stellaㅤꨄ︎

Your hand grabbed onto his curls, pushing him harder against your wet, slick skin.

He was completely pussy-drunk, unable to form any words other than occasional groans and whimpers.

“I-I’m close, Mike,” you whimpered, throwing your head back against the mattress.

With a swift motion, Michael tilted your hips upward, putting you in an easier position for him to completely devour you.

Another suck against your clit, and your orgasm came crashing down like a wave.

“Michael!” His name was the only thing you could get out.

He sucked harder than before until you felt something sharp against your cunt.

Being too lost in pleasure, you were too dazed to notice the slight sting of his hands gripping your thighs tighter.

He lowered himself, causing your hips to flop back onto the bed as he continued sucking on your sensitive sex.

“C-calm down,” you whimpered, trying to push his head back.

His groans grew louder as he tilted his head up slightly to meet your gaze, and you were startled by the look in his eyes.

They were completely black, no white in sight. His eyebrows were furrowed as he pulled away from your cunt, wet strings still connecting his mouth to your pussy.

He looked at you in awe, opening his mouth slightly and revealing his fangs. fangs you had never seen before.

As scared as you were, you struggled to back up, bracing yourself with your forearms against the mattress.

“N-no, no, don’t be scared…” he whispered, coming closer, his face hovering above yours.

“Michael, wha—”

You struggled, still trying to recover from the shock. His eyes were still black, staring intensely into yours.

His breathing was heavy.

“I should’ve told you, but I was scared you’d leave, baby…” he whispered, his hand coming up to caress your face as he gently tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry, Mama. ’M so, so sorry.”

Your breathing slowly calmed, though fear still lingered in your voice.

“What are you, Michael?”

“I’m a…”

He hesitated.

“A vampire.”

He wiped the slick from his mouth with the back of his hand before looking up at you.

ame’s notes : just experimentingg

“Oh,” he said, running a hand along the back of his neck. It was something he did sometimes, which you’d noticed in all your time watching him. He seemed to do it not only when he was nervous, but when he was upset. You hoped desperately he was experiencing the former. “Well, it’s a good one.”

You let out a small laugh, teeth digging into your bottom lip to hide the grin threatening to overtake your features. “I’d hope so, if you’re getting it over and over again.”

“Have you read it?” He asked. He was so close that you could see his eyelashes fanning against his lower orbital bones when he blinked. They were pretty, just like the rest of him. It struck you then, as you studied his face, that this was now the longest conversation you’d had with the superstar, which wasn’t saying much. From your observations, he seemed to be a man of few words. Although you suspected he reserved longer exchanges for more meaningful conversation.

“No,” you told him after a beat of silence, shaking your head. “Honestly, I don’t read very much.”

It seemed like he was unable to help the laugh that escaped him, which only made you laugh right back. “So why do you work at a library?” He asked, genuine curiosity on his face.

“Well, they had an ad in the paper,” you told him, lips turning up into a smile. “They seemed to like me at the interview. Or at least, I can assume so. They keep putting my name on the schedule, if that’s anything to go by.”

“You’re kinda funny,” Michael smiled, running his hand along the back of his neck again. “I didn’t think you’d be funny.”

“Oh, really?” You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that? What’d you think I’d be like?”

Michael’s cheeks flushed, and you smiled. He was dangerously cute. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, laughter stiff and unnatural. “Didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

“I’m just teasing you,” you told him, grinning. “For the record, I knew you’d be funny. And sweet.”

The flush he wore darkened a bit. You wondered what the warmth of his skin would feel like as you watched him press the back of his hand to his right cheek.

“You’ll have to tell me how the book is on this read,” you said. “If it keeps getting better.”

He nodded, and something passed between you as you handed the book back to him with the new due date sprawled on the slip attached to the back of the cover. There was a current of electricity between the two of you, even at just the simplest gesture of fingers brushing against one another.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, and then he was rushing out the door like he was late for something important. You watched him go, chewing on the tip of your thumbnail.

Some could say you were a goal-oriented person. Your new goal was to build a friendship with Michael, if only so you could watch him get flustered like that again. You hoped that he was open to the idea, too. Little did you know, locked in his bedroom, Michael was thinking of you just the same. Except his thoughts were impure, full of sin and lust that he’d been trying to shake for weeks.

Your mutual obsession was only growing; it was just a matter of time before it reached a fever pitch.

─────────────✿ ✿ ✿ ────────────

It had become a bit of a game between the two of you every time Michael came back to the library. At first, it was small things—the brush of his hand on your back as you reached for a book for him (that he could reach much easier on his own), your fingers running along the spine of a novel as he watched them, transfixed, the two of you sharing smiles from across the room whenever he was making small talk with a fan. It was addicting.

You weren’t sure if there was something in the air the day you decided to test your boundaries, but whatever it was—fate, luck, coincidence–you could only hope the reward would outweigh the risk.

“Hey,” you said, catching Michael’s attention as you shelved a book right near where he was sitting and reading. “Do you maybe wanna… hang out, when I get off? I’m closing tonight. We could hang back here. If you want.”

Michael looked up, grin on his gorgeous face. “I’d love to.”

So that was how you ended up alone with Michael, sitting right next to each other at one of the study tables. Your chairs were so close that when either of your knees moved, they knocked into one another.

The conversation of mundane topics like movies, television, and the like had died off naturally, and a comfortable silence had settled between the two of you.

You couldn’t help but notice as you glanced over to him that Michael’s gaze was scathing, mindlessly traveling between your lips and your eyes.

You gave him a shy smile. “Do you wanna kiss me?” You asked.

His throb bobbed. “Oh, God,” he said, and his hands covered his face–not in time to shield the rush of heat to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’ve been… I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

You giggled, reaching for his hands to pull them away. His palms were warm, and a little sweaty. It made you smile. “You’re so cute,” you told him.

“Cute like a puppy?” He asked, unable to hide his pout.

“Cute like I wanna kiss you, too,” you replied.

“Really?” He asked, a smile spreading so widely across his face that the sides of his eyes crinkled.

“Really, silly. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you. Did you think I just wanted to discuss books? I thought I told you, I’m not a reader.”

Michael laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t have um, much experience kissing. Or… anything like that.”

You shrugged. “That’s okay. I can teach you. I mean, only if you want. I don’t want the reputation of the horny girl at the library who tried to corrupt you.”

Michael laughed again, gently prodding your shoulder. “I’m a virgin, not a prude.”

It was your turn to flush now. “Oh, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m just teasing you,” he said.

“God, you made me think I was being rude or something. I mean… kissing is fine, right? I don’t think that’s very sinful.”

Michael’s smile wavered, just slightly. “Kissing is fine. I’ve kissed before, just… nothing else really.”

“Michael,” you reached a hand up to cup the side of his face. “We can just talk, if that’s more comfortable for you.”

Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I’m just… worried if we kiss that I’ll want to do more. Like maybe I won’t be able to have much self-control with you.”

“Well, what if I told you that I don’t want you to have any self-control with me?” You quipped, smiling a little.

“Gosh,” he exhaled the word. “You’re really trouble, you know that?”

“So why don’t you do something about it?”

Michael sighed, pulling you closer to him by dragging the legs of the chair you were sitting in along the floor. You giggled at the sudden movement, smiling at him.

“Will you let me taste those pretty lips?” You asked, batting your eyelashes to feign innocence.

Michael smiled, lips twitching from the effort of hiding it. “Trouble,” he said again, mostly to himself. Before you could respond he closed the gap between you, pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss started out gentle, a slow exploration of nervous movement as you eased into the intimacy. Your hands came to rest on the back of his neck, fingers gently brushing against the curls at the nape of his neck.

You took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sucking his bottom lip between yours gently. He surged forward at the feeling, and a low, rumbling sound muffled into your mouth from the back of his throat.

His tongue met yours and you could feel the shift, a surge in confidence as he kissed you with a fervor that made your toes curl. One of your hands dropped to his thigh, squeezing just a little as you met his passion with a small moan.

“Your mouth feels so good,” you told him, breaking away to kiss down his jaw. Your lips landed on his neck as you went even lower, and you hovered over a spot that made his spine rigid. “Right here?” You asked, smiling. You repeated the motion, pressing another kiss and he let out a soft noise. You sucked at the same spot, tongue lolling out to soothe over the mark that was faintly blooming.

Michael moaned quietly, and you glanced up to see eyes fluttering shut. The hand you had on his thigh traveled a little higher, and you shifted closer to him. He pulled you in for another scathing kiss, and now it was your turn to moan. Your palm kept massaging into his skin, and you could feel his thigh shaking a little beneath you.

“Oh no,” he exhaled, breaking away. “Oh, God. Gimme a minute.”

You pulled back a little, eyebrow raising. “Are you okay?” You asked.

He nodded, and you watched as his teeth bit into his bottom lip so hard that it looked painful. Your hand brushed upwards just a little, coming into accidental contact with something hard. You looked down, spotting the tent in his pants. It made you smile, and then you reached forward to cup his face.

“Michael, it’s okay,” you said reassuringly. “God, you’re so cute. Please don’t be embarrassed. I’m happy that you like kissing me so much, really. I like it too.”

He groaned, eyes squinting open to look at you. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said, tone gentle. “Seriously. You know, it's getting hot in here,” you mumbled, reaching for the hem of your thick hoodie. You pulled it off to reveal the thin tank top you wore underneath, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra. Michael noticed immediately, especially considering the fact that movement of fabric against them was making your nipples semi-hard beneath the singular layer of clothing.

“Oh,” he said, and when you glanced at him he wasn’t even attempting to hide his stare right at your breasts.

He chest heaved, and then he was patting the tops of his thighs. “C’mere,” he said.

You gulped down your anxiety and nodded, lifting yourself from your chair before you situated yourself on top of him. He was looking directly at you, doe-eyes boring into yours. His pupils were dilated enough that the brown of his irises were just a small outer layer around the enlarged black of his pupils.

“Lord, forgive me,” he said, mostly to himself. He leaned back a bit against the back of the chair, thighs spreading slightly underneath your weight.

You spread your own thighs a bit more so as to easily settle them around his long legs. Your skirt rode up, giving him a view of the greater expanse of your thighs than he’d seen before. As you settled against him, his hands hovered over your legs. You looked at him, watching his bottom lip catch between his teeth. His brow was slightly furrowed, expression forlorn. “Forgive me,” he said once more, eyes casting upwards towards the ceiling.

“Michael,” you said, voice twinged with anxiety. “We really don’t have—”

He pressed his right index finger to your lips. “I want to,” he told you, and despite his demeanor he indeed sounded certain. “I’ve been going crazy over you for months. You have… no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught at the admission. “Mikey,” you said, almost whispering due to how nervous you were. “It’s okay, you know. To have thoughts like that. Everyone does.”

