Siriusly_Lupin

[kkgalerii]

: ̗̀➛ imagine accidentally falling asleep with your best friend michael, only to wake up to the sweet sounds of his whimpers in the night due to a wet dream...of you. but this time, you decide to help him. 18+ (part ii) !! headphones suggested !!

— ᨳଓ . the heavy quiet of the bedroom was filled only by the soft, sound of the fan, crickets outside and the quiet rustle of cotton sheets. you shifted in the bed, turning toward his side as a faint, pained sound broke through your sleep.

michael was tossing beside you, his long torso tense under the blanket. quiet, shuddering whimpers spilled past his parted lips, his brow furrowed in the dim light as if he were caught halfway between a dream and reality.

softly, you reached out and placed your palm flush against his warm chest, right over the frantic thump of his heart. "michael, wake up."

his eyes snapped open—wide, dark, and filled with instant panic. he blinked rapidly, realizing where he was and how close you were, his chest heaving under your touch. flush crept up his neck, burning hot all the way to the tips of his ears.

"i'm—i'm so sorry," michael stuttered out immediately, his voice raspy from sleep. he tried to pull back, looking thoroughly mortified, his hands hovering nervously over the sheets. "gosh, i didn't mean to—i'm so embarrassed, i hope i didn't wake you, i was just—"

before he could spiral any further, you leaned forward, cupping his warm cheek and cutting off his rambling apology with a deep, lingering kiss.

michael’s breath hitched sharply against your lips. for a split second, he froze in sheer shock, but the moment your warmth settled over him, the tension in his tall frame completely melted.

his long fingers reached up, sliding through your hair to gently cradle the back of your head, pulling you flush against him. a needy, quiet whimper tore from his throat right into your mouth, matched by a soft sigh from your own lips as the kiss deepened.

when you finally pulled back just a fraction of an inch, your lips brushed against his as you breathed out, "let me help you, baby."

michael couldn't form words. his mind was completely fried, wide doe eyes searching yours with a mix of shock and intense relief. all that slipped past his mouth was a soft, high whine, his body twitching helplessly under the duvet.

slipping your hand beneath the covers, your fingers hooked into the soft elastic band of his pajama pants, gently pulling them down just enough to release him into the cool air of the room. your eyes caught the dark, slick bead of precum leaking from the tip, glistening in the faint light.

"you were thinking about me, weren’t you, michael?" you teased softly, your fingers wrapping around his thick length and beginning a slow, easy stroke from base to tip.

"i—i don’t know… i just.. well, yes—" he rambled desperately, his head rolling back against the pillow as his hips gave an involuntary jerk into your touch.

you chuckled softly, leaning down to press a warm kiss to his flushed cheek, then trailing your lips down the sharp line of his jaw to press soft pecks along his throat.

"you could’ve just asked me," you sighed gently against his skin, coming back up to capture his lips once more.

"i was nervous... too scared—to tell you how bad i needed you," he whined, his fingers tightening in your hair as your hand set a steady, intoxicating pace over his wet length.

"well, you don't ever have to be scared with me," you whispered back against his ear, your wrist speeding up just a fraction, guiding him through the steady friction. "just tell me what feels good."

"that—right there, mama... gosh, keep your thumb right there," michael gasped out loud, his chest heaving as his hips began to rise off the mattress to meet every deliberate slide of your palm. "it feels so good... you're strokin' it so perfect..."

your hand kept that fast, relentless rhythm, your other hand resting on his hip to hold him grounded as he completely undid beneath you. "that's it, baby... let go for me," you coaxed softly into his ear.

"i can't—oh god, mama, i'm gonna—"

with a sharp, breathless cry, michael arched his back off the bed, his entire body trembling violently as he came, thick waves spilling over his tummy and your fingers. he let out a long, shuddering sigh, his hands slipping from your hair to rest weak and spent on the mattress.

you smiled softly down at his flushed, glowing face. taking the edge of the sheet, you gently wiped his stomach clean before pulling the heavy duvet all the way back up over both of your shoulders.

michael immediately wrapped his long arms tightly around your waist, tugging you close until your head was resting right over his beating heart.

he pressed a lingering, sleepy kiss to the top of your head, letting out a deep, contented breath as you both melted back into the quiet warmth of the night.

