twist, mate!

Nerves crawl like ants up your spine as you pull into the first open parking spot outside the piercing shop. Your hands are clammy on the steering wheel. Your vision tunnels for a second, and yeah, you know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

Except for the whole needles through your nipples thing.

With a shaky breath, you cut the engine and toss your keys into your purse like they personally offended you. Deep breaths. You’ve been here before — every time you sign up for a new piercing, this same sickening anxiety kicks in. It’s practically a ritual at this point: the queasy almost-canceling, the doom-spiraling in the car, the way your heart flutters like it’s trying to fly straight out of your chest.

Before you can chicken out, you climb out of the car and head straight into the shop.

The store is clean — absurdly so — and smells like lemons. A few couches are scattered around, and glass cases display different types of jewelry like precious artifacts.

You let your eyes trail over each silver piece: the barbells, the labrets, the clickers, each one more beautiful than the last. There’s a small sign explaining the process of partition, along with a display showing the range of colors the metal can be turned into.

“Need help finding anything, or are you here for an appointment?” a smooth, accented voice asks from behind you, making you jump.

You bump into the glass casing, causing it to rattle. You gasp, pivoting on your heel and shooting forward to steady the table — just as the man who startled you does the same.

“Whoa, sorry,” he grins, pushing off the glass and lifting his hands in surrender.

For the first time, you let yourself really look at him.

He’s tall — towering over you by several inches. Bright red hair falls over his forehead in a soft fringe, with hints of black peeking through like shadows. A touch of stubble hugs his pink lips, plush and dark like he’s just been kissed.

But most jarring of all are his eyes — bright green, locked on you, soft with apology.

He’s breathtaking.

Your heart stutters in your chest. The air thickens, heavy like molasses. He’s still staring at you, waiting for you to gather your composure — probably used to flustering people on sight.

Snapping your mouth shut, you swallow down the nerves and force your voice to work. “I have an appointment?” It comes out high-pitched, like you’re guessing — like you’re not sure why you’re here, which is honestly kind of accurate.

The man nods. He’s wearing a muscle tank that leaves his arms fully on display, ink decorating his forearms like a warning label you want to ignore. His skin is smooth, pale, practically begging to be touched.

You swallow hard, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a hand that’s slightly too shaky. He walks over to the counter like he owns the place — like he owns you, maybe.

“What’s your name?” he asks, fingers flying over the keyboard with casual speed. His gaze flicks back to yours, and he smiles again — all white teeth and wicked charm. One incisor is a little too sharp, like a fang, and it absolutely does not help the attraction currently detonating in your chest.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you manage, resting your hand on the counter as you watch him click away.

The music pumping through the speakers is loud and gritty, heavy with guitars and industrial drums — something brutal and electric. Fitting for a place like this.

The red-haired man finally looks back up, giving you another glimpse of those mint-colored eyes. They’re bright, framed by absurdly long lashes, and maddeningly expressive.

“I’m Michael,” he says, reaching out a tattooed hand for you to shake. “And it looks like you’re with me.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, heat blooming under your and painting you a shade of crimson embarrassingly similar to his hair. There’s no way he didn’t notice.

“Oh,” you squeak, blinking away the rush of flustered adrenaline spiking through your system. You’re cycling through emotions at a million miles a minute — panic, thrill, want — and it’s making your head swim.

Michael closes a few tabs on the computer before stepping out from behind the counter. His walk is all confidence: long strides, chin up, head tilted as he motions for you to follow with a lazy jerk of his head.

You trail behind him deeper into the studio, passing hallway after hallway lined with closed doors. You can’t see inside any of them, probably for privacy reasons.

Good. You’ve already got enough on your plate without adding “accidental voyeur” to the list.

Michael stops at one of the doors and pushes it open, holding it for you with a crooked grin. As he stands there, you get a better look at him — at the piercings scattered across his face: a ring through each nostril, a septum, a lip ring, and two piercings arching through his eyebrow like punctuation marks.

Well. At least he looks experienced.

“Okay,” he says, stepping in after you. “Let me just wipe this down real quick.”

He walks over to one of the cabinets lining the wall, grabbing a bottle of cleaning spray and a roll of paper towels. You watch as he sprays down the leather chair, wiping it in smooth, methodical strokes. His biceps flex with every movement — taut muscle shifting under soft skin and ink — and it’s genuinely obscene how easily your body reacts.