“I know,” he replied. His hands finally found the warm flesh of your lower thighs, thumbs resting on the more sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He tightened the grip just barely, allowing you to feel the indentation of his large palm. You forced your breathing to steady.

“I know it’s normal,” he said, calmer this time. “Just… a lot of unlearning, I guess. I don’t… Oh, Christ. I feel so guilty about how much I wanna touch you.”

You cleared your throat before exhaling a shaky breath. “Would it make you feel better or worse if I was the one touching you?”

“I would never ask you to do that,” Michael said, voice dropping an octave.

“I know,” you smiled. “But what if I want to?”

“You really would?” He asked, and you noticed that despite the confidence you’d seen growing from him over the last few weeks, he seemed to be hiding self-consciousness.

You smiled gently, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck so you could pull him closer to you. You kissed him then, slowly, but without any of the desperation from earlier. “Michael,” you said, breaking away. “Of course I would. You do know you’re incredibly handsome, right? There are girls all over with posters of you on their walls that they probably use for kissing practice.”

You could feel the warmth of his flush at your words due to your proximity. “Oh, God, you’re embarrassing me.”

You giggled, kissing him again. “Seriously. You’re gorgeous. So handsome. And you’re so nice, too. It’s actually kind of irritating.”

“Irritating?” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” you replied, lips twitching into a lopsided smile. “Save some good qualities for the rest of us.”

Michael smiled so softly it made your heart clench. A current of electricity seemed to pass between the two of you then, understanding, want, and warmth all wrapped up into one.

“Mikey,” you said, biting the edge of your lower lip. “Will you let me make you feel good?”

Michael swallowed loudly, nodding. “Yeah,” he said. His hands tightened their grip on your thighs.

“Let me know if you want me to stop, pretty boy,” you said, reaching down to unbutton his jeans as you pressed your lips to his neck. His head titled just slightly, allowing you easier access to map your kisses. Once you had the button of his jeans popped and zipper pushed down, your hand reached beneath the band of his underwear. You felt for his length, still semi-hard despite the momentary derailment of passion. You pulled him from the confines of the garments in your way, and when you looked down your mouth quite literally watered at the sight. “Oh, Mikey. You’re so big, honey. I didn’t know you were hiding all that in there.”

Michael whined, high and shrill as he turned away. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he said, but if the twitch of his dick was anything to go by you guessed he actually liked it.

“I can’t compliment your pretty, big dick?” You pouted, wrapping your hand around him again. He moaned, the sound muffled by the back of his hand.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, chest rising and falling.

You giggled, sliding your hand up the length of him. He moaned again, and it thrilled you how responsive he was just from these light touches alone; the sounds he was making were going straight to the growing ache between your legs. Your thumb traced over the head of his now leaking dick, and he jolted forward. You smiled, repeating the motion. “That feel good?”

He nodded, and you looked up to find his eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah, Christ.”

“Mm, I’m glad. Do you wanna cum all over my hand, baby?”

Michael’s hands left your legs to cover his face again. “You’re so dirty,” he whined.

You smirked, wrapping your hand around him again. Your palm was slick with precum, making the glide across the smooth skin easier. “Seems like you like it, though. Tell me how you like it when I talk all dirty to you, Mikey.”

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. His body was trembling beneath you, jolting with nearly every jerk of your wrist. “Please, it’s embarrassing.”

“C’mon, it’s okay, handsome. Just tell me how much you like it.”

“I l-like it,” he admitted, short moans nearly hiccupping out of him.

“Are you getting close, angel? Gonna make a mess all over me?” You asked him.

“Yeah, so close,” he said, and you watched his eyes drop to observe your hand working over him. His hips moved forward at the sight, and you grinned.

“Yeah, fuck my hand, baby. You look so sexy. I’m really throbbing for you, angel. Wanna feel this big dick inside of me soon,” you leaned forward to press your lips to the shell of his ear. “If it can fit.”

Michael’s moan was downright sinful, and his eyes shut once again as he began to move forward into the grip of your palm. His hands gripped the sides of the chair below him, nails scrapping along the wood. “Oh my God,” he gasped, hips losing the steady rhythm he’d created as he barreled towards his orgasm.

You tightened your grip on him, helping supplement his erratic thrusts. Before you could say anything else, the coil wound inside of him snapped–Michael was spurting all over your hand, broken moans spilling out of his mouth. You worked him through it, cooing a little. “Mm, you’re such a good boy,” you told him, and he whimpered. You glanced up at him, noticing the tears shining in his eyes. He blinked a few of them away, and your unsoiled thumb reached up to wipe them. “Michael, are you okay?”

He nodded, hips giving one last weak thrust as his body relaxed below you. “Felt so good,” he said, a few more tears slipping out.

You smiled at him, giving him a gentle kiss to his lips. You sat back a little, looking down at his softening member with a smile. “Let me clean you up, sweet boy.”

Michael didn’t have time to respond before you had dropped to the floor, tongue lolling out to lap up his cum from his tip, all the way to where it was dripping down the length of him. He gasped, jerking forward a little. The movement caused his head to slip between your open lips, and you smiled before wrapping your lips around him for a moment. You popped off of him with a wet sound that echoed around the room, giggling a little as you felt him twitching and hardening already. Next to clean up was your hand, which you did as you made direct eye contact with his pretty eyes.

“Gosh,” he murmured, biting his lip. “I think I’m dreaming.”

You rolled your eyes with a giggle, climbing back up and into his lap again. “How do you feel, Mikey? Do you wanna call it a night?”

Michael shook his head, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you as close to him as possible. Your breasts were flush against his chest, your nipples brushing against the fabric of your top. “Let me kiss you.”

You nodded, meeting him halfway with a kiss that turned into a passionate mess as soon as he tasted himself on your lips. You licked into his mouth, feeling a curl of pleasure when he opened up for you. Michael was such a good kisser that you’d be satisfied if this was how the night ended. Even still, your hips started rocking a little, chasing some relief from the throb between your legs.

Michael moaned against your mouth, and you felt his dick twitch again beneath you. You knew based on your minimal clothing that your arousal was smearing against him, which only made you feel even hotter. The damp cloth of your thong beneath your skirt suctioned against your core as you rolled your hips. Just as you felt yourself working up to a rhythm, Michael paused. His hands on your waist lifted your weight suddenly, and before you realized what was happening he’d successfully maneuvered you so that your back was flat against his chest, legs hanging limping off the sides of his thighs. The change in position was startling, and you could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

“If I keep going I won’t be able to stop,” he murmured, and it came out almost like he was a petulant child whining at being scolded for doing something they weren't supposed to. “Oh, God. I wanna touch you so bad but it’s wrong.”

You whined a little, suddenly feeling so exposed. “We don’t have to do anything else,” you said, your bottom lip caught between your teeth for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to try and jump your bones like that.”

He laughed, but it sounded bitter. For a moment you were worried he was angry with you before he said, “I’m not upset with you. I just… I didn’t know it would feel this good. Kissing you, touching you… your hand on me. It all feels so good.”

Your cheeks heated at his words. “You feel good too, Michael,” you said, turning your head so you could glance at him out of your periphery. “Should I… put my hoodie back on? I’m sorry again. Really.”

His hands slid around your waist for a moment, and the touch sent a jolt down your spine. “No, I…” He trailed off. “Let me try something, ‘kay? You trust me?”

You nodded, smiling a little. “Yeah, of course. Are you sure, Michael?”

He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat before slipping his right thumb underneath the side of your thong–not from the top hem of the fabric at all. You opened your mouth to question what he was doing, but then you felt him gather the material together. It was almost like he was trying to give you a wedgie from the front, which felt ridiculous for a moment. The brief sound of protest died on your tongue before he could even notice as he tugged up on the garment. The fabric snagged along your clit, creating a friction that had you gasping. He kept going like that, using the fabric to pleasure you, his wrist circling which caused it to push and pull against you. It felt dirtier than if he was just rubbing you himself somehow, a loophole he’d made up in his head to touch you intimately without committing sin.

“M-Mikey, shit,” you whined, head lolling back against his chest. You could feel your arousal sticking to your thong as he used it to stimulate your clit.

“Don’t cuss, honey,” he cooed, his voice thick with desire and deeper than you were used to hearing him. “I’m just touching your clothes, right? Makin’ sure they fit okay.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was cut off by a moan as he pulled the material taut once again, dragging it up and side to side. You looked down at what he was doing, noticing his fingers glistening with your arousal as they faintly touched the outer lips of your pussy. For some reason, this was turning you on more than you would’ve imagined. It felt like a secret, a dirty secret.

Michael let go of the garment, and then his hands were on your waist again. “Turn around,” he murmured. You did as he said, chest heaving. He guided you into his lap again, and you felt the unmistakable bulge in his jeans that had already formed again. You longed to grind down on it, but you weren’t sure if that would upset him again.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling quietly. He gave you a soft kiss before pulling away. “I wanna try something. Can you actually lie down on the study table?”

You nodded, throat bobbing into a gulp. You pried yourself off of him, legs wobbly as you stood. You perched on the edge of the table, hands supporting you as your back slowly came into contact with it. Your legs spread just slightly, but you weren’t sure if that’s what he wanted.

Michael was on the floor in front of you then, eyes peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “It’s not as bad if you keep your clothes on, right?” He asked, although you could tell by the crazed look in his eyes that his decision was already made.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyebrows lifted quizzically. “What’s not so bad?”

Michael bit his lip to hide the smirk threatening to overtake his expression. “Lord, forgive me,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on you–or rather, his mouth was on the thin, flimsy fabric of your thong.

You gasped. “O-oh, Mike, you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

He paused and the look he gave you from between your thighs made you bite back a moan. “Just keep this on, and we’ll be okay.”

You nodded, breath shaking as he dove back in. Even through the fabric, you could feel the careful and deliberate laps of his tongue. He’d found your clit with an ease that made your eyelids flutter shut—hadn’t he said he was a virgin? Apparently he had many natural talents. You opened your eyes to glance down at him, and his eyes were shut like he was the one receiving the pleasure. It was making your head spin, a low moan spilling from you as he suctioned against your bundle of nerves. The sucking made your toes curl, and your head fell back.

“Oh, God. Please don’t stop doing that. Feels so good,” you said, voice already thoroughly fucked out.

You looked back down to see that Michael’s eyes had popped open at that, his gaze sharp. “It feels good?” He asked.

You nodded, thighs trembling around him. “Yeah,” you said. Your elbows flattened so that your back was completely against the table, body thrumming with a pleasure that had you shaking. Your right hand traveled down to reach for his hand that was on the edge of the table. He laced your fingers together, and you smiled a little, back arching just slightly as he sucked again.