[highoffrain]

“Tell me,” you moaned, your hips grinding down hard.

“The difference between a fuck! A beat and a...” You couldn't finish your sentence as the feeling of his cock hitting that exact spot took over your entire body. "...rhythm."

He looked up at you in confusion, his mouth forming an 'O' as his breathing hitched.

“Wh-what, baby?” he asked, looking up at you with those wide, vulnerable eyes.

“Go on,” you urged, pressing down harder.

Michael whimpered, his hands gripping your thighs weakly. "I-I can't, baby, please... I'm trying to focus..."

"Tell me, what's the difference?" you demanded, deliberately rolling your hips in a slow, torturous circle.

"Well " he gasped, his back arching as you hit his sweet spot again. "The beat is..” his breath hitched. “Is the thi-thing that keeps going underneath everything…”his voice softly whispering trying to maintain his control

“oh god, baby, please, I can't think when you do that!"

"Keep going," you whispered, leaning down to bite his earlobe. "Explain it to me."

"It’s-it’s like a p-pulse you naturally m-move to-" He cut off with a broken moan as you picked up the pace, bouncing faster on him.

"I-i can't... baby, please, you're t-too much," Michael moaned, his fingers digging into your hips as you increased the pace. His doe eyes were blown wide with pleasure, tracking your every movement. "And..ngh! The rhythm is a pat-pattern you create with different sounds…"

A broken moan escaped him as you slammed down hard against him, grinding your cunt against his cock. "Fuck, baby, p-please, I'm so close "

"D-don't stop," you gasped, your own voice cracking. Your head lollled back, your vision blurring as the friction built up. "T-tell me more, Mikey. T-tell me everything."

"I c-can't think! My b-brain is going numb, babygirl, p-please!" He was shaking beneath you now, his hips bucking involuntarily against yours. "The-The beat is the heartbeat. The rhythm is the…oh my God” his whimper escapes his lips like poetry. Is the p-personality of that…oh god, fuck, you're hitting it so h-hard "

"I'm gonna " You cut yourself off with a strangled cry, your hips moving in frantic, uncontrolled circles. "Michael, I'm c-coming!"

"Me t-too! Baby, I'm oh fuck, I'm right there " His words dissolved into incoherent stammers as he lost the battle to stay composed. "Please, I'm g-gonna cum I'm gonna cum inside you"

The explanation died in his throat as he gave one final, desperate thrust upward, meeting your descent with everything he had left.

You both shattered at the same time, your climax hitting you in waves that made you scream his name, while he buried his face in your chest, his body convulsing as he poured himself inside you.

[hunnyskisses]

𝓈afe 𝒶 𝒽orse, 𝓇ide 𝒶 𝒸owboy !

𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : after your car breaks down, the nice farmerboy nearby gives you a roof over your head for the night. However, you aren't aware of the cowboy hat rule. 𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : farmer/cowboy michael. chubby/curvy reader. and michael likes that veeeeery muchhhh. reader gets lost. reader doesn't know about the cowboy hat rule. michael is a gentleman. he is also very smitten. embarrassed michael & embarrassed reader. cowgirl. reverse cowgirl. doggy. ass slapping. michael calls you 'sugar'. unprotected sex. creampie. michael is a sweetheart. p in v. pussy eating. lots of praise. pussy drunk. filthy dirty talk. michael loves your ass. lots of nicknames. 𓏽 ♫ 𝟏𝟓.𝟗𝓀 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : oh my god this is so long... and i fear i got a little too carried away at the smut part.

𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist

You'd been driving for what felt like hours.

The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.

Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.

"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.

The silence settled around you almost immediately.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.

