Some stupid fanfiktion's

imagine: captain price finally lose his shit and decided to take you

summary: It’s a quiet night on the tour bus when you and your usually shy, reluctant boyfriend steal an intensely intimate moment in the narrow, not-so-private space of the shared bus. The tension between you has been building for days, impossible to ignore in the stillness that follows the show 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, established relationship, dryhumping (the holy grail), public/near-public sex, fluff, shy/reluctant michael duh

a/n: finally got around to writing something taking place on a tour bus lol, hope u enjoy my sweet angels ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✮⋆˙<3 also i wrote this on the bus on my way to work this week, trust the screen light was on the lowest setting lol

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .

In the wake of your boyfriend's latest album, a follow-up tour had been inevitable.

Michael had never liked touring much. The constant movement between cities, the lack of routine, the long stretches of time that blurred together backstage and on buses and in hotel rooms. Still, when he asked you to come with him, there hadn't been much hesitation in his voice. It was almost like begging on his part, though he tried not to frame it that way. He just wanted you there — on every drive between cities, every late night on the road. And maybe, though he wouldn't say it directly, something about you made it all feel more bearable. Less lonely.

It couldn't have come at a better time. With no real commitments and still figuring out what life was supposed to look like in your early twenties, you ended up joining him on tour — fresh off the success of Off the Wall.

Time stopped belonging entirely to you as the tour went on, cities passing by in a blur. Every day looked almost the same, like a loop — just different enough to not feel like ordinary life.

The Triumph Tour was technically his brothers' tour too. It was always introduced that way. But night after night the truth became harder to ignore: the hunger, the precision, the raw presence Michael brought to the stage pulled every eye in the arena toward him. The crowds screamed his name like a prayer.

There was such a stark difference between the man who commanded the stage and the quiet one you were pressed against now.

You had settled on the worn leather loveseat between his long legs, back resting lightly against his chest, playing cards with Marlon. The large tour bus carried its own rhythm — a steady hum beneath everything else, wheels rolling through late-night stretches of highway. Inside the slow-moving shelter of brushed metal, the air felt softer. Calmer.

The end of another show had left everyone in that loose wind-down state — half conversation, half silence. Some of the siblings were laughing near the back, playing video games, while others sat in low voices, recapping the concert in fragments.

You were still in your pajama set from after the shower — loose fabric patterned with small multicolored polka dots — layered beneath Michael's oversized knit sweater, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair had been braided loosely, though strands had already begun to escape, soft curls framing your face again.

Behind you, Michael exhaled quietly, like he was trying not to make it obvious. His thoughts kept slipping anyway. He thought you looked so cute like this, all soft and cozy in his clothes. And from his view, the way those little shorts hugged you was almost enough to make him lose focus entirely.

He tried to listen through his headphones, pen moving loosely across the small notebook in his lap, jotting down fragments of ideas and melodies. But it wasn't easy. The way you were pressed against him, the sweet scent of your shampoo drifting up to him — it made it so hard to concentrate.

The lack of privacy had become difficult lately, made worse by the fact that you were both still deep in that early stage of infatuation. Keeping your hands off each other was more of a challenge than you'd realized. Michael was still quite shy and reserved about intimacy, with almost no experience. Yet after shows, when the post-show adrenaline left him glowing, you would catch that quiet hunger in his eyes.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position as you leaned forward to draw another card.

Marlon let out a small laugh across from you. "You're concentrating way too hard for someone who keeps losing."

"I am not losing," you said immediately, narrowing your eyes as you placed a card down.

"You literally just did," he replied, pointing at the pile.

You scoffed. "That was strategy."

"Sure," Marlon said, leaning back with a grin. "Strategic losing. Very advanced technique."

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh as you shifted again, this time settling more comfortably against Michael without thinking. The movement was small, almost automatic — but it pressed your ass more firmly back against him.

Behind you, Michael went very still. His pen paused mid-line. You felt the subtle tightening of his thighs on either side of you, the way his free hand instinctively settled on your hip.