The material of your thong was rendering itself useless, so damp that it felt like his mouth was actually on you without the barrier. He was circling his tongue slowly, pressing against you as you cried out. His free hand traveled between your legs, finger prodding around until he found your covered opening. He circled his index finger around it, pressing into the fabric.

You turned your head to the side, overwhelmed with how turned on this was making you.

“Wanna be inside of you so bad,” he said, pulling away from you for a moment. “Oh, God.”

You moaned, clenching around nothing at the admission. “Mikey…”

“Oh please. Pleaseplease.” He babbled.

“Oh baby, are you sure?” You asked, wanting nothing more than to just say yes.

He nodded, standing up. He pulled your knees towards him, making sure you were on the very edge of the table. His hands reached down between you, spreading your legs wider. He moved your thong to the side, eyes staring at your now exposed cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “Just don’t take these off, ‘kay? You’ve got that, right baby?”

You nodded, mouth filling with saliva. “Mmhm. I’ll be a good girl for you, Mikey.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, head lolling back against his shoulders before he looked you square in the eye again. He shoved his pants further down his thighs, and you were pleased to see more of his exposed skin.

“Get yourself all wet for me, sweetie,” you cooed, smiling sweetly. “You’re about to stretch me so much. Need to make sure it’s as easy as possible.”

He cursed under his breath, gripping himself with trembling hands. He began to slide his dick between your folds, arousal coating him easily from how wet you were.

“Quit swearing,” you teased. “God is watching.”

“B-baby, please,” he begged, eyes prickling with tears.

“Come on,” you smirked. “Start with the tip, honey. Get me warmed up.”

Michael nodded, body tense as he watched you spread yourself open for him. He allowed the head of his throbbing cock to rest at your entrance, moaning before he even pushed it in.

Slowly and carefully, he began to enter. His hips moved forward inch by inch, and then you were swallowing his head. He gasped at the feeling, whimpering so loudly he covered his mouth with his free hand. The stretch had you letting out a long exhale in response.

“Christ,” he panted. “So warm. Oh my God.”

“Mm, keep going,” you begged, relaxing to accommodate his size.

Michael nodded, a pained expression overtaking his face. He pushed forward, sliding deeper inside of you. The drag was so slow that you could feel each sensation intensely. Michael was breathing so heavily already, and it made you giggle a little.

“Like how it feels, Mikey?” You asked, clenching down around him.

He moaned, hips thrusting even deeper. “Yes,” he said.

“Go all the way for me,” you told him.

He silently obliged, sliding to the hilt. You looked down, watching as he disappeared completely inside. Your breath caught, hands clenching into fists. “Oh, Michael. Fuck me, please.”

Michael stilled before he pulled out, his whimpers filling the space between you. He pushed back in slowly, then back out again. He worked himself into a delicious pace, slow but so deep.

Your back was arching off the surface of the table as he fucked you. “Michael, so good. Gonna cum all over your dick, baby.” You reached down to hook your arm under your left thigh, pulling it back towards your torso. It allowed for a deeper angle, and Michael took to it quickly. He was moving a little faster now, suddenly dragging along the spot inside of you that had you crying out.

“Right there,” you babbled. “Oh shit. Please, do that again,” you begged.

Michael moaned in response, repeating the action. Your body trembled at the feeling, head moving from side to side. Your right hand pressed flat into the table, desperate for an anchor.

“There?” He asked, doing it again.

“God, yes. You’re fucking me so good. Do you wanna make me cum, daddy?”

Michael’s hips jerked out of rhythm. His hand flew up to cover his mouth and hide the moan, but you could tell by the erratic thrust forward that he liked the nickname.

You giggled a little, pushing your hips down to meet his. “Oh, I’m gonna remember that response,” you told him. “C’mon, sweet boy. Keep going. You feel so good.”

“Shit, I’m so close,” he admitted, and you stared up into his eyes. Sweat was pooling at his hairline, beads glinting down his arms. He started to move again, a little smoother. He reached down to rub tight circles at your clit as he chased his own high, and you moaned, pulling your thigh up even higher.

“Michael,” you said, breathless. “Baby, I’m gonna cum.”

Michael nodded, brows scrunched as he thrust into you a little faster. You felt the buildup of pleasure finally snap, and your body tensed up so tightly you could faintly sense the threat of a cramp in your thigh. You gasped, body jolting as you came around him, walls fluttering. You were trembling, a loud, deep moan spilling from the back of your throat.

“Oh God, I can’t–” Michael gasped, and you felt him release inside of you. He was shaking all over, hips snapping into you, the room filled with the sounds of the slap of skin against skin. He whined shrilly, head thrown back before he collapsed forward.

His arms came down around either side of you on the table, palms flat. He was hovering just above you with unshed tears in his eyes, body still shaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried to pull out. I was going to, I swear. You just looked so… Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“Michael,” you said, dropping your cramped thigh so you could cup his face in both of your hands. “It’s okay, I’m on the pill.”

Michael whined a little, still sensitive inside of you. “Oh my God.”

“It’s fine, really. Just buy some condoms for next time, okay?”

Michael nodded, breath fanning against your face before he pressed a kiss to your lips. “Okay,” he agreed, and you shared a smile. “You want there to be a next time?”

You smirked, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, daddy.”

Michael groaned, and you felt the twitch of his softening dick inside of you. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

You giggled. “I know,” you agreed. “Now let’s see how long it takes for you to get hard again, sweet boy. I’m not done with you yet.”

You hadn’t imagined returning home for your ten-year high school reunion would involve so much laughing. You’d imagined walking in, catching up with your two friends from the decade, and leaving early the next morning. 

Never in a million years would you have imagined sitting in the only bar in town, sharing drinks and cracking up with your entire graduating class. All 20 of them. 

One thing you’d forgotten from growing up in such a small town is that everyone knew each other, and everyone talked. “Come on, you were scared of your own shadow,” a guy who’d set the state record at a track meet junior year said from across the table. 

“Remember that time someone dropped a book in Biology, and she screamed?” Your school’s leading actress asked. 

“My favorite is still the blown tire incident,” your high school boyfriend said, gently nudging your shoulder. 

You could admit it without shame; you’d grown up a very timid child. Every bump in the night sent you hiding under the covers, clutching your flashlight. You hated the dark, spiders, and anything creepy. Growing up, Halloween was always a hard time for you. 

You were never particularly popular, but it was hard to disappear in a school that didn’t have enough people in one grade to form a football team. You’d hear about the parties, even if you weren’t necessarily invited to them. That’s how you ended up the joke of the next story to grace the reunion. 

“I’ll never forget it: Halloween night, senior year. Driving up to Old Man Richard’s place, absolutely convinced it was haunted,” another classmate reminisced, watching as you tried to shake off a chill in the warm room. “She stayed in the car, scared to death! Wouldn’t even walk up the front steps!”

You didn’t see it, but that classmate and the track star shared a knowing look before leaning across the table and dropping their voices. They knew you were terrified of that house, of Old Man Richard. You didn’t know why; you’d never seen the man, the house just made you uneasy. There was something about it, the way it groaned in the wind and shadows danced across the windows at all hours. 

“I thought Old Man Richard died,” you wondered aloud, not enjoying the mischievous looks on your classmates’ faces. 

“Well, he did,” the track star began. “But the house sold a couple of years ago. The guy who lives there now is even scarier.” 

“How do you know?” You challenged, the liquor in your system making you uncharacteristically brave. 

“My wife and I moved back here the same year it sold. We decided to raise our kids closer to my folks,” he shrugged easily before the glint returned to his eye. “My son snuck up there a few weeks ago, came back with all kinds of stories.” 

“What kinda stories?” The other man to his right asked, an almost comical eyebrow raise gracing his face. 

“This guy controls things with his mind, can contort his face in all these crazy ways. My son even said he could raise the dead and dance with them.” 

“Necromancy? Really? Your scary stories have really lost their edge,” you scoffed. 

“You know, you can just say you’re still scared. Scared of what, I don’t know, but you can say it.” 

You didn’t know what came over you, but defiance rose in your chest. You were an adult now, a grown woman with a job, an apartment, a 401k for crying out loud! You weren’t that kid anymore, hiding from every creak and crack, trembling with fear. It’s not like you cared what these people thought anymore; you’d moved on from the trivialities of high school. 

But after a night of drinking and reconnecting, you couldn’t let these same people get the best of you an entire decade later. 

“I’m not scared,” you said quietly, narrowing your eyes at them. 

“You could always prove it,” he said, smiling wickedly. 

He couldn’t be serious. Here you all were, pushing 30, and you were being pulled into an adolescent mindset by someone you hadn’t thought about since graduation day. 

“I don’t have to prove anything,” you laughed, not realizing how your foot began to bounce anxiously against the barstool. 

“Wow,” the track star leaned back against the wall behind him, looking smug. “You were right,” he said, turning to his friend. “She is scared, and she won’t admit it.” You hadn’t even noticed the hush that had fallen over your table, everyone listening to the exchange with interest. 

Suddenly, you envisioned the 17-year-old version of yourself. How she missed out on almost everything because she was afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being caught, afraid of having a good time. You felt like you owed her. She deserved to live for one night without fear. And now that you had excellent medical insurance and enough money saved up for bail, you figured you could afford to be a little reckless. Just once. The point didn’t need to be proven, and you knew that, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

“Fine,” you crossed your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out in defiance. “How do you want me to prove it?” 

“Same as last time,” your classmate rested his elbows on the table, staring straight through you. “Go up to the house, steal something, and bring it back to us. But this time,” he grinned. “You have to go alone.” 

Standing at the wrought-iron gate, you turned to see a handful of classmates staring at you with quirked eyebrows. They held beer bottles and tall cans, thanks to loose rules put in place by the local bartender. In true small-town fashion, the bartender had graduated the year before you and bent all kinds of rules for your reunion. 

“It’s locked,” you huffed, trying to keep a brave face. In reality, the low fog and cobwebs surrounding the grand manor made your skin crawl. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to find a way out of this, make up some kind of excuse. 

“Then climb it,” said the guy who’d started this childish bet. You narrowed your eyes at him in annoyance before turning back to the gate, trying to work out where to put your feet and hands to get over the 10-foot-tall barrier. 

As you moved to lay a hand on it, the gate creaked open by itself. You held in your startled squeal as the group behind you oohed and ahhed. You looked back again, wondering when the jig would be up, when they would tell you it was all a joke, and you didn’t actually have to walk into this place and rob a stranger. A stranger who had horrifying stories told about him. You didn’t think they could actually expect you to do this. Yet there they stood, watching you expectantly. 