"...Huh."

You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.

Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.

A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.

"Oh, no..."

You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.

"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."

You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.

Your stomach sank.

"No, no, no..."

Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.

Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.

If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.

"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."

You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.

There was one problem.

Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.

The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.

You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.

The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.

No such luck.

With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.

There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.

You blinked.

"...Yep."

You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.

Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.

Beautiful.

Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.

Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?

The last possibility made you straighten slightly.

Morning.

You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.

You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.

You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.

No signal.

You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.

It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.

You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.

You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.

You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."

Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.

You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.

Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.

But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.

What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?

You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.

For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.

Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...

You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.

There it was again.

An engine.

Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.

For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.

Someone was coming.

You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.

It was an old pickup truck.

And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.

So you stayed where you were, waiting.

The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.

The engine remained running for a moment.

Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.

He wasn't what you had expected.

You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.

A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.

A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.

"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.

You gave him a small nod.

"Hello."

His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.

"Everythin' alright?"

There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."

He glanced back at it again.

"Out here?"

You nodded.

"Apparently."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.

"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."

The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.

"Been waitin' long?"

"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.

"Right."

He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.

"Name's Michael, by the way."

He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."

You shook your head, "'s okay."

He smiled softly.

"Well, I'm Michael."

He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.

"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."

The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.

"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"

The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.

You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."

"Alright."

He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.

There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.

Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.

"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.

"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."

There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."

You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."

"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.

"How long has she been actin' up?"

You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.

"Mm."

That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."

There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.

Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.

"She ain't overheatin', is she?"

"No. The temperature looked normal."

"Strange smells?"

"No."

"Any noises before this?"

You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."

He nodded again.

"Alright."

There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.

"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.

You shook your head.

"No. Just passing through."

"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.

"What gave it away?"

He looked up, a small smile appearing.

"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."

You laughed quietly. "Good to know."

"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."

"I figured that out."

That earned a small laugh from him.

"Yeah, I reckon you did."

He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.

A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.

After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.

You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.

"Well..." he started.

You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.

"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."

You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.

"That bad?"

"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."

He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.

"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."

You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"

Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.

"Means y' probably need a mechanic."

You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."

"Closest one?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment.

"About thirty-five, forty miles."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."

"Wish I was."

You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.

"Hey."

You looked back at him.

"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."

The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.

"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.

"'Course."

"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."

Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.

"Yeah, I did."

The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.

"I mean... anybody would've stopped."

You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.

"So what now?"

Michael looked back towards his truck.

"Well..."

He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.

"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."

You listened quietly.

"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.

"Especially not a lady."

The words made you smile slightly.

"Your mom sounds like a good woman."

"She is."

There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.

"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"

You shook your head.

"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."

He nodded.

"Alright."

Another pause. Then he looked at you.

"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.

"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."

He quickly continued before you could answer.

"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."

A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."

You looked down the empty road again.

Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...

You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.

"How far is it?"

Michael smiled slightly.

"Not far. Five minutes."

You considered it for another moment before nodding.

"Okay."

His expression softened with relief.

"Alright."

He stepped back towards his truck.

"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."

You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.

The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.

Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.

But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.

When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.

Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.

And Michael liked kind.

He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.

"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."

You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.

"You sure?"

He gave a small nod.

"Just thinkin'."

You looked back out the window.

"About my car?"

"That too."

There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."

You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."

"'Course."

The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...

Michael was very handsome.

Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.

"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.

"Not always."

You raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Nah."

You looked at him.

"Then why me?"

He thought about it for a moment before answering.

"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."

It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.

"That's a pretty good reason."

Michael shrugged lightly.

"Seems like the right thing to do."

The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.

Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.

"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"

You looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."

You smiled slightly.

"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.

"Just curious."

You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."

Michael nodded.

"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."

"What does?"

"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."

You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"

He smiled.

"Maybe."

"You've done that before?"

"Maybe."

You smiled at that.

"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.

"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."

"Oh."

He nodded.

"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.