You’re supposed to be nervous about needles, not arms.

Michael turns toward you and pats the chair with one hand. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, tone easy, almost teasing. “Take off whatever you need to take off. Shirt’s optional — as long as I can access the piercing site, you’re good.”

Your breath catches, heat coiling low in your belly. The implication is clinical. The tone is even and friendly, but your mind is anything but. 

You’d opted not to wear a bra — just to make things easier, you told yourself. But now, standing half-naked in a stranger’s piercing room with heat thrumming under your skin and desire crackling in your veins, you know damn well why.

Michael moves confidently around the room, pulling supplies from drawers like he doesn’t have a flustered, shirtless girl standing a few feet away. Like his inked-up arms and casual dominance aren’t driving you slowly insane.

You fidget by the chair, fingers curled tight around the hem of your shirt. The reasonable part of your brain — the one not currently short-circuiting from lust — wants to leave it on, preserve a shred of modesty.

But then Michael glances over his shoulder, and the look he gives you—half smirk, half something darker—makes your stomach twist.

Without a word, you drag your shirt over your head and clutch it to your chest. You pretend you’re not aware of how hard your nipples already are, or how your thighs are pressed just a little too tightly together.

“Okay,” you manage, voice tight. You clear your throat. It comes out a little steadier. A little braver.

Michael turns, tugging on a pair of black rubber gloves, and you watch his face like you’re watching for lightning. The second you drop your arm — shirt falling to your side — his reaction is instant.

He freezes mid-motion, one hand hovering half-gloved. His mouth parts just slightly, lips plush and flushed like he’s just been kissed.

He recovers quick — too quick — but you see it. The flicker of heat in his eyes. The shift in his jaw like he’s grinding his molars to stay professional.

“I’m just gonna clean the area,” he says, voice noticeably hoarser. His eyes stay above your collarbones like it takes everything in him not to let them drop.

You sit on the edge of the chair, chest exposed to the air and to him, skin flushed, nipples hard. When Michael leans in with the alcohol pad, his hand is steady — but barely.

The pad brushes over your nipple, soft and cold, and you shiver — not from the temperature, but from the way his breath ghosts against your chest.

He’s so close. Too close.

His touch is featherlight, clinical in theory. In practice? Torture. Every brush of his fingers sends sparks through your nerves, straight between your legs.

He pulls back slightly, only to grab the marker. Uncapping it, he leans in again — this time so close you can feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint musk of cologne and antiseptic.

“So,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking down the curve of your breast like a sin he’s already committed, “ever done a piercing this… risqué?”

His face is level with your chest. One more inch and his mouth would be on you.

You exhale slowly, the confidence now a heady, electric thing. “Not really,” you reply, voice soft but certain. You gasp quietly as he marks one nipple, then the other, the sensation featherlight — but the tension between you? Crushing.

“Just the usual. Nostril, ears,” you continue, trying to sound nonchalant while your heart pounds like a war drum. “All that jazz.”

Michael’s eyes flick up to yours, dark and unreadable. He steps back with a sharp breath, like he’s the one who’s been touched. His throat works as he swallows hard.

“Nipple piercings are a classic,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher, as he holds up the mirror.

You catch your reflection — your flushed chest, the smudged marks, the obvious heat in your eyes. No way that’s just nerves.

“That good?” he asks, voice pitched somewhere between polite and predatory.

You bite your lip, eyes dragging slowly from the mirror to him. His jaw is clenched. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You nod once. “Perfect.”

Michael licks his lips, and you catch a glimpse of another piercing glinting on his tongue.

He turns again, and you hear the telltale rip of plastic being opened.

Reality hits you like a brick. You blink, the haze lifting just enough to remember why you’re here. Another spike of anxiety shoots through your system, and you squirm slightly in the chair.

“You have an accent,” you blurt, desperate to stall, to claw your way out of the sudden awareness of what’s about to happen. “Where are you from?”

Michael takes a seat on the stool beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked little grin. That fang catches the light again, and somehow your nerves settle — just a little.

“Sydney. Australia,” he says smoothly.

He gestures for you to lay back, and you obey without hesitation. The leather is cool against your flushed skin. You try to focus on anything but the dread curdling in your stomach.

You avert your eyes from his, but that only leads you to notice the stubble lining his jaw — the kind that looks like it would scrape your inner thigh in the best possible way.