Marlon didn't notice. He was still shuffling the cards, amused.

"You're just mad because I'm right," he added.

"I'm not mad," you said, half-smiling as you reached for another card.

"Mm," Marlon hummed, unconvinced.

You let out a quiet laugh under your breath, shaking your head. Behind you, Michael finally exhaled again — slower this time, almost shaky. His hand stayed on your hip, fingers pressing just a little tighter into the soft fabric of his sweater. You could feel him growing harder against you, warm and insistent, even as he tried desperately to keep his breathing even.

The contrast made your chest ache with tenderness: the same man who commanded arenas full of screaming fans was trembling behind you now, shy and overwhelmed by something as simple as your body nestled between his legs.

The game continued on like that for a few more minutes, the quiet goodnights gradually spreading through the bus as the rest of the brothers retired to their bunks. Soon only you, Michael, and Marlon remained.

You stayed nestled between Michael's legs, letting the low conversation and the steady rumble of the road fill the space. Every small shift of your body seemed to echo through him. His hand never left your hip. The warmth of him pressing against you only grew more insistent, more difficult to ignore. A slow, warm ache had begun to pool between your own thighs. And when the bus hit a bump, jostling you lightly but a little harder than before against him, whatever focus Michael had managed to hold onto finally slipped.

His voice finally came, barely more than a breath against your ear.

"Angel…" he whispered, voice low and hoarse, shy and reluctant even as his hand stayed on your hip, holding you a little tighter.

You turned your head just enough to glance at him, a soft, innocent expression on your face. "Hmmm? Did you say something, Mikey?"

Before he could answer, Marlon let out a long yawn and tossed his cards onto the table.

"Alright, I'm done," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm retiring for the night before I get accused of cheating again." He shot you a playful grin as he stood. "You two behave yourselves back here."

Marlon gave a lazy wave and disappeared behind the thin door that led to the bunk area, his footsteps fading until only the steady rumble of the bus engine remained.

And then it was just the two of you.

You didn't move at first, letting the quiet settle between you. The fragile privacy felt both thrilling and terrifying. Only the low rumble of the bus and the faint sway of the highway. Then, after a long breath, you slowly turned in his lap.

It wasn't graceful or hurried. You shifted carefully, one knee sliding across his thigh until you were facing him fully, straddling his lap. The movement pressed you intimately against the hard line of him, and you heard the way his breath caught sharply in his throat.

Now chest to chest, you were close enough to see every detail — the rapid flutter of his lashes, the deep flush blooming across his cheeks, the nervous hunger swirling in those dark fawn eyes. Your hands rose gently to cradle the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over the burning warmth of his skin.

Michael looked up at you like you were the embodiment of both his salvation and sin.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and lingering. He melted almost instantly, a quiet sigh trembling against your lips, but you could still feel the nervous tension humming through his body. His hands settled hesitantly at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away.

Without breaking the kiss, you rolled your hips in one long, deliberate grind, pressing your warmth against his hardness. The friction dragged a muffled, broken sound from deep in his throat — something between a whimper and a moan that he tried desperately to swallow.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, voice soft and teasing.

"Shh… You have to be quiet for me, baby."

Another slow grind. Then another. You savored the way he throbbed against you with every roll of your hips, the way his fingers tightened on your waist like he was barely holding himself together.

He finally broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, lashes trembling, cheeks burning even darker in the dim light.

"Angel…" he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible over the engine. "We shouldn't… not here. My brothers are right there… anyone could walk in."

The words were weak, almost pleading. Because even as he said them, his hips twitched upward, instinctively seeking more of you. When you took his hands and guided them lower, sliding them beneath the oversized sweater to cup your ass, he squeezed with a quiet, helpless groan.

You could feel his pulse racing through his fingertips. Your sweet, shy boyfriend — still so innocent, still carrying so much guilt — was unraveling right beneath you after days of careful restraint.

You brushed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then along his jaw.

"No one's coming out here, Mikey," you murmured, low and coaxing as you rolled your hips again, slower and deeper this time. "Just have to be quiet for me… Can you do that?"