"That sounds nice."

"It is."

The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.

At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.

Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"You alright?"

You looked over.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.

"Can turn the air up if ya need."

You smiled slightly.

"I think I'll survive."

"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."

You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.

The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.

The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."

You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."

You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.

Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.

He just wasn't used to this.

Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.

And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.

"Hm?"

"You said you live on a farm?"

He smiled.

"Yeah."

"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"

He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."

"You don't get tired of it?"

He thought about it.

"Sometimes."

You laughed. "At least you're honest."

"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."

That made you laugh.

"But most days?"

"Most days, yeah."

You looked out at the passing fields again.

"I think I'd like that."

"Farm life?"

"Maybe. It seems peaceful."

Michaels face softened.

"It can be."

He paused.

"But it can also be a lot of work."

"I believe that."

Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.

"You'll get to see it soon."

You looked back at him.

"The farm?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

A small smile appeared on his face.

few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.

"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.

"It's nice."

Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah. 's my home."

He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.

Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.

"I got it." You looked at him.

"You really don't have to carry my things."

He looked almost confused by the statement.

"I know."

The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.

"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."

You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."

That earned a quiet laugh from him.

"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."

"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."

Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.

"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."

You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.

The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.

"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.

"Don't worry about it."

The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.

"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."

You tilted your head slightly.

"A little."

He nodded, almost expecting that answer.

"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."

The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.

"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."

You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."

He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.

"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."

You nodded.

"Thank you, Michael. Really."

He flashed you a smile.

"You're welcome."

There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."

After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."

You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."

He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."

"Still."

"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.

"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."

"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.

A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.

You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.

You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.

The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.

You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.

Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.

He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.

So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.

He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.

"Hey, suga'?"

No answer.

Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.

"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."

Still nothing.

He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.

The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.

"Hey, I just wanted to—"

The words died in his throat immediatly.

You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.

His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.

Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.

He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.

Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.

God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.

You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.

Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.

He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.

He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.

He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —

Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.

Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —

He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.

He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —

Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.

He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.

His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.

Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.

He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.

Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.

Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—

The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.

You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.

You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.

The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.

And there he was.

Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.

"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."

A pause. He took a sip of coffee.

"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"

Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.

"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."

He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.

"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.

"Mornin', suga'."

"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.

"Sleep alright?"

"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."

"You didn't have to do all that."

"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."

You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.

"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."

"Think he can fix my car?"

"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."

"You'd do that?"

He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.

"Course I would."

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.

"You're really kind, Michael."

He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.

"Just doin' what's right."

He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.

"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."

You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.

And then he remembered.

It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.

He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.

"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head.

"You alright, Michael?"

"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."

You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.

"Alright."

He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.

You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.

"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.

Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."

"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."

His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."

"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."

You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"

"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."

A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.

"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"

Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.

"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."

You smiled. "That's cute."

"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."

You laughed. "He sounds like a character."

"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."

You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.

You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.

"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."

Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."

He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.

The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.

A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.

The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.

Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.

"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."

You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.

"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.

"Mhm."

He nodded toward the fields.

"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."

"You never wanted to leave?"

He thought about it.

"I did."

You looked over at him.

"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."

"And?"

He smiled to himself.

"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."

There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.

"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."

"I don't think simple's the right word."

"No?"

"I think... content."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I'll take that."

They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.

"Daisy," Michael called.

The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.

"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."

"Told ya."

He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.

"Easy now."

Watching him with the horse was... different.

He became even gentler somehow.

His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger."

"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."

You smiled. "I can tell."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You wanna pet her?"

"I don't know if she'll like me."

Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.

"Daisy likes everybody."

He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.

"Come here."

You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.

The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.

"Oh."

Your face lit up.

"Hi."

Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.

"See?"

You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.

"She's beautiful."

"Ain't she?"

You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.

"I think she likes me."

"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."

The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.

"I—I mean—"

His ears immediately turned pink.

"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I know what you meant."

"...Right."

He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.

You bit back a laugh.