“You’re pretty far from home, then,” you murmur.

“You’re stalling,” he replies, voice amused as he grabs the metal clamps. “But yes, I am. Been here a few years. Had to get away from it.”

You nod. There’s a beat of silence. Michael holds your gaze for just a bit too long, and something unspoken crackles between you. He clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, voice lighter. “Let’s get this over with before you pass out.”

He rolls closer, knees bumping the chair. You can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean.  “I’m gonna talk you through everything I do, alright?”

Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.

“Gonna put the clamps on now,” he continues gently. “They’ll pinch. They’re cold. You’ll feel my hands — okay?”

You swallow hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. When you meet his eyes, there’s something grounding in them.

“Alright,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“‘Kay, love,” he murmurs. He pinches your nipple between two gloved fingers — gentle, sure — before replacing them with the metal tongs of the clamp. The pressure bites, but it’s not as bad as you expected.

“Now I’m gonna need you to take a deep breath in with me, you got that, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. Fuck. Your thighs clench involuntarily, and you manage another meek nod, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

Michael lines the needle up, steady hands and hungry eyes. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice low, “it’s gonna be quick, but you got this.”

He leans closer. “Take a real deep breath for me.”

You inhale sharply— and the needle punches through. 

A burning, blistering sting blooms across your chest, and a small whimper escapes before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Michael murmurs, pushing the needle through. “Just like that. Stay with me, alright? We’re almost done with this one.”

His tone has dipped—deeper now, rougher. There’s a note of something too tender, too honest in it.

“You’re doing so good for me.” The words drop heavy and hot between your legs. He moves quickly, grabbing the barbell from the tray. “You’ll feel some pressure—my hands, maybe a dull ache.”

When he pushes the jewelry through to replace the needle, it stings even more. A strangled sound tears from your throat, and your hand shoots out, wrapping tightly around Michael’s forearm without thinking.

His skin is hot beneath the glove. Firm. Real.

“You’re okay,” he soothes, smile curling the edges of his lips as he finally lets go of your abused nipple. “Still doing so good.”

You sag back in the chair as he shifts to the other side. The initial shock has faded into a low, throbbing ache. You can handle this. You want to.

“This one might have more of a kick,” he warns, positioning the clamp. The cold metal bites again as he adjusts it.

You brace yourself, hands gripping the edge of the chair.

“Deep breath in,” Michael instructs smoothly. “And—just like that. Good girl.”

The two words slip from his mouth like silk and sin.

The pain from the second needle rips through your chest like lightning, and this time, your exhale sounds suspiciously close to a moan.

Michael is breathing heavily, making quick work of inserting the jewelry before stepping back like your touch burned him.

You clutch your shirt to your chest as he holds up the mirror again.

“All done,” he says, voice noticeably strained. “You— sorry, they look perfect. How are you feeling?”

You study the new piercings carefully. The sight sends a thrill straight through you. “Fucking amazing.” A laugh bubbles out of your mouth, catching you by surprise — giddy, high, and real.

Michael laughs with you, his eyes crinkling at the corners, all soft boy charm and crooked sweetness.

“Yeah?” he asks, visibly relaxing.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” you grin, slipping your shirt back on as gently as you can. “Thank you so much.”

Something flickers across his face — quick and dangerous, something almost like disappointment. He nods mostly to himself, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, eyes suddenly focused on the floor.

“So… aftercare,” he starts, slipping back into routine. “Clean twice a day with saline spray, don’t touch, don’t let others touch, don’t even think about changing the jewelry until they’re fully healed. Use warm water to get rid of any buildup, avoid tight clothes, and be careful when getting dressed or showering. If you have any problems or questions…”

He trails off, then clears his throat. “I’ll give you my Instagram. You can message me there. Or just come in — I’ll be happy to take a look at them for you.”

You blink, trying to absorb the flurry of instructions through the haze of post-piercing adrenaline. Michael’s rambling, eyes still avoiding yours, and there’s a faint flush climbing up his cheeks.

Cute.

“Thank you again,” you say with a grin, sliding off the chair.

“Pay upfront?”

Michael nods. “Calum will getcha — tall guy, green hair, looks like he lives on Monster energy and guitar riffs. Can’t miss him.”

You smile, shooting Michael one last, nervous glance before stepping out of the room.