You sighed and started the trek. The soles of your shoes crunched against the loose gravel of the winding driveway, the town disappearing behind a thick canopy of overgrown oak trees, obscuring your classmates from view. The cool night air did little to dull the buzz of three gin and tonics sloshing around in your stomach. 

“Start the timer,” the track star whispered to the rest of the group. “I have five dollars down that she comes running back in under two minutes.” 

Up the trail, you let out a harsh breath, watching the mist dance around your face, reflecting in the moonlight. Your mind replayed the mocking grins back at the bar, the effortless way your classmates had slipped right back into their teenage selves, pulling you down along with them. You shook your head; you knew better than to let them get in your mind. 

A sharp breeze rattled the high canopy above your head, making the branches scrape together like dry bones. Instinctively, you flinched, your heart giving a familiar, anxious flutter. 

No. Absolutely not, you told yourself, forcing your feet to keep moving, even picking up your pace a little. The sooner you get there, the sooner it’s over. 

As the driveway finally crested the ridge, the manor came into view, looming on top of the hill. It was massive, dark, and imposing against the star-scattered sky. Its gothic spires poked at the clouds like jagged fingers, floor-to-ceiling windows staring back at you like hollow eyes. The townspeople called it cursed; your friends claimed the tenant could warp reality itself. 

Standing at the edge of the overgrown lawn, the scent of grass tickling your nose, you stared up at the shadow of the house, a sudden wave of absurdity washing over you. 

If I get arrested for breaking and entering, my lawyer will never stop laughing, you thought, a faint, bitter smile touching your lips. If I get eaten by a ghost, or whatever is in there, at least I won’t have to go to brunch with them tomorrow. 

You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the chill settle deep into your lungs. You weren’t doing this for your classmates; you still knew you didn’t have to prove anything to them. You were doing this for the girl who made her father cut down the tree outside her bedroom window, because the moonlight reflecting off the leaves looked like eyes. The girl who had missed out on half her youth because she was too terrified of the shadows.

Just a souvenir, you bargained with yourself, stepping off the gravel path and onto the damp grass. A cracked window on the ground floor called to you, not even a whisper of light escaping. One little trinket, and then I can leave this town for good. 

You walked up to the window, careful not to make a sound, and listened for signs of life. Nothing. Still fighting your instincts, you slowly raised the window enough for you to crawl through. Your boots hit the old hardwood floors without a sound. The air hit you hard, though, thick with the scent of aged paper, crushed velvet, dried lavender, and a subtle, static charge that made the hair on your arms stand straight up. You spotted a small silver music box resting on a mahogany desk. You reached for it, your heart hammering in your chest. 

As your fingers brushed the cool metal, the window slammed shut behind you with a thunderous boom that vibrated through the room. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat, and backed away from the window until the edge of the desk dug firmly into the small of your back. The room, which you discovered was a library as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, fell dead silent. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own frantic, ragged breathing. 

“A thief? Isn’t that mundane...” 

The dark, purring voice echoed from the shadowed corner of the room. You froze, watching a silhouette uncoiling from a velvet armchair, stepping slowly into the silver moonlight spilling through the arched windows. 

It was a man, or something that looked remarkably like one, wearing a soft, flowing white shirt, reminiscent of the men on the covers of romance novels your mother loved. Dark, glossy curls framed a face that was impossibly striking, highlighted by a sharp jawline and gleaming eyes. When he moved, he didn’t walk. He glided across the room, closing in on you with a predatory grace. He stopped a few paces away, crossing his arms over his chest as he examined you like an unexpected insect that had landed on his desk. 

“I-I was just,” you stammered, your adult confidence evaporating with speed. 

“Breaking in? Trespassing?” He paused, tilting his head and letting out a dry, dramatic sigh as he gestured around the room. “Tell me, do you usually enter people’s homes uninvited, or am I just exceptionally lucky tonight? 

“I’m not a burglar,” you squeezed out, pressing yourself as flat as possible against the desk, trying and failing to tear your gaze from his. 

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Not a burglar? Well, that hurts my feelings even more! You mean you broke into my lovely, peaceful home just for the ambiance? The dust? The draft?” 

He took a slow step closer, still maintaining a comfortable distance, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Look at you. Shaking like an autumn leaf. You’re terrified, aren’t you?” 

“No,” you lied, your voice cracking slightly. 

The man threw his head back and laughed, a rich, musical sound that bounced off the high ceilings. “Oh, I do love a liar!” He leaned forward slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets and inspecting you, his demeanor entirely mocking. “Don’t feel bad, sweetheart. Scaring people happens to be my specialty. I’m a master at it, really,” he smiled at you again, making your heart skip a beat. For someone so terrifying, he was unbelievably attractive. “The mayor down in town?” He asked, raising his eyebrows at you as he stood at his full height again. “Cried like a baby the last time he stepped on my lawn. Make his hair stand straight up!” He laughed loudly. 

He snapped his fingers, and with a sudden whoosh, the grand fireplace to his right roared to life, casting a flickering amber light across his amused face. You tried hard to hide the way you flinched, but you could tell he’d seen it by the way he softened slightly. The chill in the room began to fade, replaced by a comfortable warmth. 

“So,” he said, turning to take a seat in a nearby velvet armchair, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you. “If you’re not here to rob me blind, why are you creeping through my library at two in the morning?” He waited for a moment, giving you a chance to answer. “Speak up, I don’t bite... usually.” Just like that, the spine-chilling grin was back. 

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling completely ridiculous. “It was a dare,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut to shield yourself from the way you expected him to mock you. 

“A dare?” His eyebrows shot up, an amused chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “Please elaborate. I haven’t heard a good local rumor in months.” 

“I came back to town for my class reunion,” you admitted, shifting uncomfortably against the solid wood as the initial wave of panic began to settle into simple, childish embarrassment. “My old classmates... they were making fun of me. Talking about how I used to be scared of everything. My own shadow, this house.” 

“And are you?” He asked, dropping the sharp, mocking edge and softening into genuine curiosity. “Scared of my house?” 

“I was,” you whispered, looking around at the grand, towering bookshelves, stocked full of anything you could imagine. “They told me to come up here and steal something, bring it back to prove I wasn’t that scared little girl anymore. I didn’t even know Old Man Richard had died until today.” 

He laughed again, a rich, genuine sound this time. “Oh darling, you’re dealing with a much higher class of host now,” he leaned back, examining you with a newfound appreciation. He stopped looking at you like an intruder, but as someone who had actually stood their ground and set out to prove something. He admired that. “And who exactly sent my lovely guest on this little errand?” 

“This guy, one who shouldn’t have been able to get to me,” you sighed, regretting every choice that had led you here. “And the rest of my graduating class.” 

“Ah. The local bravery committee,” the sinister grin returned to his face. A face you tried to ignore, but it got more beautiful the longer you looked at him. “You know,” he mumbled, his voice dropping into something low and smooth as he stood to approach you. “If you really wanted to prove how brave you are...” 

“I think I’ve proven enough,” you interrupted, the horrifying reality of the situation suddenly crashing back over you like a wave. You pushed off the desk, taking a quick step toward the window you’d climbed through. “I should go; I’ve made a big enough mess.” 

“Wait.” 

The word wasn’t a command, nor was it delivered with the supernatural boom from before. It was quiet. Tentative. 

You stopped, turning back to find him standing in the center of the library. The wicked, playful smirk he’s been wearing slipped, revealing something far more human than you’d expected. A quietly heavy vulnerability in his dark eyes. 

“Don’t go. Not yet,” he requested softly, gesturing vaguely between the two plush armchairs by the roaring hearth. “Please. It’s, well, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had a visitor who didn’t come bearing torches and pitchforks. Or screaming at the top of their lungs.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “You’re... lonely?” 

He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, resting a hand on the back of one of the armchairs. “Extremely,” he breathed, looking away from you. “The townspeople aren’t exactly known for their warm hospitality toward someone like me. I suppose I can’t blame them entirely, given the local chatter. I just wish...” he trailed off. 

Unsure of yourself, but strangely drawn to the quiet sincerity in his voice, you slowly walked over and sat down on the edge of the velvet seat. He smiled, one that reached his eyes, and sank into the chair opposite yours. 

“You just wish what?” 

He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to find words that hid how honest he was being. “I just wish they would give me a chance, you know?” 

You let his words settle heavily over the room, considering them for a long time. You’d expected to find something from a horror movie when you dropped into the room, anticipating running for your life. Instead, you’d found something genuine. You still didn’t know if he was truly a human man, but you knew he acted and felt like one. He had feelings and emotions, and nobody else seemed to care about that fact. “So,” you began, resting your elbows on your knees and leaning toward him. “What’s true and what isn’t?” 

He leaned back, settling into the chair, a faint, familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes, tempered by a quiet warmth. “Well... let’s see. They say I can do all kinds of things, right?” He studied you, the way your skin glowed under the warm firelight, your hair shining and eyes sparkling with an innocence he so adored. 

You nodded, watching him closely, the veins in his large hands shifting as he spoke with animation. 

“Contorting the face?” He made a ridiculously dramatic, exaggerated pout before relaxing. “A classic, but mostly reserved for uninvited guests with bad attitudes, like the mayor.” Your mind raced with the fact that you would have screamed and run out of the room ten minutes ago, but he’d somehow made you feel comfortable. Somehow, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. “Raising the dead?” He scoffed gently, waving a hand in the air, his muscles gently flexing against the thin fabric of his shirt. You pretended not to notice. “Pure exaggeration. I don’t raise corpses, darling. My friends are ghosts, spirited, theatrical, and excellent dancers, but entirely incorporeal. The spirits in this house are my family. Ghostly musicians, dancers, aristocrats from eras past who simply craved a sanctuary where they could perform without judgment. We make music together. We dance. We live.” He waited for a reaction from you, smiling to himself when you didn’t move an inch, entirely focused on his words. “As for controlling things with my mind?” He flicked his wrist slightly, and a silver teapot on a side table quietly floated up, pouring two cups of tea, and gently placing one on the table between your chairs. “Guilty as charged.” 

You couldn’t help the light laugh that escaped from your lips, taking the warm cup in your hands. “They talk about you like you’re some kind of monster.” 

“And you?” He asked softly, watching you over the rim of his own cup. “Do you think I’m a monster?” 

“No,” you breathed, surprising even yourself with your honesty. “But I won’t pretend to know what you are.” 

“Ah, the million-dollar question,” he laughed, placing his teacup gently back on the table and leaning toward you. “What am I?” 