The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.

Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.

You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.

You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.

And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.

He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.

Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.

"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"

Michael looked up from fastening the latch.

"Hm?"

You pointed at him.

"The hat."

He blinked.

"I've been wondering all morning."

His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Yeah, I take it off."

"Hmm."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What?"

"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."

He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."

Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.

"What?"

"You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did."

He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.

"You're somethin' else."

"That's not a denial."

Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.

Michael went still.

Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.

"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"

Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.

And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.

"Michael?"

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.

"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."

You blinked.

"What?"

"The hat."

You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."

"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."

He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.

"What?"

Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.

Finally, he sighed.

"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."

"About the hat?"

"About what it means when somebody takes it."

You frowned slightly.

"What it means?"

He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.

"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.

"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.

The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.

You stared at him.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"Oh..."

His face somehow got even redder.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I know."

"No, I mean—"

You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"

"I know you didn't."

"I was literally just messing with you."

"I know."

He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.

"I figured."

The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.

The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.

You looked at it, then held it out to him.

"Here."

Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.

His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed.

"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."

You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.

"Y' did look good 'n it."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Thanks."

He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.

"Y' welcome."

Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.

Michael looked away first.

And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.

"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.

"Right." Another pause.

Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.

"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."

You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.

Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.

Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.

You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.

"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"You were staring."

"I was not."

"You were."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."

Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.

"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.

"Yeah."

And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.

Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.

Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.

"Y' alright?"

You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."

He studied you for a moment.

"Well..."

He looked toward the house, then back at you.

"I should probably start on dinner soon."

The thought of him cooking made you smile.

"You cook every day?"

"Most days."

"By yourself?"

"Mhm."

"That's actually kind of impressive."

He laughed softly.

"'s nothin'."

"You always say that."

"What?"

"That everything you do isn't a big deal."

Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.

His expression softened.

"Y' would've done the same."

The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.

There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.

You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.

It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.

After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.

"You like storms?"

You sat on the couch, watching him.

"Sometimes."

He glanced over.

"Sometimes?"

You smiled.

"Depends where I am."

He nodded like he understood.

"Yeah. I guess it does."

The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.

"Well."

A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.

"That figures," you said.

Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.

It was strange.

A man you'd met yesterday.

A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.

Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.

"You know..."

Michael looked up.

"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."

His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.

"And now?"

The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.

"Now I'm not so sure."

The silence that followed felt different. Just full.

Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.

"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."

Your eyes moved back to him.

"Why?"

Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.

Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.

"'cause..."

He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.

"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."

Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.

"I know 's probably ridiculous."

"It's not."

His eyes returned to yours.

"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."

He looked down again.

"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."

Your throat went dry.

"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."

You nodded.

"I know."

"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."

You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.

"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."

Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.

"No?"

"No."

You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.

The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.

You reached up.

Slowly.

Giving him every chance to move away.

His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.

"Can I?" you whispered.

Michael's eyes searched yours.

He didn't ask what you meant.

He already knew.

"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."

The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.

"Michael—"

"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."

He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.

His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.

You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.

His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.

You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.

"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."

You laughed, breathless.

"Glad you lied."

He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.

The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.

"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.

His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.

"Michael─"

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."

The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.

"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."

He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.

He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.

"Wanna taste y', suga'."

You didn't have words. You just nodded.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.

"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."

And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."

"Oh fuck!—"

He repeated the action.

He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.

"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."

He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.

"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"

"Please what, beautiful?"

"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.

"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"

"Want you inside me."

A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.

"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."

He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.

"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."

And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.

"My turn."

He caught your wrist.

"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."

The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.

He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.

"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.

He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.

"Come here, honey baby."

You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.

"You sure?"

"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.

The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.

"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."

His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.

"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."

You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.

"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."

You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.

"My perfect, beautiful girl..."

You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.

"Turn around, sweetheart."

You blinked, breathless.

"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."

He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.

"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."

You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"

And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.

"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."

You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."

"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.

