that. Michael is one of the most gorgeous people you have ever met.
You pad over to your dresser and tug on a pair of sweats before deciding that putting on a pot of coffee would be the next best step. Looking to the sleeping man once more, you deftly pull the blanket over him, not wanting Michael to be cold for your sake.
Moving silently from your room and into the kitchen, you plug in the coffee machine. You don't even know for certain if Michael likes coffee, but some inner-knowing reassures you that he does as you count out the six scoops of grounds into the maker.
The machine grumbles to life and you decide that it would be helpful if you went ahead and found the exact phone number Michael would need to call to get power reinstated. You grab your phone off the kitchen table, no messages yet again, and start your search. It doesn't take very long to find the department number he needs to contact, but it takes a few minutes.
You know from your own experience that even short tasks can be difficult when it deals with handling the assets of someone you've lost. You're glad to take this off of Michael's plate.
You scribble down the number on a pad of paper and leave the pen with it so he can write down anything he may need to know. The coffee machine turns off when you finish, and you grab two mugs from the cabinet, filling one for yourself. You leave the other by coffee pot for when Michael wakes up.
Settling yourself at the counter, you take a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth move through your throat and into your chest. You eye the phone number you scrawled on the paper for Michael, contemplating how to handle things when he wakes up. As if almost on cue, you hear the patter of feet from your bedroom. You look up in time to see Michael standing in the doorway of your room.
Michael remains there, his hair still a mess. His eyes go over you as he stands across the way, the living room separating you both. He hesitates for a moment, and a part of you understands he is also unsure on how to handle this. When he looks at you, it's like he's observing a stray animal. Like he knows he could move too fast and scare you off.
"I made coffee," you say, trying to broach the silence.
"I can see that," Michael says, his voice gravelly with sleep, apprehensive.
Your fingers trace the design on your mug, the sound of his voice not assuaging your internal battle at all.
"For you, I mean," you clarify.
"Oh," Michael says. His voice and face both soften as he finally makes his move and gently crosses the living room. He stops in the kitchen and looks over to the coffee pot, the red light blinking steadily on the maker. His gaze goes to the mug sitting beside it, incidentally the one with the heart-hands on it. "That's sweet," Michael says, but he doesn't look your direction. Just fills his own coffee inside the mug. You notice he takes it no creamer or sugar like you.
Michael stands by the coffee maker, hands fully wrapped around the mug, his fingers intertwined with each other where they touch. Although you shouldn't, you think of the way those fingers moved into you last night, how Michael's glazed eyes filled with wonder as you took him.
Despite that, you wish more than anything to know how it feels for your fingers to be wrapped in his.
"Can I sit by you?" Michael asks.
"I certainly don't want you to stand," you say.
Michael nods, his face not altering at your attempt to play down the awkwardness, and moves to sit next to you. He settles into the chair to your left, his leg pressing against yours. His hands stay latched onto the cup. His personal tether.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, stowing himself enough to look at you again. Although his energy is drowsy, his vibrant eyes are alert.
"Good," you say, meaning it. "Best I slept in a while."
You notice your accidental allusion with the truth, take another sip of coffee. Michael catches it though; you know it by the way his eyes rove over your face, to your hands clenching your own coffee mug. Knuckles going white.
"(Y/N)," Michael says. It's a single word, but your stomach flips in anticipation.
"Yeah?" you respond, setting the cup down, rubbing your knuckles.
"How are we going to move forward?" he asks, uncertainty laced through his tone.
You sigh, long, heavy. You knew you'd have to have this conversation. You had just hoped it would have been after you had planned the whole discussion in your mind, filed all possible answers and ideal responses in their correct places.
"Listen," you begin. "Last night was--," you try to search for any other word that doesn't completely expose you. The truth? One of the best experiences of your life. But what comes out of your mouth is, "--amazing."
