✦ pairings ... 3.5k ﹒ botdf michael ℘ f.reader. 18+ MDNI —
✦ premise ... 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 ★ a quiet night of tea, television, and doing absolutely nothing takes an unexpected turn after you notice one tiny habit of michael's—and decide to see just how easy it is to make your husband lose his train of thought.
✦ contains ... ( smut w some plot ) sub!mj, established relationship, oral ( m!receiving ), licking, over stim, no use of y/n, whimpering & begging, spit play ( if you squint ), pet names, dom!reader, food play, mommy mention ( once )
✦ adore’s note ... for the jan to my toya . love ya sis !! i just know i will have the craziest writers block known to man soon, i’ve been too motivated.
requested ﹒ @hawtstreet ♡
He is a creature of habit, your Michael. The world outside may be a chaotic, swirling vortex of speculation, paparazzi, and perpetual production, but here, in the quiet sanctuary of this rented New York apartment, he has carved out a small, sacred pocket of routine. And every night, like a prayer, ends with tea.
The television flickers, its bright, garish colors painting the room in strokes of neon and pastel. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is on, Will Smith’s face filling the screen, a whirlwind of 90s fashion and rapid-fire punchlines. You can hear the canned laughter, the familiar rhythm of the theme song a distant echo. But your attention isn't on the TV. It's on him.
He's curled up beside you on the plush, cream-colored sofa, a soft, afghan blanket thrown over his lap. His feet are tucked up underneath him, a posture that's both boyish and endearingly vulnerable. He's wearing one of his own oversized t-shirts, the one with the glittery HIStory logo, and a pair of loose, silk pajama pants. He's sipping his chamomile tea, his long, elegant fingers wrapped around a simple, white ceramic mug. His eyes are half-closed, a look of sleepy, contented bliss on his face.
You finish your own tea, the warm, liquid gold a soothing balm after a long day. You place your mug on the glass coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic on glass a quiet, final sound. Your eyes land on the small, glass jar of honey sitting on your nightstand, a gift from a local farmer's market. You pick it up, the cool, smooth glass a welcome weight in your palm. You don't really want more honey; you're just fidgeting, your hands needing something to do. You read the label, your eyes tracing the elegant, looping script. "Wildflower Honey. Raw and Unfiltered." The words are a quiet, simple poem.
You glance back at him. A single, perfect droplet of tea has escaped, rolling down the side of his mug and pooling on the polished wood of the end table. He doesn't seem to notice. He sets the mug down, but before he can grab a napkin, he does something that makes your breath catch.
He lifts his hand, his index finger extending, and slowly, deliberately, wipes the droplet of tea from the edge of the cup. Then, without a second thought, he brings the glistening finger to his lips, his pink tongue darting out to lick away the sweet, amber liquid.
It's an unconscious, almost childish gesture, but it's also incredibly intimate, incredibly erotic. The simple, uninhibited act of tasting a stray drop of tea sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through you. The air in the room suddenly feels thick, heavy, charged with an unspoken electricity.
"Michael," you say, your voice a low, husky whisper that cuts through the canned laughter of the TV. He looks at you, his dark eyes wide and innocent, a flicker of confusion on his face. "Yeah, baby?" he asks, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. "Put th’ tea down," you command, your tone leaving no room for argument. He looks from you to the mug, then back again, a flicker of understanding, of dawning awareness, in his eyes. He slowly, deliberately, places the mug back on the table, the soft clink a deafening sound in the sudden, tense silence.
"Now," you continue, your voice a low, hypnotic purr. "Give me y’hand." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and intrigue. He doesn't understand, but he trusts you. He always trusts you. He extends his hand, palm up, a gesture of quiet, willing submission.
You take it, your fingers closing around his wrist. His skin is warm, soft, almost fragile. You can feel the faint, frantic pulse beating against your thumb. You bring his hand closer, your eyes fixed on his. You can see the questions swimming in their dark depths, the nervous anticipation. You can see the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You unscrew the cap of the honey jar, the soft pop a sharp, decisive sound. You tilt the jar, a slow, steady stream of the thick, golden liquid pouring from the spout. You watch, mesmerized, as the honey pools on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, a glistening, amber jewel against his pale skin.
