Oh Dear Henry nothing could ever make me stop loving you😩.. btw it's Henry Muck Day for those handful of people like me who celebrate.. because today is the day when we met Kit Harington as Sir Henry Muck for the first time on screen two years ago🤍..
Michael from Modern Love + covid era setting + he has a soft, needy, slightly submissive vibe + no sex, but lots of touching, affection, and caretaking (of course, he's obsessed with boobs)
Title: Soft Places to Land...
Pairing: Michael x Female reader
TV show: Modern Love
Genre: Fluff / Domestic / Established Relationship / Soft & Needy Michael / Flashbacks / Explicit Breast Intimacy / Adult Nursing
Warnings: Explicit non-sexual intimacy (prolonged bare-breast cuddling, sucking, nuzzling, grinding, lactation/adult nursing), mild COVID-era references, no penetrative sex
Notes / Summary: You are Married to Michael since 2021. You have two kids now — Milo (4) and Millie (2). You’re still breastfeeding Millie often enough that your milk hasn’t dried up. Taking care of Michael has always felt as natural as breathing, and that includes letting him nurse when the house is quiet and he needs the softest kind of comfort only you can give.
The house is quiet in that particular way only small children can make it.
Milo is already halfway under, his little curly haired head tucked under Michael’s chin. Millie is a warm, heavy weight across your lap, thumb in her mouth, watching her dad like he hung the moon.
Michael’s voice is low. “Once upon a time…”
Milo echoes, “Once upon a toime,” in that tiny Irish lilt that still wrecks him.
You smile into Millie’s hair, heart so full it almost hurts. “Getting better every day, bug.”
Michael’s free hand finds yours. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, slow. You turn your hand over and lace your fingers through his properly, squeezing once, then again, because you can never quite get enough of touching him.
“Tell the real one, Da,” Milo mumbles. “When Mummy came to stay forever.”
Michael looks at you. That soft, slightly helpless look that still makes your chest ache with how much you love him.
You answer for him, voice quiet and warm. “Alright, love. The real one.”
Flashback to 2020..
The flat smelled like coffee and lemon cleaner. Outside, Dublin was still half-asleep under restrictions. Inside, everything felt louder — especially the way your heart kept tripping over itself every time Michael looked at you.
Your last boxes sat by the door. Your coat hung next to his. Your toothbrush was already in the holder.
Michael stood in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you, then away, then back, that soft anxious crease between his brows.
“I cleared space in the wardrobe. Top drawer. Got those fancy pillows you like… I just wanted it to feel like yours.”
You stepped closer without hesitation, already reaching for him. Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, until you were cupping the back of his neck. You loved the way he leaned into it immediately, like he’d been waiting all day for a permission to soften.
“Michael.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s already yours. And now it’s ours. I wanted this. I wanted you.”
Something in his face went very soft. You pulled him in the rest of the way until his forehead rested against yours. Your thumbs stroked the hinges of his jaw.
“I keep thinking you’re going to change your mind,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “That you’ll wake up and realise this is too much. Me. The flat. The quiet. All of it.”
You shook your head, already smiling, already aching with how much you felt for him. “I’m not going anywhere. I already packed everything that mattered. And the only thing I care about is getting to take care of you the way I’ve wanted to for months.”
His hands settled at your waist, careful, almost tentative. You guided one of them higher, pressing his palm flat over your heart so he could feel how hard it was beating for him.
“I love you,” you told him, quiet but certain. “I’ve been falling for you since the first walk. Since the first call that went on until three in the morning. Let me look after you. Please.”
He made a quiet sound — half relief, half need — and pressed closer. You slid your arms around his neck and held him the way you’d been aching to hold him: solid, steady, like he could lean his whole weight on you and you would never let him fall.
“Can I…?” he started, voice rough.
You were already nodding, already tugging him toward the couch. “Come here. Let me.”
You sat first this time, then pulled him down so he was half in your lap, half curled against your side. Your hands moved over him without hesitation — one in his hair, the other stroking down his back, slow and soothing. He melted into it like he’d been starving for exactly this.
“You’re warm,” he murmured against your neck. His hand found the front of your jumper, resting just below your collarbone, thumb tracing small circles over the soft give of your bare breast underneath.
No bra. Never a bra. Just soft, warm skin under thin fabric, and Michael’s hand already greedy for it — and you wanted him greedy. You wanted him to take every bit of comfort you could give.
“I missed this,” he whispered. “Even on the calls. I missed… this.”
You turned your face into his hair and pressed a kiss there. “Me too. I’ve been dying to have you close enough to take care of properly.”
You sat up just enough to pull the jumper off in one motion. The cool air of the flat touched your bare breasts for only a second before you guided Michael’s hands to them yourself — hot, careful, and immediately full of you.
He made a broken little sound as his palms closed over them. You covered his hands with yours and pressed them firmer, encouraging him to hold the soft, heavy weight of you like he needed.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your collarbone. “You’re so soft. I’ve been dying to do this.”
“Then do it,” you whispered, already carding your fingers through his hair, already pulling his face down between your breasts. “They’re yours. I want you here. I want to feel you needing me.”
He followed without hesitation, stretching out beside you, then half on top of you, one heavy thigh pushing between yours. His face dropped between your breasts immediately. He nuzzled there, open-mouthed, breathing hard, pressing soft, lingering kisses to the undersides, the slopes, the deep warm place where they met. His soft beard tickling your bare skin.
You held him there. One hand in his hair, the other stroking slowly down his back, over and over, the way you’d soothed him through every anxious call and quiet lockdown night. He made small, needy sounds every time you breathed, every time your nipples brushed his lips or the stubble on his jaw, and every sound only made you love him more.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, voice muffled and rough. “Just like this. Your tits against my face. Warm. Soft. Mine.”
