needd more nsfw michael clifford from you please!!! love love your writing sososo much (fwb!michael maybe????)
I'm so down
warnings: smut, fwb, banter, couch sex, orgasm denial kinda, domestic, college, barely any plot lol
word count: 3,695 words
pairing: michael clifford/reader
a/n: yayyyyyy 1 down let's go also they played cool dad whos happy about that? me!!!
WARNING! RPF CONTENT DONT LIKE DONT READ
The cursor blinked back at you, tauntingly.
Four thousand words due by midnight.
It had been sitting there for almost two weeks, and somehow you were sitting there, hunched over your laptop at the kitchen table, at 9 PM with barely six hundred words written, staring at a Google Docs that looked just as empty as it had when you opened it.
Your brain wasn’t working at all. You'd type a sentence, stare at it for a few seconds, delete it, and repeat the process until the words on the screen started blending. Nothing sounded right, and every idea you had disappeared the second you tried to put it into words.
“Still at it?”
You looked up. Michael. Your roomie.
He was leaning against the fridge, phone in hand, wearing that stupid gray obscure band t-shirt with tiny holes you had told him to throw out at least a dozen times already. He was watching you with that half-amused expression he always got whenever you were in the middle of some kind of crisis. Not that he was ever much help.
"Don't start." you said, your voice coming out more desperate than you intended.
"I didn't say anything." He pushed himself away from the fridge, walking over to the counter and grabbing the half-empty water bottle you had abandoned there earlier. He twisted the cap open, taking a sip while looking at you over the rim.
"You don't have to say anything," you muttered, turning back to your laptop. "Your presence is enough."
Michael lowered the bottle slowly, looking genuinely offended. "Wow."
"What?"
"That's actually a terrible thing to say to someone who came to check on you."
You shot him a glance, looking over your shoulder. "You came here to make fun of me."
"I came here because you've been sitting in the same spot for hours doing nothing."
"I have not." A lie, you have, but who would admit it? It's embarrassing
He pointed at your laptop, then at the coffee beside it. "You haven't even touched either of those in like thirty minutes."
Your eyes dropped to the obvious evidence sitting right in front of you. "Okay, fine." you muttered. "But it’s not like you can help me or anything."
"Didn't say I could." He set the water bottle down and walked closer, his feet padding softly against the floor. He stopped beside you, peering at the screen. You felt his breath, warm, on your shoulder, very close. He smelled like laundry detergent and a hint of his usual cologne. "What's it about?"
"I don't even know anymore." You waved a hand vaguely at the screen, defeated.
He patted your shoulder. His hand lingered half a second longer than necessary. "Dude, you've got this. You always do."
You wanted to believe him badly. But the cursor was still blinking, and the word count was still pathetic, and most importantly—
You could have gone on, but then the lights started to flicker. Both of you looked up in synchronisation, the overhead bulb dimmed and flickered again. Then the whole apartment went black.
You immediately turned back to your laptop, fingers rushing to click the battery icon. 4%
"Well," you said slowly. "I'm fucked."
You then looked up at Michael, who was standing in the same spot as before, his face barely visible except for the glow of your laptop screen against his skin. He was watching you with that look again—the amused one.
"You know..." He shrugged. "Just... you know. Maybe this is a sign for you to chill a bit."
You blinked at him. "A sign? Michael, I need to turn this in today, I'm totally fucked—my professor will—I—"
"When's the last time you took a break? Like, a real break? Not just scrolling on your phone."
"I don't have time for breaks. I have an assignment due, like, right now." You reminded him.
"And you'll have it tomorrow, make up a lie to your prof. The power will come back soon. The Wi-Fi will come back. You'll finish it." He stood back up and leaned down, wrapping an arm around you in a quick side hug. Your head barely reached his stomach, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt for a second before he squeezed you gently.
You wanted to argue, telling him you had no time, hell, you’d write it in your notes app, but he was right, you needed a proper break, you were so, so, so tired of burning your eyes off thanks to that damn laptop screen. "Fine."
He smiled. "Good."
He turned on his phone flashlight, started rummaging in the kitchen drawer, and you heard the clink of utensils and a muffled curse when he hit his knuckle with something. Then the soft click of a lighter and a small flame.
He came back carrying the candle, a bottle of wine under his arm, and two mugs dangling from his fingers by the handles. The flame cast flickering shadows across his face, catching the soft line of his jawline and the slight curve of his mouth.