A soft, broken whimper escaped him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, curls tickling your skin as he nodded — reluctant, ashamed, and completely helpless to the pull you had on him.

Your lips brushed his ear.

"Don't think, baby… Just feel me. I need you so badly."

That seemed to finally break him.

His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your sweater and camisole until his warm palms cupped your bare breasts. He touched you with that same reverent hesitation, thumbs brushing over your nipples with such gentle awe it made your breath catch.

He kissed you again — deeper, hungrier — trying to muffle his sounds against your tongue. You reached between your bodies, easing his pants down just enough to free him. He was achingly hard, flushed and leaking, and the sight of him made heat pool low in your belly.

You stroked him slowly, lovingly, earning another quiet whimper.

"So hard for me already…" you whispered, a teasing smile in your voice. "You've been so good, holding back all this time. Such a good boy, Mikey."

The praise made him twitch hard in your hand. He bit his lip, eyes glassy with both embarrassment and overwhelming desire.

You began stroking him with slow, deliberate movements, your hand barely able to wrap around his length as your thumb brushed tenderly over the sensitive tip. Michael's breath hitched sharply. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, fingers pressing tight as if he could physically hold back the sounds rising in his throat. The sheer risk of it all — being touched so intimately here, on the worn loveseat while the bus carried his sleeping brothers just beyond the thin door — sent a dizzying wave of shame and thrill through him.

He was already trembling, dangerously close after so many days of quiet longing.

As the steady rhythm continued, he suddenly caught your wrist, his grip gentle but urgent.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word so soft and foreign on his tongue.

You paused, surprised by the rare curse. It sent a warm flutter through your chest and lower still.

"A-angel… please," he breathed, voice barely audible over the low rumble of the engine. "You have to stop. I—I don't want to finish like this."

You tilted your head, eyes soft in the dim light. "What do you want, baby?"

He looked away, cheeks burning beneath the flush that refused to fade. His hand covered half his face as he struggled with the words.

"I want to finish inside you."

The quiet confession settled between you like something sacred and forbidden.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"You're so dirty tonight, Michael… saying things like that when we're not even truly alone."

A shaky exhale left him. Before he could reply, you shifted, sliding your shorts and panties aside. You took his hand and guided it between your thighs, letting his fingers meet the slick warmth of your arousal.

His lashes fluttered. "Oh my God," he whispered, voice cracking with reverence. "You're so wet… and warm."

"All for you," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Only you make me feel this way."

You brought his glistening fingers to your lips and slowly, lovingly licked them clean, never breaking eye contact. A low, helpless moan escaped him — louder than either of you expected. You smiled softly and pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shhh…"

You rose slightly, hovering above him, heart beating in time with the steady hum of the highway beneath you.

"You've been so good for me these past few days," you whispered. "So patient. Let's put some of that after-show energy to better use."

Then you sank down onto him in one slow, continuous motion.

The stretch, the overwhelming closeness, the quiet intimacy of it all drew a strangled sound from deep in Michael's chest. He buried his face instantly in the crook of your neck, biting gently into the soft knit of his own sweater to muffle the noise. His arms wrapped tightly around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other gripping your hip as though you were the only steady thing in his world.

For a long moment, neither of you moved — only breathed together as the bus hummed onward through the night, its gentle vibrations traveling through your joined bodies like a secret pulse.

When you finally began to move, it was slow and deep. Rolling grinds at first, savoring every inch, then gradually building into a tender rhythm. Michael met your movements with small, desperate rocks of his hips, his face remaining hidden against your shoulder, curls damp against your skin. Broken, whispered praises slipped from his lips between shaky breaths.

"You feel… so warm… so perfect…"

His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with shy reverence. Despite his inexperience, there was something remarkably natural about the way he touched you. Not skilled in the conventional sense, but guided by instinct — as though the language of pleasure lived somewhere deep within him, waiting to be discovered. Every touch carried a quiet devotion, yet somehow he always seemed to know exactly what you needed, reading each reaction as it came.