You steel yourself as Michael waits for more from you. You have to avert your eyes from looking at him or you know you'll falter. You focus on the coffee pot light still flashing, something to hone in on to not give you away, but it only reminds you of the red of Michael's hair. The way it fell into his eyes when he devoured you. The way it brings out the flush in his cheeks when he laughs.
"You are dealing with a lot," you continue. "We both were high and I just think with all the unknowns here, it shouldn't happen again." You redirect your gaze to Michael's, and you swear, there is hurt there. You swallow past the sudden dry mouth. "I think it's best we just stay platonic while you're here."
There's a silence that settles over you both, and you're nervous you're going to have to be the one to break it when Michael asks, "Is that what you want?"
What you want? What you want is for your brain to stop the mental gymnastics of trying to talk yourself out of the way you feel about this man, timing be damned. You know yourself. You know that you don't get close to people. That attraction and desire are not synonymous. You've been attracted to people, but when they open their mouth, that always dissipates. You've had one night stands: sex where you both left the other the next morning and never spoke again. Where you were completely fine with that because you knew what they held inside wasn't enough for you to risk changing over.
But with Michael, that's not it.
No, because you know yourself, you know that what happened last night was not just the euphoria induced from getting off. It was more. It was a seed being planted. If it was watered, encouraged by kisses and touches and late nights in each other's arms, it would grow. And if Michael really did leave? Well, you can't stand to have another love grown and ripped out by the roots.
It would bring back everything you've worked so hard to fix. It would upend all the boxes you had categorized your emotions into in your mind.
What you want is to know that Michael feels the same. That he won't go away. But neither of you can possibly know that.
"Yes," you say, betraying yourself with the single word.
Michael searches your face, again. His green locking with your eyes. You feel the probing there. Catch the momentary look of disbelief cross his countenance. You know he doesn't believe you, and he shouldn't. The faintest part of you wants him to push it. Wants him to say that this is not okay with him. To give you the clear to blur those boundary lines.
But Michael, he's a good man. So he doesn't.
"Alright," he says. "Friends."
He sends you a smile, but it doesn't meet his eyes. You reflect one back.
You tell yourself it's better this way.
You and Michael try the friends thing. And you believe you're doing pretty good at it. You know, if you ignore the way you want to touch him every time you're in the same room. Which, surprisingly, is more often than not. Michael was able to get the electric reinstated that morning after the weed-smoking incident, what you call it so it doesn't linger in your mind even more than it should. More than it already does.
You had gone back to Linda's house with him, making sure everything went right. The power was fully functioning, air conditioning running, but the house itself was in shambles.
To begin with, a layer of dust and mildew coated almost everything in the house. A storm had came through a month before and the rain had found a fissure in the roof, creating a dripping soft spot in the ceiling, soaking a majority of the living room. There was furniture that Linda had kept for years that should have been removed and taken to the dump, but she clung to it. Those and some of the photos of her family that hung on the walls were all deteriorating in a wet muck.
That first time you had walked in with Michael and witnessed him take in the state of the house, the way a photo of what you now know to be him resting beside her bed was one of the few salvageable memories, you couldn't keep yourself from offering to help. Even though you knew you didn't owe it to him, you felt like you had to, to keep the grief from capturing him like it did you.
You're a fixer. You had to fix it. So you offered.
You're also stubborn, so when Michael tried to fight you on it, and made a valiant effort you'd admit, you won out.
Like a good friend, you helped. The first three days you spent attending to the living room: you took all the photos off the walls and dried them out best you could, leaving them in a pile to be sorted through later, you both peeled the mildew-covered wallpaper off the walls, brought in fans to dry the wood out, removed the ruined pieces of furniture. You did it all with him. You didn't need a thanks, you appreciated that he let you help. That it gave you something else to focus on. Something to do with him.
But now, you're four days in as Michael wipes the last of the dust from the tv stand in the living room. Music plays through his portable speaker at a low volume while you finish mopping up the floor. You watch him as you do so, noting the way his painted nails are starting to chip from the work you've been doing, but also from Michael biting at them. You've not mentioned it to him, but you've noticed the way they go to his mouth when he's anxious. How he quickly tries to pull his hand back when he processes the tick.