He gestured vaguely to himself, his eyes dropping to rake over you quickly. “The town calls me a demon, a sorcerer, and a freak. But in truth?” He paused, hoping to keep you engaged and not convince you to run away. “I am simply an artist. A conductor of the unseen. I’m a maestro, darling, a weaver of music, magic, and illusion. I don’t belong entirely to the living world, nor to the grave. I exist in the sweet, exquisite space in between.” He considered his next statement for a long time, his expression softening as he looked around the grand room. “I bought this place to create a haven for the misunderstood, the eccentric, the outcasts. I am their conductor, their protector. But because we prefer the cover of night and a little rhythm, the ordinary folk assume we’re evil.” 

“I don’t think you’re evil,” you said before you could think. “You’re theatrical, sure. A bit eccentric, definitely dramatic. But you’re being honest with me; an evil person wouldn’t be able to do that. You haven’t tried to hurt me, and you’re not hiding behind a story. That’s more than I can say for a lot of people in that town.” 

You sat in silence for a long, stretching moment, save for the crackle of the fireplace. You sat, studying and staring at each other. You breathed in sync with him, letting yourself relax and truly take him in. The billowy shirt moved against his skin smoothly, the ruffled front rising and falling slightly with each breath, his long legs clad in perfectly fitting black wool slacks. You wondered if he dressed like this all the time, or if he felt you approaching and put on his most gothic, romance-novel-inspired outfit. You wondered what that meant.

“I must admit,” his dark eyes sparkled in the fire as he stood up from his chair. “A dusty library is hardly the proper stage for a proper host. If you truly wish to understand what I am, and what this house is, you deserve the full production.” 

He offered you his hand, long fingers elegant and steady. You hesitated for only a second before placing your palm in his, expecting a chill, but finding his touch surprisingly warm, humming with a faint electric energy. 

“What do I call you?” You asked softly, standing much closer to him than you’d anticipated. 

“You can call me whatever you’d like, sweetheart,” he said, smiling down at you. “But most people call me Maestro. Follow me, little thief,” he purred, leading you out of the library and into the cavernous, vaulted hallways of the estate. He held your hand tightly, leading you carefully through his home. What you didn’t know was that this was the first physical contact he’d had with someone in years. He couldn’t remember the last time someone held his hand, walked alongside him, letting their arms and shoulders brush. He’d taken a risk offering his hand to you; he knew better than to reach out to a stranger. He’d been burned enough in the past. But something about you, the way you refused to shrink away from him, made him want to bring you closer. He wanted you in his space; he wanted to feel your skin against his; he needed to inhale your sweet scent.

As you walked beside him, the intimidating gothic shadows of the manor seemed to soften. The grand portrait gallery wasn’t filled with somber, dead ancestors: instead, as Maestro snapped his fingers, the painted figures inside the gilded frames blinked, smiled, and bowed to you in silent welcome. 

“You see?” Maestro chuckled, squeezing your hand lightly. He gestured to a portrait of an 18th-century cellist who waved her bow at you. “Not monsters. Just my friends. Artists, dreamers, and souls who simply needed a stage where they wouldn’t be judged for being a bit... unconventional. I give them a home where the music never has to stop.” 

He led you up a sweeping double staircase toward a pair of towering mahogany doors. He paused for a moment, looking over the railing at the grand foyer. “The town is afraid of me because they fear what they can’t fit in a neat little box. But the truth is that I manipulate energy, purely for the thrill of creation.” 

Pushing open the heavy doors, he revealed the crown jewel of the manor: a breathtaking, grand ballroom bathed in silver moonlight. Above, an enormous crystal chandelier hung suspended in midair without a chain, glowing with a soft, ethereal blue light. Maestro tried to ignore the way his breath hitched and his pulse raced as you wrapped your free hand around his bicep, holding him close as you looked around in wonder. He turned his head slightly, staring at your side profile as your lips parted in amazement. You didn’t even worry about the cobwebs in the corners; you were taken by the beautiful space and the beautiful creature next to you. 

“And this,” he whispered, his voice echoing softly across the polished parquet floors, “is where the magic happens.” 

“It’s incredible,” you breathed, stepping into the center of the vast room, looking up in awe, but not letting go of his hand until you had stepped out of his reach. You spun around slowly, taking in every detail of the room, the plush chaise lounge up against an intricately decorated wall, antiques from all eras in every corner, striking sculptures and artwork everywhere you looked. You turned to find a large, ornate grand piano just off to the side and stepped toward it, running your hand along the smooth wood. You turned again to find Maestro watching you intently, a warm smile spreading across his face. He stepped to join you again, keeping his hands behind his back. “Do you play?” 

He laughed to himself, bowing his head. “Not really, but I have a friend who does.” He snapped his fingers again and looked up at the window as a translucent person materialized there. The figure floated down to the piano and began to play a sweetly haunting melody, the sound reverberating off the stone walls and sounding amplified. “Do you dance?” He turned to you, searching your face. 

“Not really,” you sighed, looking away in embarrassment. You thought about lying to him, but decided against it, knowing how honest he’d been with you. “Never been asked,” you kept your gaze from him, instead watching the keys of the piano move as if they were possessed. 

“What?” The sound that left his mouth was incredulous; he absolutely did not believe it. “Beautiful thing like you? Never been swept across the floor?” 

You shrugged, still refusing to look at him. It was bad enough you’d broken into the man’s house; you absolutely could not let him know the effect he’d had on you since the first time he opened his mouth. Your skin didn’t tingle in fear, but in his magnetic pull. Your mouth didn’t dry out with held screams, but with the inability to verbalize how his voice made your lower stomach coil tightly. 

“May I have the honor?” He asked, holding a hand out to you. You noticed how he trembled slightly, the look in his eyes full of prayer. When you finally turned to look at him fully, you saw the silent question cross his face. Please? 

You placed your hand lightly in his and allowed him to walk you to the middle of the floor, your hands held high between your bodies. You wondered how old Maestro was; his mannerisms reminded you of Regency-era novels. He stopped gently, turning to face you and wrapping his free arm around your waist, his fingers brushing lightly along your spine. You placed your hand on his shoulder, staring up at him with wide eyes, your brows knit together, trying to understand the gentleness in his actions. His feet began to move, finding the beat easily and leading you around the floor in a beautiful dance. You kept your eyes locked on his, as did he, memorizing every inch of each other. 

“They talk about you like you’re some kind of terrifying creature who hides in the dark. But this isn’t terrifying at all, Maestro. It’s astonishing,” you breathed, just barely audible over the music. 

The playful smirk he’d worn almost all night melted away, replaced by a look of quiet, profound wonder. He watched you take in his world as he held you close, drifting around the floor like a professional. 

“You really mean that,” he said softly, searching your eyes with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Most people run before they ever look past the shadows. They see the magic and call it a curse. But you walked right in,” he breathed in wonder. “You trusted me. You listened, you looked, you didn’t judge.” 

“You’re easy to trust.” 

A rich, genuine warmth blossomed across his features. He pulled you even closer, until you were chest to chest, your faces mere inches from each other. You could feel the intoxicating heat radiating from his body, and wondered when he began to shake in your arms. 

“You are remarkable,” he breathed, his breath fanning across your cheeks, sweet and minty. His voice came out lower than before, dropping into something dark and hypnotic. “I am extraordinarily glad you picked my window to break into tonight.” 

You held your breath, taking him in, trying to memorize the moment. Moving agonizingly slowly, Maestro placed your other hand on his shoulder, using his now-free hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone. His touch was so light it felt almost like a breath of wind. His breathing became shallow, his anxiety bubbling to the surface. He worried you would disappear from his grip if he pushed you too hard, if he went too far. 

“I can’t remember the last time someone stood this close to me,” he whispered, his dark eyes wide and tender as he studied you. “Without fear. Without running.” 

His hand trembled just a fraction, a quiet crack in his suave facade that revealed a deep, aching loneliness. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, until his forehead rested gently against yours. A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he simply took in the feeling of another person willingly sharing his space. 

“You smell like rain and life,” his voice was thick with emotion. “Please... tell me I’m not dreaming.” 

“You’re not,” you replied softly, your hands resting at the nape of his neck, gently stroking his dark curls. They wove softly through your fingers, and if you hadn’t been paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed how his knees almost buckled at the feeling. That small, voluntary point of contact sent a jolt through his body. Maestro let out a soft, helpless sigh, capturing your lips in a kiss that was impossibly gentle. His hand traveled from your face to your waist, where he held you softly, but pulled you even closer to his body, if that was even possible. He savored you, desperate and sweet, as if he were a dying man tasting water for the first time in centuries. Involuntarily, his hands came back to your face, long fingers tracing your jawline, your neck, drinking in the soft skin with a reverent passion. His hands trailed down your chest, but he stopped himself just as he reached the soft tissue of your breasts. He pulled back with a gasp, but you held him close. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, his face twisted up, expecting you to leave. 

“Don’t be,” you kissed him again, pulling him back into your body. He groaned into the kiss, turning it heavy and breathless as his need took over. His hands roamed down to your waist, pulling you into his chest so you could feel the wild rhythm of his supernatural heart. He couldn’t stop touching you; every stroke of his hands over your back and hips was greedy yet impossibly tender, desperate to map every inch of you. 

“So brave,” he purred against your lips, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your top, his palm pressing flat against your skin. You sighed into his mouth as his fingers stroked up your ribcage, his touch gentle but needy. “Let me have you. Please.” 

You nodded, moaning a desperate agreement into his mouth. He guided you gently back toward the grand piano; you hadn’t realized the music had stopped, leaving you completely alone with him in his expansive ballroom. With effortless strength, he lifted you up, seating you directly on the smooth, dark wood of the piano casing. He stepped between your knees, your skirt riding slightly up your thighs. Your fingers worked quickly at the buttons of his shirt, your hands sliding over the soft skin as soon as it was exposed to you, drawing a gasp from him and a gentle nibble of your bottom lip. His hands slid up and down your legs as his head dropped to the crook of your neck, peppering feverish kisses down to your collarbone. 

“Feel what you’ve done to me,” he whimpered softly into your skin, taking one of your hands from his chest and guiding it down to the front of his slacks. 

Underneath the fine fabric, he was insanely hard, throbbing against your touch. Moving instinctively, your fingers unbuckled his belt, opened his zipper, and slipped your hand inside, wrapping around his bare, heavy length. His teeth grazed your neck as you began to stroke him, causing him to throw his head back in a breathless, dramatic groan, his hips involuntarily thrusting into your palm. 

“Yes, please. Just like that,” he pleaded, his voice a husky hum as you felt the slick heat swell in your grip. “Don’t stop,” he sighed, dropping his head back to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. “It’s been so long.” 