—

It’s been two weeks since you got your nipples pierced by the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life.

The piercings themselves? Healing perfectly.

You? Not so much.

You can’t stop thinking about him — the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he called you good girl, the way his gloved hands trembled just the tiniest bit against your skin. The memory replays on loop every time your hand drifts between your thighs.

The glances. The tone. The words that didn’t quite sound professional.

Maybe you’re delusional.

Or maybe you missed something — an opening. A green light you were too flustered to follow.

That’s why you messaged him last night. Told him one of your piercings felt irritated, like maybe something was wrong.

He said he was fully booked all day — but if you were comfortable coming in after hours, he’d make time.

Oh, if only he knew how comfortable you were willing to get.

The shop is quiet when you arrive, practically empty, dimmer than you remember. No music blasting. No chattering customers. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the buzz under your skin.

You wait in the lobby, arms crossed over your chest, heart pounding, not from fear, not from nerves over a needle. This time, the risk is something entirely different.

“Hey, Y/N. Glad you could make it.”

Michael’s voice pulls your gaze up. He steps out from the hallway, long sleeves pulled over his hands, red hair a mess like he’s been running them through it all day. He looks tired. Rough around the edges. Gorgeous.

You smile, feigning casual. “Hey. Sorry for keeping you late.”

He shrugs and turns, already walking back toward the familiar hallway. “Not a big deal,” he tosses over his shoulder. “I make special arrangements for special customers.”

Heat blooms across your face, but you don’t falter. You follow him, brushing past as he holds the door open.

This time, when you walk into the room, it feels different. Charged. You saunter over to the chair and plop down like you own the place; confidence painted on in broad strokes, even if your heart’s trying to beat its way out of your chest.

Michael turns his back to grab a fresh pair of gloves. You watch the way his shoulders shift beneath the cotton of his shirt. He rolls them onto his hands with a snap.

“Alright, love,” he says, voice thicker than before. “You know the drill. Shirt off.”

You obey — slowly. Not from nerves, but because you want him to watch. When he turns around, though, he doesn’t look at you right away. His eyes stay trained on the floor, like he’s keeping himself in check.

He rolls toward you and sits, knees bumping the chair as he closes the space between you. Something’s changed. He doesn’t seem shy anymore. Not exactly.

He seems focused. Almost as if he’s trying really hard not to do something he’s thought about too many times. His red hair is a mess, and you ache to run your fingers through it, to feel the softness, to pull.

“So,” he murmurs, tilting his head, eyes finally locking with yours. They’re sharper than before. Hungrier. “What’s going on?”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s suppressing a smirk. His eyes flicker down — not quite to your chest, but close. They burn when they come back up, leaving a trail of fire behind. 

“They’re a little irritated,” you say smoothly, settling back into the chair like it’s second nature now. Your tone is calm, measured — the perfect contrast to the chaos simmering beneath your skin. “Didn’t know if it was something to worry about or not.”

Michael hums low in his throat, leaning in until he’s hovering over you. His eyes trail down your torso, deliberate and dark.

“Let me see,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, nudging against the silver labret that gleams there.

The air between you turns viscous.

“So?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the heat blooming low in your belly. “Are they?”

His gaze flicks up, locking with yours — and this time, it doesn’t let go. The green of his eyes is nearly swallowed by blown pupils.

He straightens slowly, hand planting firmly beside your head on the chair, boxing you in.

Michael leans in just enough to make your breath hitch, his chest rising and falling like he’s holding back something dangerous.

“They look just fine to me,” he murmurs, the words almost chiding. “You just wanted to see me, doll.”

Your chest tightens. Your pulse flutters. Your mouth goes dry and wet all at once.

You lick your teeth and tilt your head, playing innocent even as your skin burns beneath his stare. “Why do you say that?”

His mouth curves, slow and wicked. He leans in — closer this time — and brushes his lips against the shell of your ear.

“Because,” he whispers, his breath hot on your skin, “you’ve been such a good girl, haven’t you?”

Your body tenses, all heat and anticipation.

“Followed my instructions. Took care of them just like I told you. Kept your hands to yourself…” He pauses, his gloved fingertips skimming lightly along your collarbone. “Didn’t let anyone else touch. Isn’t that right?”