Soft, breathy sounds escaped you, quiet enough to blend with the low drone of the engine.

He was trembling beneath you, fighting so hard to stay quiet, but you could feel how close he already was — every twitch, every stutter of his breath.

You leaned close, lips brushing his ear, voice barely more than a sigh.

"Feels so good, Mikey… Please, baby. I need you to come deep inside me."

The words seemed to unravel him completely.

Michael's arms tightened around you. His hands slid down to grip your hips with sudden, desperate strength, and he began thrusting up into you with more urgency. Each stroke was deep and instinctive, brushing against that perfect spot inside you again and again. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your soft moans and panting breaths muffled against his warm skin.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes in the dim light. His own were glassy, dark, and full of desperate adoration.

"I want you to come around me, angel… please," he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. "Please… I need you to."

The eye contact, the raw need in his voice, the way he kept moving inside you — it was too much. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. You came with a soft, shuddering sigh, clenching around him as stars bloomed behind your eyes. Your forehead pressed against his, breaths mingling in the small space between you.

Michael followed right behind you. His whole body went rigid, a muffled, broken moan vibrating against your shoulder as he spilled deep inside you. The sensation of him pulsing and filling you drew another quiet whimper from your throat.

For a long moment afterward, the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the low, endless drone of the bus rolling through the night. You stayed joined, breathing each other in. Michael's arms remained wrapped tightly around you, one hand gently stroking up and down your back in soothing patterns. His cheeks were flushed deep red, and you could feel the shy embarrassment slowly creeping back in now that the haze of pleasure was fading.

"I can't believe we just did that… here," he whispered, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the spot on your shoulder where he'd bitten down earlier. Still, a small, dazed smile played on his lips. "You make me lose my mind, angel."

The words came out with a breathless little laugh. His cheeks were still flushed as he looked at you.

"I love you more than anything, you know that?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling like a lovesick fool. You brushed a damp curl away from his forehead and kissed him sweetly.

"I love you, handsome."

A fresh blush bloomed across his face.

You stayed like that for a while, trading lazy kisses, the gentle rocking of the bus beneath you. Eventually you grinned softly, leaning in to kiss him deeper, rolling your hips in a slow, teasing circle that pulled a quiet, helpless whimper from his throat.

His eyes fluttered, still half-lidded with lingering pleasure.

"Maybe we can go again…" you whispered against his lips, voice playful and warm. "Just one more time. You can be good and quiet for me again, can't you, Mikey?"

Michael let out a shaky little laugh that melted into a soft moan as you moved once more. His head fell back against the loveseat, eyes shining with complete devotion and a touch of disbelief.

"Lord help me," he breathed, voice trembling with both embarrassment and love. "I can't say no to you."

You smiled against his mouth.

"I know you can't, sweetheart."

જ⁀➴ the trick

“ in which you (y/n) realize that your new boyfriend otw!michael will do literally anything for you, even without you asking. ”

ִ ᝰ word count: 1.9k

.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: michael is a simp & a trick, manipulative and disapproving j*e, michael is terrified of him, y/n is a protective gf, y/n teaches him how to say no.

✐ a/n: just saw michael (2026) again and felt maternal toward otw era!michael…

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

michael was sitting on the edge of the couch, writing down lyrics that suddenly spawned into his mind. he scratched his head, thinking of the chorus as he quietly beatboxed to himself. his hair was styled into a neat, kinky afro with a flawless sheen. he was wearing a cream button-down shirt tucked into his dark wash levis that clung to his lean frame, and stark white socks that grooved beneath the table.

you walked into the living room carrying a bowl of freshly washed grapes. from a distance, anyone would look at you and assume you were just his sweet little girlfriend. you had a soft smile, soft curls, a graceful stride, and an aura that suggested you wouldn’t dare swat a fly. but michael knew better. behind that sweet exterior lived a fiercely independent, outspoken woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or challenge him. in a world full of yes-men, he was enthralled by your assertive nature.

you sat down next to him, popping a grape into your mouth. michael instantly turned toward you, his sculpted dimples appearing as his face broke into that gorgeous, boyish smile. those huge, round eyes—looking exactly like two perfect boba pearls—blinked at you with an adoring warmth.