While your hand drove him to the edge of his composure, Maestro’s hands worked quickly, stripping away the barrier of your top and pushing your skirt up to your waist until your bare skin sat against the piano. He slipped two fingers under the damp lace covering your dripping core, groaning as he felt how wet you were, knowing he’d had a hand in it. The knowledge drove him crazy; it’d been decades since he’d been desired. He’d begun to wonder if anyone would ever want him again. He found your slick center with effortless precision, sliding a finger inside of you with a deep, contented sigh that vibrated your entire body. He captured your lips again as your hips arched into his touch, kissing you deeply. He stroked you in a hypnotic rhythm, his thumb working in perfect circles over your clit. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his dark eyes glowing with adoration as he watched you unravel in his hands. Driven wild by the friction of your palm around his shaft and the desperate, slick heat of your body, Maestro pulled his fingers free and slid them into his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. “So sweet,” he breathed. 

“I need you,” you sighed, dragging his lips back to yours, tasting yourself. 

“I need to taste you first, baby. Please,” he started begging, his pupils blown wide, his gaze fierce and deeply emotional. “Please, it’s been so long. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.” He crashed his mouth into yours, using his body weight to lay you down onto the cool, polished wood. He kissed down your body, one large hand splayed across your stomach to keep you laid flat as he dropped to his knees. He placed his shoulders right under your legs, your thighs encasing his face, and a low, gravelly moan escaped his throat as he finally got to look at you in all your glory. “Gorgeous,” he whispered, placing soft kisses against your knees and inner thighs. 

His dark eyes looked up at you through thick lashes, completely desperate. He buried his face between your legs with a sigh. A loud, startled gasp ripped from your throat as his tongue made its first broad, hot stroke over your hot core. Maestro worked you like a man possessed, licking and sucking deeply, reverent and relentless. He drank you in with greedy groans, his dark hair brushing against your skin as he coaxed sweet sounds from your lips. 

You cried his name, the sound bouncing off his ballroom walls, your hands flying to tangle in his curls, gripping him tightly as he flattened his tongue and lapped at you with a wild, hungry rhythm. 

“Yes, darling,” he murmured against your wet skin, the vibration of his voice sending a violent shock through your entire body. “Give it all to me. Melt for me, fall apart.” 

He swirled his tongue around your sensitive clit while slipping a finger deep inside you, mirroring the feverish pace of his mouth. It only took one curl of his slender finger for the sensory overload to shatter you. Your hips bucked relentlessly into his mouth, your back arching off of the piano as you cried his name, completely coming apart on his lips. He swallowed every drop of your release, letting out a deep hum of satisfaction. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes burning with adoration as he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back up to meet his lips. 

As he kissed you intensely, wiping tears of pleasure as they fell from your eyes, he aligned himself with your entrance. You cried out as his tip slid against your throbbing clit. He pulled back, studying your face for any glimpse of pain or regret. He didn’t find any. 

“Together,” he whispered softly before pushing into you with one smooth, unyielding thrust. 

The sensation was overwhelming, a complete fullness that made you gasp, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. Maestro let out a low moan, burying his face in your shoulder as he began to move. With every deep slide of his hips, your intermingled voices filled the cavernous ballroom with a breathless, wild melody. He held you like you were precious, his touch starved yet protective, driving you both higher and higher with every relentless stroke until the world shrank down to nothing but the way he felt against your skin. 

He began to shake in your arms again as he took your lips again, whimpering loudly against them. A string of “Yes. Thank you. You’re perfect. So good for me. Thank you.” was whispered against your mouth as he reached the edge. You knew he’d want to give you the option, ask you where you wanted him to finish, but you were lost in the trance of him. Your legs locked around his waist, keeping him exactly where you wanted him as his cock began to twitch inside of you. The warm feeling of him spilling inside you earned another deep moan from your throat as you took his bottom lip between your teeth and pulled. 

The final harmony of your voices faded into the moonlit arches of the ballroom as you collapsed into each other’s arms, Maestro holding your waist tightly, your arms wrapped around his neck. You listened to the steady beat of his heart as the cool night air gradually restored your senses. He held you with a gentle, worshipful grip, his fingers trailing mindlessly down your spine as if still convincing himself you were real. 

“I suppose,” he mumbled softly into your hair, his voice tinged with a quiet humor, “your little friends are wondering where their souvenir is.” 

You let out a soft laugh, sitting up straight and staring at him, his face slack with pleasure as he stared at you like you’d hung the moon. “I completely forgot about them.” 

“Good,” he said, a wicked, triumphant smirk gracing his lips. You reached up, smoothing his dark curls from where your grip had ruffled them. He stepped back just enough to remove himself from you and helped you slip your top over your head, his long fingers lingering over your swollen core as he replaced your panties from where he’d pulled them to the side. You gasped at the contact, overly sensitive from the wild encounter. He smiled again, finding your eyes and stepping closer to kiss you again. “Dreadful little people anyway. They lack all appreciation for the arts.” 

Glancing toward the grand arched windows, you saw the very first violet hues of dawn beginning to streak across the eastern horizon. The class reunion, the silly dare, the lingering anxieties of the teenager you used to be; all of it felt miles away, completely eclipsed by the magic of the manor and the man standing before you. His hands found your waist again, like he was terrified to let you walk out of his home. But he knew he had to. 

He removed one hand from your body to reach into his pocket, withdrawing an ornate key on a chain. He took your hand, placing the cool metal into your palm, before wrapping his long fingers over yours. 

“Take it,” he whispered, his dark eyes sparkling with profound warmth. “It’s better than the music box. It’s original to the house. Consider it a gift from the host. Go back down that hill, show it to them, and let them wonder for the rest of their mundane lives what truly happened up here.” 

You drew his lips back to yours again, a slight devastation settling in your chest; you should have known this would be temporary. “And if I want to come back?” 

A dazzling smile spread slowly across Maestro’s face, the theatrical persona vanishing entirely, leaving behind only the open, touch-starved artist who’d bared his soul to you. He took your hand and pressed a sweet kiss to your knuckles. 

“The doors of this manor will never be locked to you, my darling,” he promised softly. “Whenever the world gets too quiet... come back. We still have an entire symphony to write.” 

He walked you to the door, taking you by the waist and kissing you deeply one last time, making your back arch as he dipped you down, reminiscent of one of the romantic gothic paintings that hung on his wall. Leaving the manor through the front doors this time, you walked down the winding driveway as the sun broke over the treetops. The morning air was crisp, but a deep golden warmth stayed settled in your chest. You hadn’t proven anything to anyone other than yourself, and you found an amazing experience on the other side. 

When you pushed open the door of the local diner, the bell announcing your arrival, you found your classmates sitting in a back booth, looking exhausted and weary. They froze as you approached them, their eyes darting from your calm face to the key you dangled in front of them. With a triumphant smile, you slid the chain over your neck, letting the key settle on your chest. The one who’d started this whole thing, the track star, searched your face for any sign of terror, tears, or panic. 

You didn’t say a word; you simply squeezed yourself into the crowded booth and met his eyes with a knowing smirk. “Can I get a cup of coffee, please?”

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The night before had been stupid. A dumb, spiraling argument about basically nothing, some missed phone calls, a wrong tone of voice… it was all very juvenile. You knew you were being petty and he had to record late with his brothers for the band.

You’d slept back-to-back in the big bed in Michael’s room at Hayvenhurst, a canyon of cold sheets between you.

The morning light was soft and forgiving, but the silence between you was thick enough to choke on. He was shirtless, on his side, staring at the wall, the smooth plane of his back tense. You were miserable, pretending to sleep, your body aching from last night’s hurt.

His voice, when it finally came, was a quiet rasp against the quiet. “You awake?”

“Uh huh.”

“I wanna ask you somethin’. Somethin’… dirty.”

You lifted your head. He still wasn’t looking at you. “What?”

He turned, and the first thing you saw was the raw, hungry want in his eyes, eclipsing the tiredness from the fight. “I want you to choke me,” he said, the words dropping into the room like stones. “With your hands. ‘Til I can’t breathe right.”

The cold stone of dread dropped straight through your gut. “Mike, what? No. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“I ain’t lost my mind, baby,” he murmured, his accent thickening, softening the edge of the request. “I’m just in a mood. A real filthy mood. Been thinkin’ ‘bout your hands on me all night. Please. Just wanna try it.”

“This is insane. After last night? This is how you wanna fix things?” Your voice was rising, disbelief curdling into something hotter.

He shifted onto his back. One hand slid down, palming himself firmly through his thin cotton shorts. You saw the immediate, thick swell, the fabric straining over the solid outline of his cock. He rubbed slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on yours. The blatant hard-on against his soft plea sent a jolt through you.

“It ain’t ‘bout fixin’ last night,” he whispered, his voice husky. “It’s ‘bout right now. I need to feel somethin’ else. Please. I’m so hard it hurts. I’m achin’ for it.”

All night. While you’d lain there fuming, he’d been fantasizing about this. The fight had curdled into this. The please, the sight of his hand moving—it hooked into you, sharp and deep. The anger twisted, morphing into a dark, collaborative thrill.

A shaky breath left you. “Fine. This is really sick, y’know? I will do it but I want you to know that,”

You pushed the covers back and climbed onto your knees on the mattress between his long legs. He watched you, those dark eyes innocent and hungry all at once. As you settled, your knee buckled, slipping and jabbing squarely into his balls.

He didn’t flinch. A choked, guttural sound escaped him, his eyes rolling back in pure, stunned pleasure. “Fuck,” he gasped, a shaky, delirious smile on his lips.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, horrified. “You like that?”

In answer, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shoved pants and briefs down to his thighs. He was completely naked now.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the foreskin pulled back just enough to show the wet, dark-pink head, a bead of pre-come already glistening at the slit. He was bare, vulnerable, and utterly wanting.

“Do it,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t be gentle. I can take it.”

Your heart hammered. You leaned forward, bracing one hand on the headboard, the other coming to his warm neck. You squeezed. His pulse fluttered like a frantic bird against your palm.

“Harder,” he whispered, his voice already strained.

You tightened your grip, your fingers digging into the sides of his neck. You could see the muscles cord under his skin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow. His free hand wrapped around your wrist, holding you there.

Then his other hand wrapped around his cock. He gave one long, rough stroke, the loose sheath of his foreskin sliding smoothly over the glistening head.

A hiss of pleasure escaped his constricted airway. Then he began to pump, a fast, wet, brutal rhythm, his focus entirely on that slick, repetitive motion—pulling the skin up tight over the sensitive crown, then dragging it back down, the swollen head emerging slick and dark each time.