He lets out a soft, sharp gasp, his eyes widening as the cool, sticky fluid makes contact with his skin. He tries to pull his hand away, a reflexive gesture of surprise, but your grip on his wrist is firm, unyielding. "Shh," you soothe, your voice a soft, hypnotic whisper. "Jus’ trust me." You lift his hand to your lips, your eyes never leaving his. You can see the raw, undisguised desire in his gaze, the way his pupils dilate, the way his lips part slightly. You can see the flicker of fear, of vulnerability, of a man willingly surrendering himself to your whim.
You slowly, deliberately, take his honey-coated fingers into your mouth. The taste is a sweet, floral explosion on your tongue, a heady, intoxicating mix of wildflower and Michael. You swirl your tongue around his knuckles, a slow, languid rhythm that is both teasing and possessive. You can feel the texture of his skin, the hard, smooth plane of his knuckles, the delicate ridges of his fingerprints.
A choked, strangled sound escapes his lips, a raw, primal cry that he immediately tries to stifle. He throws his head back, his free hand flying to his mouth, his fingers pressing against his lips in a desperate attempt to muffle the moan that is threatening to tear from his throat. His whole body tenses, a beautiful, agonizing arch of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Baby…" he gasps, the word a muffled, breathy thing against his palm. You pull back, releasing his fingers with a soft, wet pop. A thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to his skin, a delicate, shimmering thread in the dim light. You break it with a flick of your tongue, a slow, deliberate gesture that makes him shudder.
You look at him, really look at him. His face is flushed, a beautiful, rosy blush spreading across his high cheekbones. His eyes are squeezed shut, his long, dark lashes fanned out against his skin. His chest is heaving, each ragged breath a desperate, silent prayer. You lean in, pressing a soft, sticky kiss to the pulse point on his wrist. You can feel the frantic, fluttering beat of his heart against your lips, a frantic, hummingbird rhythm that speaks volumes. He's so responsive, so beautifully, exquisitely sensitive.
He opens his eyes, a slow, languid movement. He looks at you, his gaze hazy, unfocused, drunk with pleasure. He reaches for you, his hand trembling, his fingers sticky with honey and your saliva.
"Please," he whispers, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Please." You smile, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. You have no intention of stopping. You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, your fingers hooking into the soft, worn fabric. He lifts his arms, a silent, willing offering, allowing you to pull the shirt over his head. You toss it aside, your eyes roving over the expanse of his bare chest.
He's so beautiful, a study in pale, perfect skin and lean, wiry muscle. His chest is almost completely hairless, a smooth, flawless canvas that is just begging to be marked. You can see the faint, blue veins that trace a path beneath his skin, a delicate, intricate map that you long to explore.
You take the honey jar again, tilting it. This time, you aim for his neck. A thin, golden line of honey trickles down the column of his throat, a glistening, amber river that disappears into the hollow of his collarbone. He gasps, his body arching, a silent, involuntary reaction to the cool, sticky sensation. You lean in, your tongue darting out to follow the path of the honey. You start at the base of his throat, a slow, deliberate lick that makes him whimper. You can feel the vibration of his vocal cords, the frantic, stuttering beat of his pulse. You can taste the sweet, floral flavor of the honey mixed with the clean, salty taste of his skin.
You trace a path up his neck, your tongue a slow, lazy spiral. You can feel him trembling, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. His hands fly to your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin, a desperate, anchoring grip. "Oh, God," he moans, his head falling back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. "Oh, God, baby, that feels… that feels s’good."
You reach the base of his jaw, a final, lingering lick that cleans the last of the honey from his skin. You pull back, admiring your handiwork. A glistening, sticky patch remains, a beautiful, shimmering mark of your possession.
You move lower, your eyes fixing on one of his nipples. It's a small, tight, dusky bud, a perfect, rosy peak against the pale expanse of his chest. You pour a small, perfect dollop of honey onto the sensitive nub, a glistening, amber bead that makes him cry out. You lean in, your lips closing around the honey-coated nipple. You suck gently, your tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. The taste is intoxicating, a heady, sweet, and salty mix that makes your head spin.
He cries out, a raw, ragged sound that is half pleasure, half pain. His back arches, a beautiful, agonizing curve, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His hands are in your hair now, his fingers tangled in the strands, a desperate, pleading grip.