"hey, y/n," he murmured, putting his pencil down immediately, his voice extra soft when he was feeling particularly shy. "can i have one?"

you held the bowl out, watching him select a grape with his long, slender fingers. as you watched him, a thought that had been lingering in your mind for the past week began to take shape. lately, you had noticed a pattern in your new relationship. michael did whatever you told him, and his aversion to confrontation was so deeply ingrained that it manifested as total, unquestioning compliance whenever you spoke to him with even a shred of authority. he didn’t even like making tough business decisions and would rather make them through someone else.

it had started three days ago during a silly debate about a trivia question. he had been so confident in his incorrect answer, laughing and teasing you.

jokingly, you had rolled your eyes and said, "alright, michael, if you're wrong, you owe me three thousand dollars."

he had grinned, mindlessly smoothing his hair back, and then looked completely stunned when you proved him wrong. you had laughed it off and forgotten about it within five minutes. but the next morning, when you woke up, there was a neatly written personal check for exactly $3,000 lying on his nightstand, signed in his elegant, looping cursive. when you confronted him about it, completely baffled, he had just blinked those big eyes and said, "but you won the bet, y/n. i have to give it to you."

your car struggled to start up last month, and then two days later, it was mysteriously fixed. if you were crazy, you would’ve thought it was replaced with a new car. you later found out through jackie that michael got your car fixed after overhearing you complain about it to latoya.

then, yesterday, he had been pacing around the room, nervously rambling about a stressful phone call with his management.

without thinking, your feisty streak took over and you snapped, "ugh, shut up and sit down. you're making me dizzy."

instead of arguing back at you, michael had stopped dead in his tracks. his talking slowed to a halt, and he sat down on the nearest chair like a well-trained puppy.

sitting next to him now, looking at the man who was currently conquering the entire planet, a profound wave of protectiveness washed over you. michael was a multimillionaire and a global phenomenon, but behind closed doors, he was completely defenseless.

if i were a bad girlfriend, you thought to yourself, a chill running down your spine, i could completely drain him. i could ask for a house, a car, a million dollars, and he would just write the check and smile. he would just earn it right back anyway, treating his vast fortune like a never-ending supply of candy to spoil his loved ones. but you knew better. you had a moral compass, and you loved him for him, not his bank account.

but michael didn't know better—even at twenty two. he was entirely at your mercy.

"what are you thinkin’, minnie?" michael asked, breaking your train of thought. he started calling you by that adorable nickname when marlon referred to michael as the mickey to your minnie one day when your hair was styled in two puffs. he leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. "i wanna know.”

you turned your head to look at him, letting out a soft sigh. "mike, do you realize that you literally do anything i tell you to do?"

he blinked, looking genuinely confused. "what d’ya mean? i just want to make you happy."

"no, it's more than that," you said, your voice firming up as your outspoken nature took the driver's seat. "michael, you're a grown man. you can't just let people order you around. what if i was using you?"

michael let out a soft chuckle through his nose, and reached out to gently play with a strand of your hair. "but you're not using me. you're my girl. i know your heart."

"that's not the point!" you said, slapping his hand away playfully but keeping your expression serious.

"the point is that you don't know how to say no to me. you just capitulate to whatever I say.”

michael’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze dropping to his lap. his fingers aimlessly traced the seam of his jeans.

"i just wanna keep you happy…" he muttered fiddling with his fingers. you barely caught what he said, but you heard him faintly which softened your expression.

he swallowed hard, refusing your eye contact. even though you two were fresh into your relationship, you were well aware of the dynamic within the jackson clan. joseph jackson was always in his son's ear, a hovering, aggressive presence trying to dictate how michael should handle his money and his women.

"joseph was talking to me again this morning," michael admitted quietly, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. "he told me i was being foolish. he said... well, he used some harsh words. he thinks everyone is out to take what i have."