“Then stay,” you told him, soft and sure. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
You kept your fingers in his hair and let him have exactly what he needed — kissing, nuzzling, occasionally taking one nipple into his mouth and suckling softly, just to feel it harden and swell against his tongue. Every time he started to pull back like he thought he was asking too much, you simply pressed him closer again, whispering quiet, loving things against the top of his head.
“I love you. I love taking care of you. I love how soft you get when I let you have this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
His hips shifted once, twice, the hard line of him pressing against your thigh through his joggers. He didn’t thrust. He just held there, grinding very gently, almost unconsciously, while his mouth stayed busy on your tits — wet, open kisses, slow pulls of his lips around your nipples, the soft scrape of his beard, the quiet, desperate little noises he couldn’t stop making.
You held him through all of it, stroking his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, letting him bury himself in the softest parts of you because that was what he needed and giving it to him felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Need this,” he whispered against the soft underside of one breast. “Need you bare like this. Need to feel them. Hold them. Taste them. Please don’t make me stop.”
“I won’t,” you promised, voice thick with how much you loved him. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Always.”
Outside, the city kept its careful distance.
Inside, you held Michael while he held your bare breasts, and it felt like the only place either of you had ever truly belonged.
2026
Milo is fully asleep, mouth open, one arm still looped around his father’s neck. Millie has gone boneless against your chest.
Michael is watching both of them with that same soft, slightly overwhelmed expression he wore the night you moved in.
He looks up at you across the dim room.
“Still staying?” he asks, quiet enough not to wake them.
You reach across and rest your free hand over his heart, thumb stroking once, twice, because you can never quite stop touching him.
“Always,” you answer, voice low and full. “I’ve never wanted anywhere else.”
His fingers curl around yours. He brings your joined hands up and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then lower, to the inside of your wrist. You turn your hand and cup his cheek, letting him lean into it the way he always does.
Once both children are deeply under, Michael carefully extricates himself, settles Milo against the pillows, and carries Millie to her own bed. When he returns, the bedroom door is closed and the only light is the small lamp on your side of the bed.
You don’t wait for him to ask. You sit up, pull your sleep shirt off in one smooth motion, and open your arms. Your breasts are full and heavy tonight — you’ve been feeding Millie often enough that the milk still comes easily, warm and ready.
The moment your breasts are bare he makes that same soft, grateful sound he made six years ago. You pull him down on top of you without hesitation, guiding his face straight between them.
“Christ,” he breathes, voice already rough. “Missed this all day. Watching you with them… knowing these were under your shirt the whole time… soft and bare and waiting for me.”
“They were waiting for you,” you correct him gently, already carding your fingers through his hair, already pressing him closer. “I’ve been thinking about this since I put the kids down. About having you here. About taking care of you the way I love to.”
His hands come up to cup the full weight of your breasts, thumbs stroking slowly over your nipples until they’re tight and sensitive. A small bead of milk gathers at the tip of one. Michael’s breath hitches when he sees it.
You cover his hands with yours and press them firmer, encouraging him to hold on as tightly as he needs. Then you guide his mouth to your nipple yourself.
“It’s alright,” you whisper. “I’ve got enough for you too. Come on, love. Let me take care of you.”
He latches on with a quiet, broken sound — not the quick, efficient suckle of a toddler, but something slower, deeper, almost reverent. His mouth is hot and careful at first, then hungrier as the first warm rush of milk hits his tongue. He swallows, then suckles again, eyes fluttering shut, one hand still cupping the heavy curve of your other breast while the free one slides under your back to pull you tighter against him.
You hold him there, fingers stroking through his hair, down the back of his neck, over and over. Every quiet, grateful noise he makes against your skin only makes your chest ache with how much you love him.
“That’s it,” you murmur. “Just like that. I’ve got you. Drink what you need.”
He switches to the other side after a few minutes, nuzzling first, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft underside before latching on again. Milk beads at the corner of his mouth; you wipe it gently with your thumb and he turns his head just enough to kiss the pad of it before going back to nursing, slow and steady and completely lost in it.
His hips settle between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against you through his sleep shorts. He doesn’t thrust hard. He just rocks, slow and shallow, grinding the thick shape of his cock against your soft heat while he nurses — suckling, swallowing, breathing hard against your skin, the occasional soft, needy sound vibrating against your breast.
You keep cradling his head, stroking his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, whispering quiet, loving things against the top of his head.
“I love you. I love how soft you get when I feed you. I love that you still need this from me. You’re mine to take care of, Michael. You always have been.”
He makes a low, broken sound of pure relief and nurses harder for a moment, arms tightening around you, hips still rolling slow and needy against you. When he finally pulls off, a thin string of milk connects his lower lip to your nipple for a second before it breaks. He rests his cheek against the warm, damp curve of your breast, breathing hard, eyes half-lidded and soft.
“Still need this,” he says, voice rough and a little wrecked. “Still need you like this. Bare. Soft. Letting me have them. Letting me… drink from you. Fuck, I love you. Love how you take care of me.”
“I love you,” you answer, quiet and fierce, already guiding his mouth back to the first breast when he leans in again. “I love how soft you get when I hold you. I love that you still need this from me. Taking care of you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
He latches on again without hesitation, one hand coming up to gently squeeze the breast he’s not nursing from, encouraging another slow trickle of milk. You hold him through every suckle, every quiet swallow, every soft grind of his hips, because this is what he needs and giving it to him still feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Outside, the night is quiet.
Inside, with two small hearts breathing safely down the hall, you hold Michael while he nurses from your bare breasts — and it still feels like the only place either of you has ever truly belonged.