He'll always excuse himself to the bathroom right after. From the sound of the running water, you know he's washing his hands, scrubbing them clean. You can almost hear the way he mutters to himself while he washes, telling himself he is okay. That's he got this under control.
He is like you, in that way. You've been forced to notice that.
You notice a lot of things about Michael, even more the last three days than you would ever admit to him. He is not like anyone you've ever met. He's level-headed, but is quick to be the first one to crack a joke. His mind is always going, you've learned to see it run past his eyes. How he'll blink a couple of times to bring himself back to the moment. You can tell which smile is genuine and what is falsified for the sake of being strong. He does that, a lot, too. Also like you.
Because you've learned him, you also see the way some of his looks still linger on you. How when you sing along to the playlist he made for the both of you to listen to, you'll catch the soft smile playing on his mouth. How his eyes briefly caught on your chest when you were red and sweaty from carrying furniture. How he says your name like he's never not known it.
You bring yourself to look away from his hands, from the way his shoulders move beneath his baggy t-shirt, and wring out the mop into the bucket. Michael turns toward you and your eyes go to his.
"Yeah, I think so," he says, eyes moving to the walls of the living room. They're empty now, the photos still stacked in the bedroom closet. You put them there the first day so Michael wouldn't have to see them. But now you can tell that it's time.
"Do you want to look through them, now?" you ask. You try not to let your voice soften too much, attempt to not speak to him like you're afraid he's going to break.
His thoughts race behind his eyes, but from the way the corner of his mouth twitches, you know his decision before he says it.
"Yeah," he answers, eyes going back to you, suddenly more somber. "Might as well go ahead and do it."
You nod, not moving toward him, nervous that touching his hand, even in support will cross the very boundary you set.
"I'm here with you," you say, instead.
Michael's eyes stay on yours.
You send a soft smile, just a turn up of your lips, but you hope he takes it as what it is. That he knows that you won't let him drown. That you're here to handle it if you need to.
You set aside the mop and the bucket and lead him into the bedroom. This room, shocking enough, was nearly untouched by any mildew or damage. The bedroom was the first room you were both able to clean and easily by just washing the sheets and dusting. Because of that, Michael has been able to stay here and not with you during the nights. It's been easier that way.
You move through the room and to the walk-in closet. You feel Michael's presence behind you, the subtle anxiety emanating from him. You open the door to expose the neatly-stacked pile of photos there. You feel Michael's posture tense, make note of how his hand comes up to nervously trace the tattooed band on his forearm.
"You took care of them," Michael says. There's an earnestness there that makes your chest ache.
"I tried. I dried out what I could. I didn't want to get rid of anything you might want so..."
You pause, the heaviness of the situation wrapping around you. You had done this before, you could do this now. You want to do this for Michael. He doesn't need to be alone like you were.
"Thank you," he says, and it's soft. Tender. It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to wrap your arms around him. Press kisses all over his skin so you can make it go away, even temporarily.
"I can move these onto the bed so it's easier," you say, not acknowledging his gratitude. You don't need to. You feel it from him.
"That's a good idea," he says, and you stoop to the ground, pick up half the stack and bring it back into the bedroom. You lay the photos out on the bed as Michael does the same beside you. When you have them spread out, they take up half of the king-sized mattress. There's so many of them. Faces of people who you don't know, but you also recognize through knowing Michael.
His hand goes to his mouth. He doesn't pull it away.
"I think we should start going through and see what is able to be saved," you say. "If it can't be just toss it. Focusing on what you can keep helps."
Michael nods, pulls his hand away from his mouth.
You sit on the empty side of the bed as you begin the work. Michael makes a spot beside you, your thighs gently touching as you work. There's a few photos you can't make out because of the water damage, even dried, so you stack those and make a pile before sliding them into a trash bag. Michael works steadily alongside you; you notice the way his breathing has gone a bit more shallow, a bit shakier.