Your breath catches. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, trying to contain the pulse between your legs. You’re soaked — no use pretending otherwise. His proximity alone is enough to unravel you.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he starts, voice low and dangerous. “Did anyone touch what’s mine?”

Your heart stutters, and your gaze snaps to his. You open your mouth, willing words to come out — but nothing does. All you can manage is a shaky exhale and a firm shake of your head.

Michael looks pleased. His gloved hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his nose brushing against your cheek. “But I already knew that, didn’t I?”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft whine slipping out — muffled by his finger. Michael freezes. Pulls back ever so slightly.

“Jesus, fuck,” he groans, before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours.

They’re warm and plush, moving against yours with practiced hunger. His hand drops to your neck, wrapping around it and squeezing just slightly. It’s not enough to cut off circulation — but the claim is unmistakable.

His stubble scratches your chin. His tongue slips into your mouth, hot and insistent, and you moan, one hand flying up to grip his hair.

Michael groans into your mouth, the sound so filthy it makes your entire body tremble. He pulls back — barely an inch — and nips your bottom lip.

“Take off your fucking pants,” he demands, the hand at your throat trembling ever so slightly. He’s just as affected as you. “Fuck, get them off.”

Your hands scramble for the button of your jeans, fumbling in your haste. You manage to unzip and wriggle out of them, tossing them to the floor along with your discarded shirt.

Michael’s eyes widen, dark and hungry as they drag over your newly exposed skin.

You spot the bulge forming in his jeans — intimidating and mouthwatering all at once. He catches your gaze and palms himself through the denim, just enough to make his breath hitch.

In one swift motion, Michael strips off his gloves, stepping to the end of the chair.

“God, you looked so pretty in pain,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Can’t wait to see that again.”

“Michael, please,” you gasp — not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Just that you need. “I don’t want to wait.”

His hands slide to your thighs, gripping them tight enough to bruise as he yanks you forward, positioning you right at the edge of the chair. You help, shifting until your ass is barely hanging off.

Then, Michael drops to his knees.

His mouth parts, warm breath ghosting over the damp spot on your panties. You inhale sharply, watching through heavy lashes as he lifts a single finger to your clothed core.

He hums, low and pleased. “Messy, aren’t we, bunny?” he teases, circling your clit with slow, deliberate pressure that has your hips jolting. “Gonna make a mess on my mouth too? Soak me like the good girl you are?”

You barely have time to process the filth pouring from his lips — let alone respond — before he hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside. You prop yourself up on your elbows, mesmerized by the scene unfolding between your legs.

“Poor little bunny,” he tuts, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Must’ve been so hard for you these last two weeks. Bet thinking about me made you wet, didn’t it? C’mon, pretty girl — I’d know if you’re lying.”

He leans forward, the tip of his tongue tracing a feather-light circle around your clit.

You choke on a moan, back arching off the chair.

“Fuck—yeah, I did,” you whimper, head falling back against the headrest. “Please, don’t tease me. I’ve been good.”

Michael looks up at you, eyes gleaming with such intensity you feel like you’re under a spotlight.

“How could I say no when you beg so pretty?”

The next flick of his tongue is firmer — one long, slow lap from your entrance to your clit.

Then his lips wrap around you, plush and wicked, sucking lightly before flicking his tongue again. The metal of his tongue piercing is a jolt of contrast — cold against the heat of his mouth — and your eyes roll back at the sensation.

“Oh fuck,” you cry out, fingers digging into the sides of the chair with enough force to leave imprints. “Just like that — oh God.”

Michael presses closer, one hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him like it’s his right.

His tongue is relentless — practiced, filthy, reverent. It’s all too much and not enough.

You can’t stop your hips from moving, grinding against his face in desperate search of friction. He lets you — even encourages it — before gently scraping his teeth along your clit.

The flash of pain makes your eyes snap open, but then his tongue is back, soothing the sting, and you’re gone all over again.

The feeling of his stubble scraping against your inner thigh only heightens the sensation of every filthy, deliberate thing he’s doing to you.

Just as the heat begins to build, right as you feel yourself teetering on the edge, Michael pulls away.

You whine immediately — a desperate, broken sound — the sudden absence of him between your legs enough to make you want to sob.

His lips, already impossibly pink, are now darker, glistening with spit and your slick as he leans back to catch his breath.

Michael grins, and the hand he’s kept on your thigh starts to creep closer to your aching core.