"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"

"Yes—"

"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"

"Yes, Michael, yes!—"

"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."

You shattered.

Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.

"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."

He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.

"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."

You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.

"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."

He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.

"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," you whimpered.

He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."

He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."

He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That feel good, beautiful?"

"Yes—"

"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"

"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."

He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.

"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"

"Mhm!—"

"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."

You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.

"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"

He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.

"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."

taglist: @a-motherfcking-fish @bbcouture-69 @lastmermaidonearth @bluegangsta77 @pixieelixer-24 @love-spitonthenonbelievers--blog @realgibby @dadamanz28000

[kirahslovelycrocs]

hey lovelies !! my friends came across this weird blog called : jacksonsdearest ? please report it , they made a fic about jaafar , jermajesty and another jackson , jackie i think i don't know . . they talk about throw up , scat , and piss . . this is so disgusting , you shouldn't be making a fic about this with REAL people or any person / character at all . please keep your dirty fetishes to yourself . please report it and reblog this post , this is disgusting .

[siriuslylupinsstuff]

That person is really disgusting! What is going on in their head to write that shit... 🤢

[dogpuppy]

Thank you anonymous for sharing

[takeasadsongggandmakeitbetter]

forever disappointed that i never got to experience old tomodachi life

[briarbelle]

Tigerlilies and Dandelions

[teathattast]

[norondor]

reblogging this to add that I often think about the old man yaoi mangaka on bluesky who said "the phrase that finally convinced me that the English language is truly beautiful was 'this shit is so ass'"

[porcellune]

TO THOSE MAKING NATIVE OCS

I see this a lot, no one has actual names, or any reference for names, that are legit Native American, varying among the tribes, for their characters.

Babynames.com and shit like that will give you names made up by white people.

However, I’ve got your solution.

Native-Languages  is a good website to turn to for knowledge on a lot of native things, including native names. If you’re unsure about the names you’ve picked, they even have a list of made up names here!

Please don’t trust names like babynames.com for native names, they’re made up and often quite offensive to the cultures themselves.

[ileniagennari]

Thank you!

[atthelamppost]

Native Languages is a great website. I use it for my fact-checking since it always has reliable links to tribal sites.

[escuerzoresucitado]

[cruzfucker]

[writerscourt]

Consequences of Magic Use

accelerated aging

anxiety and a constant feeling of dread

disorientation / blurred vision

bones cracking and breaking

bruising around hands and arm

burn marks on palms and finger tips

cognitive decline / memory lapses

debilitating migraines

exhaustion / fatigue

eyes reddening when veins pop

greying hair due to strain / eyes losing vibrancy

joint, muscle and limb pain

losing hair, teeth and finger nails

loss of body heat / constantly freezing

nose bleeds / ear bleeds

numbness / slowed reflexes / brain fog

requiring a lot more nutrition and rest

sensitive eyes and ears / raspy, raw voice

twitches and muscle spasms

weakened immune system

[lunepools]

“The gold bell was around his neck,

“Just as it had been long ago. 

“But no one could believe that he had once been a docile kittypet.

“What they saw standing before them was neither Tiny nor Scourge, 

“but some kind of unknown creature that froze their blood.”

This is a redraw of some concept doodles from 2021. The old art is at the bottom here under all my lazy rambling here

In the movie/book the movie is based on Uo serves as a father figure for Chirin; Tigerstar does not fill this role for Scourge literally (and in chirin i don’t think it’s meant to be taken completely literally either, although it is also literal ofc). Rather the memory of tigerpaw is the role of a sort of ‘older brother’/mentor in the sense that Tiny was taught a very important lesson from his point of view, that being we live in a dog-eat-dog world rigidly bound by the laws of nature where predators eat prey and prey can’t do a damn thing about it (ironically, the obstinate submission to this belief leads to him doing something about it). This is reductive and incredibly pessimistic but that is the point. Anyways, i mostly find this plausible bc as a kid i thought (like, an accidental headcanon sort of) that scourge chose to put dog teeth over his claws bc tigerCLAW is described as having claws so long that he can’t put them away and they’re always visible… so, tiny/scourge putting the dog teeth on his claws obviously they can’t be sheathed and he looks sort of like a little kid doing anything he can to copy his older brother without even thinking about it