His face transformed. His brows drew together. His lips, spit-slick, parted on ragged gasps. His curls were damp with sweat. His eyes, already big, seemed to bulge slightly with the pressure. A wet, desperate gurgle vibrated against your palm. “Yes… yes…”

Kneeling over him, crushing his throat while he worked his own cock with an unhinged focus; the heat of it was undeniable. You couldn’t look away from the way his abs clenched and rippled under his smooth skin, the way his hips jerked up to meet his fist. A slick, hot pulse of your own arousal dripped into your panties, soaking the cotton.

But a wave of panic hit when his lips started to quiver, his eyes glazing over.

“I can’t— I can’t do this anymore,” you gasped, loosening your grip.

The sudden air made him cough, but his hand never stopped. “No—keep doin’ it,” he choked out, voice ragged. “Grab my balls. Squeeze ‘em ‘til it hurts. Please.”

“Michael, what the fuck is going on here? This is insane—!” Your voice rose to a frantic yelp.

His hand—the one not frantically milking his foreskin—flew up and clamped over your mouth. His palm was damp. “Hush,” he breathed, a strained, desperate command. “Walls are thin. Randy’ll hear. Now please… do it for me. I’m achin’ for it. Wanna come like this so bad.”

The plea, the fear of getting caught, the sheer neediness;it shattered your panic briefly. You moved your free hand down, your face a grimace of disgust and dark excitement. You cupped the tight, hot weight of his balls and squeezed. Hard.

A muffled, strangled moan vibrated against his hand on your mouth. His eyes rolled back. His hips bucked wildly.

“ahhh— shi—Talk to me,” he gurgled, the words barely audible. “Tell me what you really think. Call me names.”

You tightened your hand around his throat again, cutting off his air, almost completely. The look on your face was pure contempt, and he was drinking it in, his cock leaking profusely over his thumb.

“You’re pathetic,” you hissed, the venom feeling a little too real. “Look at you. Begging to be hurt. Getting off on it.”

He gurgled, a sound of pure ecstasy. His babbling began, broken and wet and genuinely distorted from his airway being crushed. “Mmm… love it… love you callin’ me pathetic… love you usin’ me… ugh, baby, yes… s’so good…”

You were drowning—in guilt, in horror, in a sick, slick thrill. His complete surrender, the filthy praise of your disgust… you couldn’t take it. You ripped your hand from his throat. “I’m done!”

The rush of air into his lungs was a raw, wheezing gasp. Then it burst out in a broken, delirious babble. “Ohgod—yes—I’m comin’!”

The sudden oxygen, the release, the dizzying pace of his own hand; it was the final trigger. His body slammed back against the headboard with a loud CRACK. His back arched violently, every muscle seizing. A raw, shattered cry was torn from him as he came, tears streaming from his squeezed-shut eyes.

Thick, pearlescent ropes shot across his clenched stomach and heaving chest, some spattering as high as his collarbones. His hand kept working, guiding himself through the brutal, pulsing waves, his whole body convulsing. His other hand flew to his own throat, fingers pressing into the red marks you’d left.

He slumped forward, then back, his breath a ragged, wet symphony of coughs and sobbing moans, riding out the aftershocks. Spent, trembling, covered in his own release, he looked utterly wrecked. The morning sun glinted off the mess on his skin and the shattered peace on his face.

You knew he’d want this again. You didn’t know if you could stomach it.

But your panties were soaked through, and a dark, guilty throb had started between your legs. You knew the second those puppy dog eyes looked at you and begged that you would succumb.

For him, anything goes.

⭒ 〔 © urbanfunkchild 〕

the air in your bedroom was a delicate blend of scents and sensations, alive with the hush of the night. a soft hint of lavender drifted from the sachet beneath your pillow, its floral warmth mellowed by the heat of your body, mingling with the earthy breath of a summer evening that seeped through the cracked window. the faint chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves carried on a gentle breeze, a quiet murmur from the world beyond.

the cream curtains, laced with threads of gold like rays of dawn, swayed softly, their edges curling as if drawn to the closeness unfolding within. each sway was a whisper, the fabric catching slivers of moonlight that spilled across the hardwood floor in pale, shifting patches, casting shadows that moved like echoes of forgotten moments. the house itself seemed to breathe, its wooden frame creaking gently, a chorus of sighs that spoke of years—of joy and sorrow, of quiet days and sleepless nights—woven into its walls like the pages of a cherished journal.

your bed, nestled against the wall beneath a ceiling painted with a scattering of stars, was a haven, a sacred corner where the world’s noise faded, leaving only the rhythm of your own pulse and the dreams that bloomed in the stillness of midnight. the mattress, softened by years of use, sank slightly under your weight, its springs offering a faint, familiar groan as you shifted. the sheets, a pale blue that recalled the boundless stretch of a summer day, were worn to a velvety softness, their fibers carrying the clean, cottony scent of your laundry soap, a comforting warmth that anchored you.

the pillow beneath your head was slightly uneven, its quirks as known to you as the curves of your own hand, and it cradled your head with a gentleness that felt like home. above, the painted stars glowed faintly, their hand-drawn light a silent observer of the moments you’d spent here—reading late into the night, whispering hopes to the dark, and now, sharing this tender, electric closeness with michael.

convincing your parents to allow him to stay over had been a careful endeavor, a delicate navigation through a maze of rules and expectations. their trust was a stronghold, its boundaries forged from years of watchfulness, and earning it demanded a steady stream of reassurances—closed doors, separate spaces, the vow of innocence delivered with a calm voice, even as your heart raced with the promise of this night. you’d spent weeks building the foundation, each conversation a step toward this moment.

their agreement had come with keen-eyed conditions, their looks heavy with unspoken cautions, but now, here he was, his presence a warm, vital weight beside you in the dim glow of your room. the clock on your nightstand blinked 1:17 a.m., its soft red digits casting a ruby sheen across the polished wood, a quiet guardian in a world that felt like it belonged only to the two of you.

michael lay on his side, his voluminous afro a dark crown against the pale pillowcase, each tight curl a perfect spiral that caught the moonlight in glints of silver and shadow. his hair was a cascade of softness, framing his face like a halo, its edges blending into the room’s darkness. his deep brown eyes held a gentle intensity, their depths shimmering with a warmth that softened the boyish curve of his cheeks, as if he were gazing at a mystery he yearned to understand.

a silver chain rested against his neck, its delicate links catching the light just once, a subtle gleam that drew your eye to the pulse beating steadily beneath his skin. his worn white t-shirt, faded from countless washes, clung to his lean frame in a way that made your breath catch, the fabric soft and slightly stretched at the shoulders, carrying the faint scent of his soap—clean and cedar-warmed, grounding and familiar. his hand rested lightly on your hip, fingers brushing the hem of your sleep shirt, their warmth seeping through the thin cotton, the pads of his fingers slightly rough from hours spent writing in his notebook.

you were curled toward him, your knees tucked up, your breaths shallow in the quiet. the house was asleep, its distant snores and creaks cloaking the halls, but the weight of unseen listeners pressed against your chest, a reminder of the boundaries that lingered even in this private hour. you wanted to be loud, to let your love for him spill out in gasps and cries that would echo through the night, but tonight demanded whispers, fleeting touches, and a restraint that made every sensation burn brighter, like a spark held close to dry wood.

the sheets beneath you were cool against your skin, their pale blue a soft contrast to the heat of your body, and the pillow’s faint scent of your shampoo—something floral and light—mingled with the warmth of michael’s presence, creating a cocoon of closeness that felt both fragile and timeless.

“baby,” michael murmured, his voice a soft thread, barely stirring the air, yet it resonated in your bones like a gentle hum. his fingers traced higher, skimming the bare skin of your thigh, leaving a trail of warmth that tingled beneath his touch. his eyes searched yours, earnest and tinged with a nervous energy that made your heart ache, their brown depths catching the moonlight in flecks of amber. “can i… touch you? please?”

the question was a ritual, a sacred pause that sent your pulse racing, a testament to his care, his need to ensure you were as much a part of this as he was. he asked every time, as if your body were a temple and he a seeker requesting entry, his voice a quiet plea in the dark. you nodded, your lips parting on a shaky exhale, the sound barely audible against the creak of the house, and shifted onto your back, letting the sheets slide down your legs with a soft rustle.

the cotton was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand as it followed the curve of your thigh, coaxing your legs apart with a gentleness that felt like a caress, his touch a whisper against your skin.

your knees knocked together, a reflex born of anticipation and nerves, the faint tremble in your limbs a quiet admission of how much you wanted this. michael smiled, a soft, radiant thing that made your chest ache, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light, the curve of his lips a promise of tenderness. “it’s okay,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, the motion a soothing rhythm that calmed the frantic beat of your heart. “just wanna feel you, love. just you.”

the words wrapped around you like a warm breeze, their rhythm a melody that eased you into a state of surrender, and you felt your body relax, your legs parting further under his touch. he moved with reverence, his fingers brushing the hem of your sleep shirt, a loose, oversized thing that hung past your hips, its fabric soft and slightly frayed at the edges. he paused, his eyes flickering to yours, seeking permission once more, and when you nodded again, a faint smile tugging at your lips, he lifted the shirt slowly, peeling it up and over your head.

the cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps across your chest, and he tossed the shirt onto the floor without a care.

his hands returned to you, warm and steady, and he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, a simple cotton pair in a soft lavender that matched the sachet’s scent. the fabric was thin, slightly worn, and it clung to your hips with a comforting familiarity. he tugged gently, sliding them down your thighs, past your knees, until they pooled at your ankles. you kicked them off, the motion a quiet rustle in the stillness, and they landed in a soft heap at the foot of the bed, a small, intimate detail in the fabric of the night.

you were bare now, vulnerable and open, and the weight of his gaze was a warm embrace, wrapping you in awe and devotion.

michael shifted, positioning you with a gentle touch, guiding your knees up and apart until you were spread before him, the vulnerability making your heart race. “hold your legs back, love,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, the words both a request and a caress. you complied, gripping the backs of your thighs, your fingers sinking into the soft flesh, the effort making your muscles tremble faintly. the position opened you fully to him, your core exposed to the cool air and the heat of his gaze, and you felt a flush creep up your chest, warming your cheeks.

his eyes softened, their brown depths shimmering with wonder, and he exhaled slowly, his breath a warm puff against your skin.