You let him be. Continue on despite yourself, trusting that he knows you're here if he needs it.
You get to a picture that is ruined with a brown water stain, but you can make out the face of a child on a woman's lap, a younger version of Linda standing beside them both. The smile she wears so closely mirrors Michael's. Mirrors the little boy's in the photo. You pause and show it to the man beside you.
"Do you want me to keep this one?" you ask, letting your voice go soft this time.
Michael stops his work, his eyes resting on the wilted paper in your hand. His fingers brush yours as he takes it. A sad smile appears on his lips.
"That's me and my mum with her," he says. You hear the way his voice is thin, preparing to crack. "She was so happy to have a grandkid. I'm her only one." His eyes sadden as he takes in the photo, his hand tracing over the edges like a prized possession. Then the tears come, welling in his eyes. He tries to blink them back.
"She moved to America when I was five, but she'd write me letters. We'd call sometimes. The last time I had actually seen her was nearly three years ago."
His voice cracks and you watch him. You listen. You let him say what he needs to say as the tears fall freely now, reddening his skin. You want to reach out and brush them away, want to let him know you're here.
"But she still left it all to me. To a grandson she rarely saw. To someone who couldn't even be there when she was dying because I was too broke to buy a fucking ticket--"
The dam breaks, an ugly sob escapes Michael's throat and he pulls into himself on the bed, his arms curling to his chest, heavy pants coming through his mouth. Your heart wrenches as he sobs. You can't let him fall in on himself. Not alone.
Despite the boundary you set, you lean into him and wrap your arms around his frame, bringing his body into yours. His head immediately falls to your shoulder as he lets go. Hot tears accumulating on the cotton of your shirt. His body shakes, scalding to the touch and weak when he cries into you. His arms move from his chest and go around you. You let him cling to you, a tether to the present.
"And I've got to handle it all. The house, figuring out what the fuck I'm going to do with it. They--" He hiccups. "They didn't want me to miss out on my dream but they have no fucking problem leaving me to do this alone."
At that word, alone, all your resolve shatters.
A tear rolls down your face as you hold him. "I'm here," you say, stroking his hair. You can't help yourself anymore, you press a kiss to the top of his head. You notice the pause between the next few sobs at the touch of your mouth on him. "I'm here," you repeat, pressing another kiss. The only thing in your mind being Michael's hurt.
Michael is hurting and you'd do anything to take that away.
His head turns at your kiss again, the audible sobs stopping, his breathing still haggard. With his face turned toward you, his eyes are red and cheeks flushed. You don't want to think he looks beautiful tear-stained, but he does. He looks so goddamn gorgeous every way you've ever seen him.
You don't stop yourself, another press of your lips gently go to his forehead. You look down at him, taking in the way he's leaning against you.
"I can help handle it," you say, letting the promise float between you two.
"You've done enough," he replies, his voice wrecked from crying.
"I'll do more," you say. "You're not alone in this. I'll do anything to show you that."
And you shouldn't but you press a kiss lower on his face, over his cheekbone. His eyelashes flutter. His breathing steadies. You catch the way his face tilts up a bit more, how his mouth parts when he watches you through tear-rimmed lashes.
You kiss him again, to the left of his mouth, ghosting over the dermal piercing on his face.
"(Y/N)," Michael breathes, and his eyes close again. His hands never breaking their hold on your lower back.
His eyes open to you and in them you see all the hurt, all the grief that he wants to let go of. You see the desire, the want that's bubbled beneath the surface the last four days. You see it all.
Michael doesn't give an answer. Instead, he tilts his mouth toward yours. He doesn't close the space between you, gives you the control to eradicate the rule that you set.
And you break it when you bring your mouth to his.
His lips are wet and warm from the tears, tasting slightly salty but sweet from Michael's skin. His piercing lights up your mouth as you kiss him, the sensation somehow being even more intoxicating than you remembered while high. You want to take care of him, want better access to him, so you let your hands travel to the hair at the base of his head and guide him upright, bringing your faces level. He moans into your mouth as you maneuver him, moving his body against the pillows on the bed, supporting him by resting his back against the head board.