I find the fact that Uo killed Chirin’s mother specifically and that Chirin forgave him for it to be much more compelling than if, for example, Uo beat Chirin up who then conceded to Uo’s view of the world and participated in the cyclical violence production machine; Chirin isn’t the only one hurt here, where he would decide to take his hurt and turn it into something. His mother was killed. She didn’t want to die—even if she didn’t have a son, she would not want to die. Her life is worth living for herself, too. Chirin really has no place to be forgiving Uo for that (although again it’s not that simple bc Uo also has to eat and it wasn’t personal. But if we forget that for a moment and pretend it was thoughtless violence, like when tigerpaw beat up tiny). 

So as an extension of that, I would really like if Quince left the house to look for Tiny (do you remember blazethefiredragon’s third episode of their adaptation of the rise of scourge? yeah). She would find Tiny in the middle of getting beat up and then go to protect him and in turn Tigerpaw would kill her. There IS something here that bugs me if this was actually done in warriors bc of the misogyny in the series and the tendency to throw away female characters like disposables but I’m doing this myself as someone cognizant of these issues and in my perfect world where all that idiocy would be patched up in the other areas (i mean. As much as is possible without knocking the entire series over like the fragile house of cards it is, which isn’t saying a lot), to allow for space to have things like this happen with actual purpose

The timing of Scourge killing Tigerstar would be changed as well. Since their rapport is actually built here as opposed to being false to begin with the battle would begin without any issues. To create a parallel to the farm raid in Chirin I imagine instead that Scourge would be about to attack some younger apprentice who would then be protected by their mother (which should be entirely possible, though I can’t think of any cats who would fit the bill). His hesitance would be challenged by Tigerstar like Chirin’s hesitance was challenged by Uo

Finally. “I’m a sheep!” would be replace with “I’m Tiny!” or “I’m a kittypet!”. “I’m Tiny!” fits The Rise of Scourge as a standalone story better, but “I’m a kittypet!” being said within The Darkest Hour with Firestar himself standing there (perhaps right before pity-killing him) would be just insane. The way that that would challenge the mostly unchallenged xenophobia in the series, unwaveringly and in front of the parallel milquetoast protag to boot, would be just nuts. To me

I also like chirin juxtaposed to breezepelt and brokenstar, but it doesn’t fit nearly as well and is moreso an extension of me dragging around the dead horse i beat as someone with a horrible ‘relationship’ with that parent. But breeze using brokenstar as a stand-in for his father, who has plot armor made of fully enchanted netherite, and then killing him. Is just so funny. Hey you’re my dad now. Wait a minute, I fucking hate my dad. DIE!

[poppies-from-oz]

LAND OF OZ MASTERPOST

Now seems as good a time as any to remind everyone that all of the original fifteen Oz books are public domain and up for free online.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz 

The Marvelous Land of Oz

Ozma of Oz

Dorothy & The Wizard in Oz

The Road to Oz

The Emerald City of Oz

The Patchwork Girl of Oz

Little Wizard Stories of Oz

Tik-Tok of Oz

The Scarecrow of Oz

Rinkitink in Oz

The Lost Princess of Oz

The Tin Woodman of Oz

The Magic of Oz

Glinda of Oz

Happy reading! 

[goodugong]

I don't know where it came from, but several years ago this idea popped into my head unbidden, and for some reason it tickles me. I don't know if it's funny, but I like it and I made it into a zine, I hope you enjoy it.

It lays out really nicely as 3-up spreads on A4 paper, so you can print, staple and fold it, then cut it into 3 zines. It made it really easy to print up 20 of them to trade at this art social thing I went to

micron, rotring and sharpie on printer paper, coloured and screentoned digitally, 2024

If you want a digital or physical copy

[beepboopappreciation]

Do you ever think about how robots who strive to be more human end up showing us the most important aspects about our own humanity?