“What’s wrong, bunny?” he asks, voice dripping with condescension, faux concern softening every syllable. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow, lazy circles that make your thighs tremble. “Is it too much? You can’t keep your eyes on me, huh? Is it because it feels so good?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, chest heaving, every breath coming faster as he picks up speed. The slickness from earlier coats his thumb, making every movement feel like it’s too much and still not enough.

Michael leans back down, pressing gentle kisses to your inner thigh. You moan, squirming under his mouth.

Then, without warning, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh — hard.

A scream tears from your throat, but your back arches anyway as you grind helplessly against his thumb. The rough burn of his stubble against your inner thigh only amplifies the pleasure, every contrast like a match strike to your nerves.

He kisses over the tender bite, the softness a shocking contrast to the sting — so much so it almost feels orgasmic.

“Had to mark you again,” he pants, thumb working you over without mercy. “Couldn’t help it — you look so pretty in pain.”

A sob escapes you, and Michael bites your thigh again. The sensation builds — tight and searing — until you’re pulled taut like a wire, waiting for the slightest spark to snap.

All it takes is one more bite. Michael sinks his teeth into the soft flesh again, and you come undone.

A burst of pleasure detonates in your core, your toes curling, eyes rolling back, thighs shaking.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Michael urges, thumb still circling your clit as you ride out your orgasm. “Such a good girl. Coming so pretty. Making a mess all over my chair.”

“Michael, please,” you gasp, voice hoarse, tears slipping freely down your cheeks as overstimulation begins to build. “I need you — fuck, I need you.”

His head snaps up. In seconds, he’s on his feet, looming over you, towering like some beautiful, depraved god. He’s panting, chest heaving, and when he pushes his pants down just enough to free himself, you can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips.

He’s thick, flushed, intimidating — and pierced. A Prince Albert glints at the tip of his cock, and it’s almost too perfect. Your tongue flicks out instinctively, lips parting as you stare.

Michael wraps one hand lazily around his cock, stroking it with slow, teasing pumps. With the other, he grips your chin, forcing your gaze back up to his.

“What makes you think you deserve it?” he rasps, voice dark, wrecked. 

Leaning forward, Michael licks up the salty trail left behind by your tears, still damp on your cheek. His tongue is warm, the cool metal of his piercing dragging against your skin.

“Please,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I-I’ve been so good.”

Michael chuckles low in his throat, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as he nudges your legs further apart, slotting himself between them.

Carefully, he slides the head of his cock along your folds, the ring at the tip catching against your clit in a way that makes you jolt.

“Beg for it,” he murmurs. His voice is soft — too soft — but there’s no mistaking the command. There’s no room for argument.

Whimpering, you clutch at his shoulder. “Please, please I need it so bad. Please, Mikey—”

“Nuh-uh,” he cuts you off with a whisper, eyes blazing. “Try again. Who am I, bunny?”

He lines himself up with your entrance, hips nudging forward just enough to make you whimper again, your desperation mounting with each passing second.

Without thinking, wrecked and aching, you blurt out: “Please daddy, I need you to fuck me.”

“Atta girl,” he praises, voice low and wrecked — and then he thrusts into you with one harsh snap of his hips.

You cry out, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The stretch is intense, almost too much, almost burns — but it feels so good you couldn’t care less.

Michael moans, loud and unashamed. His free hand wraps around your throat as he sits back and begins to fuck into you in earnest.

His hips snap against yours, the rhythm relentless, punishing. The chair rocks beneath you.You’re mewling, nails digging into his biceps as he slams into you again and again.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Michael growls, words rasped and feral against your neck.

He thrusts harder, setting a punishing pace that has every nerve in your body vibrating with pleasure. His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to send your hearing into a dull, muffled haze for a moment — like you’ve been dropped underwater.

“Open,” he growls, still pistoning into you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. “Open your fucking mouth, bunny.”

You obey instantly, brain hazy, body pliant.

Every thrust sends you higher — each drag of his cock and the piercing inside you feels like white-hot ecstasy.

Michael leans forward and spits directly into your mouth.

You gasp, swallowing it down without hesitation.

He groans — a deep, filthy sound from the back of his throat — and his hips snap harder, faster. One hand drops to your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your vision blur.

He lets go of your throat only to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back and forcing your eyes to stay locked on his.