You pushed yourself up from the table, your joints stiff from sitting too long. You followed him, watching the way the candlelight danced across his shoulders as he walked. He set the candle down on the coffee table, then the bottle and the mugs. The amber glow pushed back the darkness, filling the room with a soft, warm light.
He set the candle on the crowded coffee table, nudging aside an empty soda can. He put the bottle and mugs down with a soft thunk and then just collapsed onto the couch.
He stretched his legs out, and looked up at you. "Sit."
“Wine?”
“Drown your worries, babe.” You couldn't help but laugh at his stupid comment, but he was right, if you were going down, you had to do it right.
You grabbed the bottle from the table, shaking your head. "You're encouraging my bad decisions"
"No," he denied with his head. "I'm supporting you through them."
"By getting me drunk," you said as you poured yourself and him some. The wine sloshed into the mugs. You handed him his mug, and your fingers brushed. His were warm.
"By making sure you don't start spiraling alone in the dark," he corrected, taking a sip. He licked a stray drop from his lip.
You sat down, leaving a few inches between you. The room was quiet except for the steady tap of rain on the window. You picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured. You handed him his mug. His fingers were warm when they brushed yours.
“Enabler,” you muttered, taking a drink. The wine was too sweet, but it was something.
“You’d be worse alone,” he said simply, taking another sip himself.
After a few minutes of quiet, he spoke, his voice low. “Remember the last time this happened? Because of the storm?”
You nodded slightly, staring at the flame. “Yeah. Last spring, right? It was out for like, six hours.”
“We tried to play table games by candlelight, but you couldn’t stop cheating.”
“You won’t let it die, will you?”
“Dude, you totally did. You ‘forgot’ the rules to Uno every other turn.”
A faint, tired smile touched your lips. “Maybe. It was boring.”
“We ended up just sitting here. Like this.” He gestured vaguely with his mug. “In silence.”
“It was kinda nice though,” you recalled. “It kind of healed my brain a little.”
“Yeah.” He took another drink. “I guess.”
You hummed in agreement. The memory was mundane, quite boring actually. The knot in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it had loosened a bit.
"I'm still so stressed," you mumbled into your hands. "Like, the wine helped, but I can still feel it. Right here." You dropped your hands and pressed a fist against your chest, over your sternum. "This tight, awful knot."
Michael looked at you. "I can tell."
"I hate this. I hate that I can't even do anything about it right now."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he set his mug down on the coffee table. The thunk of ceramic against wood was loud in the quiet. "I have an idea," he said.
You looked at him. "What?"
He hesitated. You saw his throat move as he swallowed. His hand was resting on his knee, and he tapped his fingers against it once, twice, like he was working up to something.
"It's stupid."
"Probably. Tell me anyway."
He turned to face you fully, The light caught one side of his face, leaving the other half in shadow. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"What if we made out?"
The clumsy question hung in the air, and for a second, you were back in that moment a month ago—the night that had started it.
You'd been sitting on this same couch, both of you fresh off shitty breakups. He had just found out his long-term girlfriend had been cheating on him with some guy from her gym, and you had caught your boyfriend texting his ex at 2 AM. The messages were long and intimate and full of things he hadn't said to you in months. You'd both been drinking, trading stories about how fucked up your love lives were, laughing bitterly at how stupid you'd been to not notice.
"I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore," he had said quietly. "Like, you think you know someone. You think you're doing everything right, and then one day you realize they haven't been feeling the same way for a while."
You had picked at the loose strings of the hem of your jeans, not really knowing what to say because you understood it too well.
"Yeah," you'd muttered. "You spend all this time trying to make something work, and they have already given up."
Michael had laughed softly, but there was nothing funny about it. "Exactly."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something neither of you had named. Then he'd reached out, his hand finding yours on the cushion between you, and said, "At least we're going through similar stuff, together, you know?"
And you'd kissed him. You didn't know why.
Maybe because you were lonely or because he was. Maybe because you'd both been so so overwhelmed and exasperated for affection that any touch felt like a rescue.
It had been messy at first. All clumsy and desperate, both of you still too caught up in everything you'd been carrying. But then his hand had slid into your hair, and you'd forgotten why you were even upset in the first place. Something had just clicked between the two of you. It became a thing. A thing you didn't explicitly talk about, but a thing that happened when one of you was having a bad night, or when the loneliness crept in too close, or when you just needed to feel someone's skin against yours without the weight of expectations.
It was exactly what you both needed. And now here he was, asking again.