His hands dig into your back for purchase, for more. You use the grounding to toss your leg over him, deepening the kiss, brushing his red strands away from his face and tucking it behind his ear. Letting your hand travel back to his head, as you pull him into you. You slide your tongue past your teeth, through his lips. He immediately opens up for you. You feel the metal on his tongue as you lick into him. The heat pools in your lower stomach at the whimper that slips from his mouth when his hips rise to meet yours.
The hardness of him presses into you, and hot need rips through your center when you feel his. You move your ministrations from his mouth to his neck, kissing at the soft skin there. His fingers dig into your skin at your lower back as you flick your tongue over his neck and gently suck at the hollow beneath his ear.
"Please," he sighs after you graze your teeth lightly against his skin.
You pause, bringing your eyes to his. His pupils are blown out, face still flushed and pink. The sadness coexists in his gaze, but doesn't overpower it anymore.
"Please what?" you question, unsure of what he is asking for but willing to give anything.
"Mark me," he breathes, and it's a plea, it's submission. It's him relinquishing everything to you. The heat that swam in your belly before now consumes you. You comply.
When you move to his neck, you place kisses, hot, heavy, full of need. You suck at his skin, relish in the way moans leave his mouth as you bite. You move to the other side, a bruise blooming into the delicate skin of his neck already. You continue, kissing down his throat, to his collar bone, sucking bruises and biting over and over. Michael's hips roll beneath you as he takes your work, the grind of his cock against your tight shorts driving you mad, his hands at your lower back pinning you against him.
"Fu- fuck me," Michael swears after one particularly harsh bite at his shoulder.
The sound of his swear rips through you. Your clit throbbing, your underwear soaked already. Michael letting you take control of him, letting you help him sends so much need straight to your cunt you don't know what to do with it. You meet the next buck of his hips, bring yourself down in a deliberate drag of your heat across him.
"Fuck--," Michael whines through loud pants. "Take it all. Please."
Your hands go beneath his shirt at his words. You pull it over his head, discard it onto the floor. You take a quick intake of breath at the sight of him. His skin so light, so soft, the flush creeping down into his chest from his face. His nipples are pierced too, metal bars going through each of them. You want to trace them with your tongue until he's crying out. Until he can think of nothing else but you. Can't think of the grief, nor the loneliness, nor the uncertainty of it all.
You eyes go to the bruises that you so clearly left. The red and purple welts, the craftmanship you marked into his skin. You want it to stay there, to be reminded that at least for a day, he was yours.
"Michael, you're so fucking beautiful," you say, crashing your lips to his.
And it's not just pillow talk. He is. You know that you'll forever believe Michael is the most gorgeous person you've ever seen. You believed it four days ago. You'll know it in another four months. Four years. Four decades. Even if you never see him after this. You'll always know.
You trace your lips down his neck, to his collarbones, to where his sternum turns into his chest. You slide back on his thighs to swipe your tongue over his right nipple, catching the piercing there. A whine leaves Michael's mouth and his hips stutter against yours.
"Take me, please. Just take me."
Desire coils in your chest at what he's asking. You want it. You've wanted it since that night he made you fall apart on his fingers and tongue alone. You wanted it from the moment he saw you. From the moment you witnessed him.
"Would that make it better?" you ask, moving your lips back to his mouth, taking his lower pierced lip between your teeth. Tugging gently before placing another bruising kiss. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes," he pleas, and the desperation is so evident. The craving to be fucked till his brain turns off. The need to be consumed by someone who's safe. Someone who gets it. You recognize it within him. You know it. You felt the same when you let him taste you.
And there's so much adoration you have for him, so much need and bliss in those beautiful eyes, that you decide to do it. Repercussions be damned.
You reach between the two of you, going for the button on his pants and unfastening it. Your heart thrums in your chest and you palm over him, the separation between you both being the thin material of his boxers. Michael groans and his head throws back, flush against the headboard. His chest heaves.