"Baby," he whimpers, his voice a broken, breathy thing. "Please, s’good. Please, you’re s’good." You release him with another soft, wet pop, a thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connecting your lips to his chest. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire. He's a mess, a beautiful, sticky, writhing mess, and he's all yours. "Open your mouth," you command, your voice a low, husky purr.
He obeys, his lips parting in a silent, willing offering. You lean in, not to kiss him, but to share the sweetness. You let a drop of honey fall from your tongue onto his, a glistening, amber bead that he catches instinctively. He moans, a low, throaty sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
You lean in further, your tongue finding his. It's a slow, deep, sensual kiss, a sharing of taste, of breath, of essence. You can taste the honey on his tongue, a sweet, floral flavor that is mingled with the unique, musky taste of him. You can feel the soft, wet texture of his tongue against yours, the gentle, insistent pressure.
The kiss deepens, becoming more frantic, more demanding. It's no longer just about the honey; it's about a raw, primal need. Your tongues dance a slow, sensual tango, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of spit and desire. You can feel the vibrations of his moans in your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that makes your toes curl.
You pull back, a thin, glistening strand of saliva connecting your lips. You both gasp for air, your chests heaving, your bodies slick with sweat and honey and something more.
You look down, your eyes fixing on the growing bulge in his silk pajama pants. His hard, insistent length strains against the loose fabric. You can see the dark, wet spot of pre-cum that has soaked through the material, a telling evidence of his arousal. You reach for the waistband of his pants, your fingers hooking into the elastic. He lifts his hips, a silent, desperate plea. You pull the pants down, freeing him.
His cock springs forth, a hard, beautiful, glistening shaft of pale, perfect flesh. The head is a deep, angry pink, a glistening, bead of pre-cum already welling at the tip. He's long and slender, a perfect, elegant work of art that makes your mouth water. You take the honey jar again, this time pouring a generous amount over the tip of him. The thick, golden liquid coats him, a slow, deliberate trickle that runs down the length of his shaft.
He cries out, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Ngh, God," he moans, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "Can you, baby, please… please…"
You lean in, your tongue darting out to catch the drop of honey that's about to fall from the crown. You swirl your tongue around the head, a slow, lazy spiral that makes him whimper. He tastes divine. The floral sweetness of the honey is an immediate, bright shock on your tongue, but it's the salty, musky taste of him that lingers, a deeper, more primal flavor that makes your core clench with a sudden, fierce ache. You take your time, tracing the delicate, flared ridge of his crown with the very tip of your tongue, feeling the subtle change in texture, the way the skin is softer here, more sensitive.
You can feel every minute shudder that racks his body. His thigh muscle jumps beneath your free hand, a frantic, involuntary spasm. His breath hitches in a series of short, sharp pants, each one a desperate, ragged sound. He’s trying so hard to be still, to let you control the pace, but his body is betraying him, writhing with a need that is almost painful to witness.
You flatten your tongue, a broad, slow lick from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip, gathering the honey on your tongue. The motion is deliberate, a claiming. You're savoring him, memorizing the taste and the texture. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a choked, broken noise that's half a sob, half a moan. His hands fly from your hair to the sofa cushions, his fingers digging into the plush fabric, a desperate attempt to ground himself.
"Baby," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea. "Oh, please, mommy… don't… don't tease me…"
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a beautiful, agonized mask of pleasure. His lips are parted, slick and swollen, and a single, perfect tear traces a path through the sticky honey on his temple. He's a mess, a beautiful, broken, sticky mess, and the sight of him, so completely undone by your touch, is the most powerful aphrodisiac you've ever known.
You decide to show him mercy. Or maybe it's cruelty. You're not sure anymore.
You lower your head again, but this time, you don't use your tongue. You part your lips, letting the hot, wet cavern of your mouth engulf the very tip of him. The heat is a shock, a sudden, intense sensation that makes him cry out, a raw, primal shout that echoes in the quiet room.
You take him deeper, inch by slow, deliberate inch, letting your lips glide down the honey-slicked length of him. The combination of the sticky honey and the warm, wet heat of your mouth is a sensory overload, a friction so intense it must be agony. He's babbling now, a stream of incoherent praise and desperate pleas, a litany of "Oh, God," and "Please," and "S’good, so, s’good."