“you see son, gettin’ all the broads ain’t the problem—no that ain’t the problem...” joe started unintentionally cornering michael in front of the kitchen fridge with a wicked grin plastered across his face.

michael internally cringed at the way he often described women—as if they were nothing.

“but you givin’ them yo’ money is. i done told you the jacksons don’t pay or beg for pussy. i know you doing both, boy!” he declared, his serpent eyes narrowing into michael’s. his voice boomed as michael shivered at his usage of vulgar words and close proximity.

he took a step closer with his mouth slightly ajar—a natural habit of his— as michael instinctively took a small, quick step back, and was now pressed against the fridge. he loathed being cornered.

he reached out to playfully hit michael’s shoulder causing the color to drain from the timid man’s face as he froze and tensed up immediately. as his infamous hand collided with michael’s shoulder, joe chuckled before scoffing at the way he reacted to his touch.

“for a minute, i thought you went sweet on me. you wouldn’t never talk about no girls like your brothers did.” he continued speaking lower this time. michael’s face hardened realizing what his father meant.

he chuckled before taking a step back and dusting off nonexistent lint on michael’s shirt. his neck was pushed forward and his shoulders slumped, indicating his old age, yet he still spoke to michael like how he did in his forties.

“keep that new girl of yours in check. she don’t want you for real no way.”

a fiery spark of anger ignited in your chest. you hated the way his father spoke to him, treating michael’s innate generosity like a weakness to be exploited or a sin to be ashamed of.

"well, your father can mind his own business," you said sharply, your voice cutting through the room with defensive heat. "first of all, i didn't ask for that money, and second of all, you are a twenty-two year old man who earns his own living. you can do whatever you want with your money."

michael looked up at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound admiration. he loved when you got riled up, especially when that energy was directed at protecting him. it was a feeling he had never experienced before—someone standing in front of him like a shield.

"you look so sweet, but you're like a little tiger." he murmured, a tiny, tentative dimple appearing on his cheek.

"i'm serious, michael," you said keeping your eyes locked onto his.

"your father is wrong about everything, but he's right about one thing: people will try to take advantage of you. you're too giving."

you reached out, cupping his jawline with your soft hand. his skin was warm, and he instinctively leaned his face into your palm, closing his eyes for a brief second.

"i need you to promise me something," you whispered.

he opened his eyes, looking at you with complete devotion. "anything, y/n. you know i will."

"don't say 'anything'!" you scolded gently, shaking your head.

"that's exactly what i'm talking about! if i ever tell you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, you will look me in the eye and tell me 'no.' can you do that?"

michael stared at you, the depth of your request settling into his mind. he was used to women asking him for jewelry, for clothes, for cars, for access to his fame. he was used to his father demanding his financial backing. but here you were, using your influence over him to demand that he build a wall against you.

"i... i'll try," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

"no, not try. promise me, michael.”

he swallowed, his chest rising and falling slowly. he looked at you, realizing how incredibly lucky he was to have found you.

"i promise, y/n. i'll tell you no if it's too much."

"good," you smiled, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. his mouth was soft and welcoming, tasting faintly of the grapes you had been sharing.

when you pulled back, the emotional tension lifted, and the usual starry glint returned to his eyes. he let out a joyful chuckle, his large hands reaching out to wrap around yours. you giggled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his soft afro tickling your skin.

"you're a wild thang," he teased, his voice muffled against your skin as he planted a string of butterfly kisses along your jawline. "my mother would say you wear the pants."

"somebody has to wear them around here," you shot back, looping your arms around his neck, leaning into the comfort of his embrace.

"since you wanna give away the world and stuff." you nudged his forearm playfully.

"i don't want to give away the world," michael murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression turning incredibly sweet, his dimples cutting deep into his caramel cheeks.

"i just want t’give it to you. because you're the only one who doesn't want it, truly.”

Having to remind Miguel O’Hara to be careful with his fangs whenever he eats you out…