“That’s it,” he snarls. “Take it, baby. Take daddy’s cock like a good little slut.”

Michael moves like he can’t get enough — like he’s chasing something divine, something sacred, and the only place he can find it is buried deep inside you.

His fist tightens in your hair, sharp enough to sting, but you don’t complain. How could you? Your mind is blank, lips parted, body strung out on nothing but him.

“Good girl,” he pants, breath catching as he drives into you harder. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl. Just letting me use you — letting me fuck you like a good toy. You love this, don’t you?”

Your bottom lip quivers, and then you scream as he changes his angle, slamming into a spot so deep, so perfect, it feels like you’re seeing God Himself.

“I’m gonna come again,” you sob, tears brimming in your eyes from the intensity. “Fuck, it’s so much—”

“You’re doing so good for me,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss.

His fingers don’t stop — they work your clit in perfect tandem with the relentless rhythm of his hips.

“You can do this,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. “C’mon, sweetheart, give me one more.”

At his praise, you shatter.

Spots burst across your vision as your orgasm tears through you, white-hot and blinding. You clench around him so tight it pulls a strangled sound from his throat, dragging him deeper, your walls fluttering as you ride it out.

“Such a good bunny,” Michael groans, pace faltering. His voice is raw now, broken by the edge of release. He thrusts harder — desperate, chasing his own high. 

“Squeezing me so tight,” he gasps. “Fuck, you feel so good—“

Your head lolls to the side, body jolting with every brutal thrust. Michael keeps his grip tight on your hair, using it to drive you down harder onto his cock, his rhythm now completely erratic — all instinct, all need.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he growls, hand moving to your neck and squeezing just enough to make your vision shimmer at the edges. “C’mon, bunny. Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours,” you croak out, voice raw, eyes glassy.

He loosens his hold just enough for your brain to come back online — only to knock you senseless again with the next thrust.

Michael’s hand cups your cheek, gentle for a second… and then his open palm connects with your cheek with a sharp smack. The sting blooms hot across your skin, and your walls flutter around him in response. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Try again,” he grits out, breath ragged, voice wrecked. “Whose. Is. It.”

You let out a sob. “Yours daddy,” you cry out. “It’s yours.”

Michael leans forward, careful not to touch your chest, and rests his forehead against yours.

“That’s right, bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and fraying at the edges. “You’re all mine. And you’ve been mine since the second you let me pierce those pretty tits of yours. Shit—I’m gonna—”

With a guttural groan, Michael pulls out of you. His hand wraps around his cock, and with a few rough strokes he’s spilling hot ropes across your stomach.

He moans low in his throat, followed by choked-off whimpers as he fucks his fist, painting your skin with every desperate wave of release.

You’re both panting, breath coming in ragged gasps, when Michael finally lets go.

Then—without hesitation—he bends down and licks the mess from your stomach. Your skin is overly sensitive, and you whimper at the contact, thighs trembling from aftershocks.

He makes his way back up your body and captures your mouth in a messy, greedy kiss. You taste his release on his tongue — salt and heat and him — and it pulls a soft, satisfied moan from your lips.

“Fuck,” Michael breathes against your lips, his hand gently brushing away the sweaty strands clinging to your face.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs, voice low and full of something almost reverent. “I’m so proud of you, bunny.”

You let your eyes fall shut, completely boneless as you slump back into the chair. Michael cups your cheek again, his thumb stroking soft, lazy circles over your skin.

He peppers gentle kisses across your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth — sweet and slow, like he’s trying to gather all the pieces of you and kiss each one back together.

You just barely manage a pleased hum in response, too wrecked to speak.

“Hey,” Michael whispers, voice softer now. “Y/N… you still with me, baby?”

You slowly blink your eyes open, peering up into Michael’s concerned green ones.

“Mhm,” you murmur with a lazy grin. “But I kinda liked it better when you called me bunny.”

Michael lets out a relieved laugh, shaking his head before exhaling deeply. “Still think your piercings are irritated?”

You smirk, fingers sliding into his messy, fiery red hair. “Depends,” you tease. “Will it get me fucked like that again?”

“Please,” he groans, voice already tinged with fresh hunger. “Let me get you some water and lock up the place — then I’ll take you back to mine and fuck you so hard your piercings won’t be the only thing sore.”

You stretch out, boneless and glowing, and shoot him a devilish grin.

“Deal.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