You begin to move, a slow, steady rhythm. Your head bobs, your lips and tongue working in a tandem, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of suction and pressure. You can feel the way he throbs against your tongue, the frantic, fluttering pulse of the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. He's close. You can feel it in the tension that coils in his thighs, in the way his breathing becomes more erratic, in the desperate, pleading way he murmurs your name.
You move one of your hands to his hip, your fingers digging into the soft, warm skin, holding him down, anchoring him to the sofa. You're in control here. You are the one who decides when this ends.
You pick up the pace, your movements becoming faster, more demanding. Your tongue swirls around the head on every upstroke, a maddening, flicking motion that makes him whimper. You can feel the honey on your lips, on your chin, a sticky, sweet mess that you're making of him, of yourself, of this moment.
And then, he breaks. "Baby," he gasps, his voice a high, thin whimper. "Baby, stop… stop…" Your movements still, your head lifting slightly. You look up at him, a question in your eyes. He's panting, his chest heaving, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. "What is it, Michael?" you ask, your voice a low, soft purr. "What's wrong?"
"I'm… I'm all sticky," he whimpers, his words a jumbled, breathy mess. "You're… you're making me all sticky, baby. It's… it's everywhere… on m’legs, m’stomach… on th’ couch…"
He sounds so genuinely distressed, like a child who's spilled juice on the carpet. It's so absurdly, endearingly Michael that you almost laugh. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, a mix of amusement and a fierce, overwhelming love.
You pull back, releasing him from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. A glistening, sticky strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to the head of his cock, a delicate, shimmering thread that you break with a flick of your tongue.
"Okay," you say, your voice a soft, gentle murmur. "I'll stop." You start to sit up, a gesture of acquiescence. You're going to get a warm, wet cloth, to clean him up, to take care of him. "No!" The word is a desperate, ragged cry, torn from his throat. He shoots up, his hands flying to your shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulls you back down, his body a frantic, pleading weight against yours.
"No," he repeats, his voice a broken, breathy whisper. "Don't… don't stop. Please, God, don't stop. I was wrong. M’not… m’not sticky. M’not. Please, baby, please…" He's babbling, his words a frantic, jumbled mess. He's kissing you, a desperate, messy, honey-sweet kiss all over your face, your neck, your shoulders. He's clinging to you, a drowning man clinging to a life raft.
You can't help the soft, triumphant chuckle that escapes your lips. He's so wonderfully, beautifully transparent. His need for you, for this, overrides everything else—logic, comfort, even the very real stickiness that's now gluing his ass to the sofa cushions.
"Shh, shh," you soothe, your hands running down his back, feeling the frantic tremors that still rack his slender frame. "M’ here. M’ not going anywhere."
He collapses against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His body is still humming with tension, a live wire of unspent energy. You can feel the sticky warmth of him against your skin, the mingled scent of honey, sweat, and Michael's own unique, clean musk filling your senses. You gently cup his face in your hands, tilting it up so you can look at him. His eyes are dark, wide pools of desperation, his lashes clumped together with honey and unshed tears. A small, perfect droplet of the golden liquid has escaped, clinging to the side of his cheek, right next to his full, parted lips. A stray glisten.
You bring one of his hands up to your face, your fingers closing around his wrist. You guide his hand to his own cheek, positioning it so that his thumb hovers just over the errant drop of honey. "Look at me," you whisper, your voice a low, hypnotic command. His gaze is hazy, unfocused, but he obeys, his dark eyes locking onto yours. You guide his thumb, using it to gently wipe the honey from his skin. The gesture is slow, deliberate, incredibly intimate. He watches you, his breath catching in his throat, a silent, captive audience to your every move.
Then, you bring his thumb, the one now glistening with the sweet, amber liquid, to your own lips. You hold his gaze, your eyes dark with a predatory softness, as you take his thumb into your mouth.
You close your lips around the digit, your tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle, lapping away the last of the honey. You can feel the slight tremor that runs through his hand, the way his fingers twitch against your palm. You can see the raw, undisguised need that flares in his eyes, the way his lips part on a silent gasp.
You release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, a flicker of a smirk on your lips.
"More," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea that is barely audible. "Please, baby… more." You lean in, your lips hovering just a breath away from his, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, close enough that you can see the frantic flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. "Only because y’asked nicely" you murmur, your voice a low, teasing purr.
— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄
𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett
© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔 @𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄. every story published here is my original work unless stated otherwise. please don't repost, translate, or redistribute without permission.