You push past the material, expose him through the fly of his boxers. His cock is rigid, beautiful like him and long. A bead of pre-cum leaks from the tip and you run your finger over it, using it to rub down his shaft. The way he gets impossibly harder in your hand makes you feel like a god, the one in control of this beautiful man who wants so desperately to not be in charge.
A hiss escapes through his teeth as you stroke him, his eyes watching as you work him and coming back up to you, his mouth slightly agape.
"I don't have any protection," he groans. A pained moan leaves his lips as you move back up toward his head. You feel him throbbing hard in your hand.
"I'm on the pill," you say.
He nods sporadically, bottom lip coming between his teeth as you stroke him, place another kiss to his sensitive neck.
"Fuck me, please. I need this so bad. I need you so bad."
And because you are stupid, and because you would do anything for this man, because he looks so goddamn irresistible bruised by you and writhing under you, you pull your cotton shorts and panties to the side, exposing your soaked cunt, and you lower yourself onto Michael.
Your walls sting as you stretch around him, his bare length pressing into you every inch you take. An animalistic groan rips from your mouth as you sink onto him, and the most pathetically beautiful whine you've ever heard leaves Michael's. You force yourself not to come from the sound alone, from the sensation of you being so full of Michael to drive you crazy. You need to take care of him. It's what you were made for.
"Oh my fucking god--" he mewls. "You're so warm and wet, oh fuck."
You try to steady your breathing, but cannot prevent the sigh that slips from your open mouth. Michael looks so blissed out as you fully take him. The tip of his cock brushes deep into you and the sensation takes your breath away, but you need him to come undone. You need his brain to be off. So you move your weight onto your knees as you roll your hips, forcing him impossibly deeper.
"Jesus Christ," Michael chokes out as he bottoms out.
"You're taking me so well," you pant, placing your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You raise back onto your knees, your slick cunt moving back up his cock and you lower yourself again. Your brain is struggling to stay online, to focus on anything but Michael being inside you. The sensation of his twitching cock growing as you ride him, the way his shaft brushes your clit as you lower. The way he's completely fucked out under you, moaning and whining and mewling as you fuck him. Little grunts escaping his mouth when you pick up your pace.
You're so soaked you bottom out with each stroke and you cannot help the moans your movements elicit from your own mouth. Michael consumes you, even as you take him, even as your pussy and mouth and heart enrapture him, his fucked out gaze, the purple and blue and silver and red of him swirl in your mind.
You can't help but praise him as you ride him, the obscenity of the sounds of you losing yourself in each other filling the room.
"You're so fucking pretty. So fucking good. You deserve this." You pant, your mouth running, honesty pouring from it. No other explanation than you being enraptured by Michael's cock, by him, by his soul. By Michael.
You feel him twitch inside you, the room becoming hot and sticky with you both.
"Mmm, I'm going to come," Michael whines. The sound of his unraveling goes straight to your clit, to your sopping core.
"Give it to me, sweet boy," you say. "Let me take it all."
Michael does, he lets go with a high-pitched moan. His cock twitches inside of you and the moment you feel him unload into you, you're catapulted into your white-hot orgasm. Walls clenching, swears filling the room, the heat of his cum filling you, sending both your eyes rolling back into your head.
"Fuck--" you grunt as your body trembles over him. You struggle to stay upright, but you're determined to ride it out, to force his cum deeper inside you. You want to remember Michael, to remember the feeling long after he's gone.
You still on top of him when you both finish, his head against the headboard, you leaning forward, collapsing your weight into him. Your body still shaking from taking Michael. Blissed out from finally being permitted to consume.
He remains inside you as you lay against each other. The stillness, the heat of your bodies wrapping around the other. The room smells like sex and sweat and overwhelmingly Michael. You feel his heartbeat steady in his chest, feel his breathing. Michael's arms haven't left your lower back, they trace small circles there. He hums softly, content to himself.