"What?" You giggled
"I'm serious." He held up his hands, defensive. "I know it sounds dumb, but—hear me out. You're stressed. I'm here. We've done it a couple of times before. It's, you know. A thing we do. And I feel like maybe if you just—" He gestured vaguely, searching for the words. "If you let yourself get out of your head for a bit. Distracted. I can help?"
You stared and raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Really? That's your big idea?"
He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth was already twitching. "I mean—Yeah."
You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "I don't know what to say to that."
"Okay, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's the only idea I've got. Take it or leave it."
You looked at him. The knot in your chest was still there, tight and restless. But his eyes were warm in the candlelight, and the memory of his mouth on yours was still fresh—the way his hands had gripped your hips, the sound he'd made when you'd tugged his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. "I've been needing this."
“Okay,” you said. “It’s not like we have much more to do.” You set your cup down on the table, copying the way he had done earlier. You fixed your hair and adjusted your top, the small movements making your answer clear without needing to add anything else.
He grinned in response and shifted closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth of him, the faint trace of wine on his breath suddenly more noticeable.
The leather cushions compressed with that familiar wheeze as he settled deeper and pulled you down until you were sprawled chest-to-chest with him, while your knees sank into the couch on either side of his hips. He gave you a knowing grin and squeezed your waist with the proprietary ease of someone who’s done your laundry before.
“Comfy?” he teased, his thumb lightly tracing the waistband of your shorts.
“Shut up,” you breathed, but you were already rolling your hips, grinding down against the hard ridge of him trapped in his jeans. The friction was immediate—electric—the denim felt rough and constricting against your clit even through your thin shorts, it made you gasp, your hands fisting in his shirt. “Fuck, you’re already—”
“Hard? Yeah.” he finished, his voice wrecked but amused. His hands found your hips, fingers digging in, guiding your rhythm as you rolled against him again. “Feel that? That’s all you. Been like this since you walked in complaining about your citations earlier.” He joked.
“Don’t talk about my paper right now,” you whine, pushing up slightly to brace on his shoulders. You grind down harder, seeking the pressure, the leather below you sticky where your knees dig in. “I can’t believe you brought up citations while I’m—”
“While you’re what?” He smirks, thrusting up into your grind, his cock dragging against your core. “While you’re humping my lap? Multitasking. I’m proud of you.”
You groan, your nipples peaked and ached where they dragged against your bra. You reached down between your bodies, fumbling with his belt, the buckle clinking loudly. “I want to feel it. Stop being a tease.”
“Bossy,” he teased, but still, he lifted his hips, helping you shove the denim down with practiced efficiency.
His cock sprang free—thick and flushed, curving up against his stomach—and you immediately settled back down, you were still clothed, but your heat pressed flush against his bare length.
The sensation was immediate and obscene. You were soaked—you could feel it, your arousal had soaked through the thin fabric of your bottoms, coating his shaft as you slide against him. The friction was perfect, addicting even, your clit grinded against the ridge of him with each rock of your hips.
“Shit.” he groaned, his head falling back against the armrest. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open through the damp fabric, pulling you down harder. “You’re fucking dripping on me. Soaking my cock already, and I’m not even inside you. Bad girl.”
“Shut up,” you laughed breathlessly, dipping your head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his throat, your lips dragged over his pulse, thrumming—as you grinded down harder on him.
The couch groaned beneath you, thumping an embarrassing, frantic rhythm against the wall of your shared apartment, and each slick, wet collision of your core against his bare skin echoed through the room. Your cunt fluttered, aching and clenching around nothing as you rutted against him, reaching for friction that simply wasn't enough. “Michael, I need—fuck, I need to feel you. Please.” You grew hungry.
“Yeah?” His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers found your clit through the slightly soaked fabric, rubbing hard circles that made you jerk and cry out. “You wanna ride my cock? Wanna slide down on me and take it deep?”
“Yes,” you gasped, rocking into his hand. “Yes, please, I—fuck, right there—”
But he stopped you with a hand at your hip, stilling you even as his cock twitched against your thigh. He tilted his head, checking. “Wait,” he breathed. “Want to taste you first. You’re drenched through these shorts. Want to feel it on my tongue.”
You groaned, grinding down one last time, but giving in still. “Yeah,” you panted. “Yeah, just… hurry.”
He lifted you easily, guiding you to sprawl along the length of the couch, your shoulders propped against the opposite armrest. You kicked your shorts off, tossing them towards the coffee table, and he kneeled right in between your legs.