And how it's worth fighting for?

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot who picks up painting. Not because they want to recreate images flawlessly-- no, but because they want to create something that they can call their own. They want to learn how to break free of their programming. To come up with something creative. Something original. Something that means something to them.

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot who wears clothing because he's self conscious about his body. His exposed mechanical joints, so unlike the joints of his organic counterparts'. His body shape similar, but not quite passable as human. He wears what's in fashion to fit in with his human peers. He wants to fit in. Please let him fit in.

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot who is terrified of aging. She's met so many kind humans since she's been activated, and it breaks her motherboard to think about one day needing to say goodbye to them all. "I will outlive you", she says in her monotone, text-to-speech voice. No one can hear the weight of the words she carries with her.

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot new enough to this world that they carry around with them a childlike wonder. They wish to find out more about the world. So much beauty, so many possibilities, so much information to take in around them. They want to know more. Just like humans, they want to learn.

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot who was built for carnage. Built for war. Built for killing. But it strives for peace in spite of its programming every damn day. It sees and understands the beauty and wonder, the miracle that is life. It sees that life within itself, and how everyone deserves living. How it carries the knowledge of having ended lives before, and how it renounces its past actions. It wants to do good in this world. It wants to forget, but needs to remember.

[beepboopappreciation]

A robot who downloads every piece of information he can find about a topic or interest that one of his human friends adores. He does this to impress them, to show he cares for them. He wishes he could show affection the ways humans do, but he isn't there yet. He doesn't know how to navigate all the intricacies of human emotion. So he does what he can. Is it friendship? Is it romance? The robot isn't sure, but decides that it is love, whatever kind.

[writingmaz]

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

[herstories]

omg this is so helpful

[writing-prompt-s]

!!!!!!!

[octoswan]

I made these as a way to compile all the geographical vocabulary that I thought was useful and interesting for writers. Some descriptors share categories, and some are simplified, but for the most part everything is in its proper place. Not all the words are as useable as others, and some might take tricky wording to pull off, but I hope these prove useful to all you writers out there!

(save the images to zoom in on the pics)

[firelightinferno]

Oh, that’s very helpful indeed!

[writing-prompt-s]

!!!

[wc-confessions]

Uuuuugh double dead cats being fragmented is a good way to introduce more mysticism and anomalies, which Erins probably aren't going to use.

So, if, according to IPH, faded cats lay fragmented in nature, fragments of bad guys would corrupts the environment. It's not StarClan sending storms, droughts and diseases, it's former Dark Forest cats, and fragments of good cats balance them out. But after the war number of faded DF cats sharply increased, which would affect nature overtime, from minor weather anomalies, to actual mutants or cryptids appearing.

First, giant catfish that can swallow a riverclan warrior whole.

Then, sudden freezing temperatures in July.

Herbs start to grow toxic warts.

What remains is attacked by herds of deer moving through the woods, because something drove them out of their territories.

Wildcats come to lake for help with a predator they cannot identify. Cats go on another adventure and see strange animals, a result of corrupted nature: rabbits with growths, hungry and very angry boars, birds dying for no visible reason, abnormally large owl, fish without eyes, swarms of black butterflies, which leave behind their tiny hair things that cause severe allergy. Then they reach the forest to see a normal looking baby deer (or a small goat, or a lamb, or a pony foal) napping under a bush. They decided whenever they could kill it and eat, the baby deer looks at them with forward facing eyes and shows mouth full of sharp teeth. Something like Russian carnivorous deer greentext creepypasta or diomede's mares, or prehistoric carnivorous ungulates.

Ya know, instead of another mean cat trying to conquer the clans for 458731258905th time. Mutants would be still related to cats of the past, being born from their fragmented souls, and would not repeat the same scenario.

.