“Hey,” he said softly, his hands sliding up from your calves to your knees, spreading you open. His thumb brushed your inner thigh. “Still with me? Or are you thinking about what you're gonna say to your proff?”
“Fuck you,” you laughed. You reached down to tangle your fingers in his hair. “I’m here. Just… don’t make fun of me while you’re down there.”
“No promises,” he grinned, and then he finally leaned in. His breath ghosted hot against your inner thigh, thumb stroking higher as he spoke. “What are you gonna say, hm?” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the crease of your hip, dragging lower. “Gonna tell him you got distracted?” Another kiss, closer. “Gonna tell him your roommate kept you up all night?” He looked up at you, his eyes catching the candlelight, his chin resting on your thigh. “Or are you gonna be too busy feeling this to remember your own name?”
“I hate you,” you whispered, but you were lifting your hips towards his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just—please—”
“Please what?” he murmured.
”Please eat me out,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Michael, please—”
He groaned at your plea and finally gave you what you wanted. His mouth sealed over your clit—filthy, the vibration traveled straight through your core. He wasn’t teasing you anymore, he sucked you into his mouth with an obscene sound while his hands slid under your ass, lifting you, angling you better against his face.
“Oh fuck,” you gasped, your head falling back, your heels digging into the leather. “Right there—just like that—”
His tongue found that perfect rhythm, a steady pressure—and then he pushed two fingers into your entrance, curling immediately and found that spot that made your spine snap straight.
“Michael,” you choked out, your knuckles white in his hair. “Don’t stop—please—just like that—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”
You were reaching your climax, your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your cunt clenched around his fingers, but then—just as you were getting near the edge—he pulled back.
You cried out a strangled sound of protest. He hovered, his chin wet with you, his eyes dark. “Not yet,” he breathed, his fingers were still buried deep inside you, but still. “Want to feel you come around me. C’mere.”
He pulled you up, guiding you with his hands at your waist as you scrambled to straddle him. You were trembling as you positioned yourself above him, lowering yourself slowly, the familiar burn of the stretch making you pause for a moment. It had been a while, and you took a second to adjust until you were fully settled against him.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your forehead dropping to his shoulder, your hands braced on the couch back behind his head. “You’re so—fuck—you’re literally the only reason I keep you around—”
“Love you too,” he wheezed, hands sliding up to grab your tits with casual possessiveness, thumbs flicking your nipples. He shifted beneath you, settling deeper into the cushions, and then his hips snapped up—hard, ramming into you from below with a force that made the couch bang harder against the wall.
“Oh—” You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he did it again, and again, his hands dropped to grip your waist, locking you in place while he fucked up into you. He set a brutal rhythm, the leather creaking louder beneath his thighs as he plowed into you, his cock dragging deep and grinding against your front wall with every upward snap.
“Pathetic,” he observed, noticing you were just taking it, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. “Just sitting there? Zero effort. Embarrassing.”
“Fuck—you—” you managed, gasping as he hit that spot again, making you see stars. “You’re doing—the work—”
“Obviously,” he grunted, bucking up harder, driving the air from your lungs. “Rest your lazy ass. Let me do the work, since you’re clearly failing at moving.”
You collapsed forward, chest to chest, and he kept going—punching up into you with relentless, grinding strokes, his fingers digging into your ass to spread you open, angling you better against him. Banging—thump thump thump—the springs screaming beneath his rolling hips while you just held on, trapped, feeling every inch of him sliding deep.
“Shit,” you gasped, your face dropping to his collarbones. “You’re so—big—fuck—”
He jerked his hips up harder. “Come on,” he panted. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
He shifted angling up, and that made you break, the orgasm crashed through you in rhythmic spasms. You cried out, your cunt clamping down on him, milking him. He still fucked through it, his grip left bruising your hips—then he was spilling inside you, hot and thick, groaning your name into your skin.
You stayed slumped against his chest until the quiet settled. His hands slid up to rub a slow circle between your shoulder blades.
"Better?" he mumbled into your hair.
"Yeah."
"Good." He shifted with a wince. "Off. You're crushing me."
You pushed yourself up and moved to the other side of the couch. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and pulled his jeans on. He grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and handed it to you. "Here."
You took it and cleaned up. He shook out the old fleece blanket from the back of the couch and tossed half over you before settling back and pulling the other half over himself.
"Thanks." you whispered.
He didn’t answer right away. He just held you there, your body pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he didn’t want to let go yet.
After a moment, he leaned down and kissed your sweaty forehead.
“Anytime." He mumbled.