“you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with awe, the sound a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. he lowered himself, settling between your thighs, his shoulders brushing the insides of your knees, the contact grounding and electric. his curls grazed your skin, soft and ticklish, as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your core, a prelude to the closeness to come.

he pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, his lips warm and slightly chapped, the sensation a quiet spark that made your breath hitch. another kiss followed, higher, closer, his mouth tracing a slow path toward your center, each press of his lips a whisper of devotion. when his mouth finally found you, the first touch was a deep, hungry kiss, his lips pressing firmly against your folds, the sensation a slow bloom of heat that spread from your core to the tips of your toes.

he didn’t hold back, his mouth moving with a fervent intensity, kissing your core like he would your lips, deep and possessive, his tongue darting out to taste the slickness that gathered there.

he sucked gently, his lips closing around your folds, pulling softly, the wet sound a quiet melody in the stillness, mingling with the creak of the house. his tongue followed, licking in broad, slow strokes, parting you to explore every curve, every sensitive inch, as if committing you to memory. the wet warmth of his mouth was a contrast to the cool air, and you felt every detail—the soft press of his lips, the faint graze of his teeth, the way his tongue flicked lightly, teasing and reverent.

he pulled back slightly, his eyes flickering up to meet yours, dark with hunger, and let a slow, deliberate drop of spit fall from his lips, landing on your clit, the warm, slick sensation making you gasp, your fingers tightening on your thighs.

“you taste so good,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural hum, the words vibrating against your skin as he dove back in. he licked through the wetness he’d added, his tongue swirling around your clit, spreading the slickness in messy, deliberate circles. he sucked harder, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, pulling with a rhythmic pressure that sent sparks through you, your vision blurring at the edges.

his tongue flicked rapidly, a relentless tease, then flattened, dragging slowly, the pressure perfect and maddening. he spat again, the act raw and intimate, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance, and he lapped it up, his tongue diving deeper, probing, tasting you with a hunger that felt almost primal.

his hands rested on your thighs, steadying you, his fingers sinking slightly into the soft flesh. his tongue swirled around your clit, teasing and sucking, his lips brushing against you as he whispered, “you’re so perfect, baby.” his fingers found their way to your entrance, circling slowly before slipping inside, curling to find that spot that made you gasp. the combination of his tongue and fingers was overwhelming, your body trembling as he worked you with expert precision.

he pulled back slightly, his lips glistening, and spat again, the slickness adding to the intensity as he dove back in, sucking harder, his tongue flicking in a relentless rhythm. he kissed you deeply, his lips pressing against your entrance, tongue dipping inside, tasting you with a fervor that made your head spin. the sounds were wet, unrestrained, a secret shared in the stillness, amplifying the intimacy of the moment.

he shifted slightly, one hand leaving your thigh to trace the edge of your entrance, his fingers warm and slightly rough. he paused, his eyes flickering up to meet yours, seeking permission in the dim light, and when you nodded, a faint whimper escaping your lips, he slipped a finger inside, slow and deliberate. the stretch was gentle, a quiet ache that felt both foreign and achingly perfect, his long finger filling you with a warmth that made your breath catch.

he moved it slowly, in and out, the slick glide amplified by the wetness of his spit and your arousal, and you felt every inch—the slight curve of his knuckle, the faint roughness of his fingertip, the way he curled it slightly, searching for the spot that made you tremble.

when he found it, a soft press against a sensitive ridge, you gasped, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, your voice a fragile whisper in the stillness. “right there, michael,” you breathed, the words a desperate plea, barely audible against the creak of the house. his eyes lit up, a spark of pride in their depths, the brown of his irises glowing with a quiet triumph. he curled his finger again, pressing harder, the motion a deliberate spark that sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, and added a second finger, the stretch fuller, deeper, a quiet ache that only heightened the bliss.

“you’re so wet,” he murmured, his voice a low hymn, the words a prayer against the silence of the night, rough with awe and hunger. his mouth returned to your clit, sucking hard, his lips sealing around it, pulling with a pressure that made your vision blur, his tongue flicking rapidly, teasing the sensitive bud. his fingers rocked in and out, the wet sounds loud in the stillness, a secret symphony that filled the space between you, amplified by the slickness he’d added.

he spat again, the warm wetness landing at your entrance, and he worked it in with his fingers, the glide smooth and relentless, curling against that sensitive spot with a precision that felt almost unfair, a rhythm that seemed to know your body better than you did.

the pleasure was a living thing, a force that clawed at your insides, demanding release, its grip fierce and unyielding. his mouth was relentless, kissing and sucking, spitting and licking, each movement a stroke of ecstasy, painting pleasure in shades of heat and shadow behind your closed eyelids. your thighs trembled, knees brushing together in a futile attempt to ground yourself, and he cooed softly, his lips grazing your inner thigh, the warmth of his breath a contrast to the cool air.

“shh, love,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “gotta be quiet for me, yeah? just let me take care of you.”

you nodded, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you fought to keep silent, the effort a delicious torment that made your throat ache with the need to cry out. every sound you swallowed amplified the pleasure, a coil winding tighter with each lick, each thrust, each wet kiss of his mouth. his fingers pressed deeper, curling against that sensitive spot, his mouth a chaotic dance of hunger and reverence, sucking and spitting, licking and kissing, the slickness a testament to his fervor.

your walls fluttered around his fingers, drawing him deeper, a quiet pull that felt like a current, and he exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his curls tickling your thighs as he moved.

“you look so beautiful like this,” he whispered, his voice a reverent hum against your core, the words a soft vibration that sent a shiver down your spine. he pressed a messy kiss there, lips smearing the slickness, then another, his breath warm and unsteady. “love watching you, sweetheart. love tasting you.” his words were a balm, each one a thread that wove you tighter into the fabric of the moment, a weave of moonlight and whispers, of wet touches and shared breaths.

your hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white as you fought to stay quiet, the effort making your muscles taut, your body a bowstring drawn tight. the pleasure was a flood, rising and falling, each wave stronger than the last, a relentless force that threatened to sweep you away. you felt it in the tightening of your core, the way your walls gripped his fingers, a desperate cling that drew him deeper, the way your thighs shook as you held them back, your fingers sinking into the soft flesh.

his touch was a language, speaking of care and hunger, of a boy who wanted to know every inch of you, to memorize the way you moved and sighed, to etch your pleasure into his memory like a melody.

“michael,” you whimpered, your voice barely audible, a plea and a prayer, the sound a fragile thing in the stillness. your hips rocked against his mouth, chasing the edge that loomed so close, a precipice you were desperate to leap from, and he hummed again, the vibration a spark that ignited the fire within you. “i got you, baby,” he murmured, his voice a velvet promise, the words a lifeline in the storm of your desire.

he curled his fingers harder, the motion a deliberate press that sent a jolt through you, and his mouth pressed firmly against your clit, sucking hard, spitting once more, the slickness smeared by his tongue in tight, wet circles, each one a spark that built the blaze.

the sensation was a lightning bolt, sharp and all-consuming, and you felt yourself tip over, your body shattering into a thousand shimmering fragments, a galaxy of light that rivaled the stars painted on your ceiling. you came with a muffled cry, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle the sound, your walls pulsing around his fingers in a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat, a frantic drum that echoed in your chest.

the pleasure was blinding, a wave that crashed and receded only to crash again, each aftershock drawn out by the slow, deliberate movements of his mouth, a gentle coaxing that prolonged the bliss. michael didn’t stop, his fingers rocking gently, his tongue easing its pressure but never stilling, licking softly through the slickness, coaxing every last tremor from your body, each one a ripple in the wake of the storm.

he kissed you through it, his lips soft and hungry against your core, swallowing the quiet moans that slipped past your restraint, his breath mingling with the slickness of your arousal. his breath was ragged, a mirror to your own, and you felt the tremor in his hand, the way he was as affected by this as you were, his heart racing beneath the fabric of his shirt. “so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion, the words a quiet confession of his awe. “you feel so good, mama.”

the words sank into you, heavy and warm, a balm to the raw edges of your pleasure, and you felt the afterglow wrap around you like a soft blanket, a gentle cocoon of warmth and contentment. your body was a map of sensations—the lingering pulse between your thighs, a faint throb that echoed the rhythm of your climax, the faint ache in your fingers from gripping your thighs, the warmth of his breath against your skin.

michael eased his fingers out, the loss making you whimper softly, a quiet protest against the emptiness, and his knuckles glistened in the moonlight, a quiet testament to the intimacy you’d shared, the slickness a badge of your surrender.

he sat up slightly, his movements slow and deliberate, and tugged at the waistband of his pajama pants, a soft, checkered pair in shades of navy and gray that hung low on his hips. the fabric was worn, slightly frayed at the hem, and it slid down his thighs with a soft rustle, pooling at his knees. his erection sprang free, hard and ready, a study in contrasts—the hardness of his arousal against the softness of his skin, the vulnerability in his eyes against the quiet strength of his frame—and you felt a surge of tenderness as you took in the sight of him, the moonlight casting shadows across his skin, highlighting the curve of his length, the faint pulse beneath.

he didn’t move to change your position, instead settling back between your thighs, his hands guiding your legs to stay open, your fingers still gripping the backs of your thighs as you held them back. “stay like this, m'kay?” he requested, his voice a low rumble, the words a caress that sent a shiver through you. he aligned himself, the tip of him brushing against your entrance, warm and slick with your arousal, and paused, his eyes searching yours, seeking that final permission.

you nodded, your lips parting on a shaky exhale, and he entered you slowly, a deep, deliberate thrust that filled you completely, the stretch a quiet ache that made your toes curl.

his movements were unhurried, each thrust slow but profound, reaching depths that drew soft gasps from your lips. the sensation was a tide, rising with each measured stroke, his rhythm a language of care and hunger. you felt every inch of him—the slick glide, the faint pulse of his arousal, the way he filled you completely, a fullness that made your heart race. his hands rested on your hips, steady and sure, his fingers sinking slightly into the soft flesh, grounding you in the moment.

the sheets tangled around your knees, their soft blue a comforting weight, and the pillow beneath your head shifted slightly, its uneven familiarity a quiet anchor.

he leaned closer, his lips finding your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses against the sensitive skin, each one a spark that sent shivers down your spine. his breath was warm, his kisses trailing higher, brushing behind your ear, the tender spot making you tremble. “you’re so perfect,” he whispered, his voice a soft murmur against your skin, the words a quiet vow that sank into you, warm and heavy. “love how you feel, baby.” his lips pressed another kiss behind your ear, then returned to your neck, the rhythm of his kisses matching the slow, deep thrusts, each one a stroke of intimacy that wove you closer together.

“feel so good, pretty girl ,” he whispered, his voice rough with awe, his breath warm against your neck as he kissed you again, the sensation a quiet fire that burned alongside the pleasure of his thrusts. his movements were a steady pulse, each one a brush of ecstasy, painting pleasure in shades of warmth and shadow behind your closed eyelids. you rocked your hips to meet him, the motion a quiet dance, your walls gripping him, a desperate cling that drew a soft groan from his lips, the sound a melody in the stillness.

but your moans grew louder, spilling into the silence, too unrestrained for the sleeping house. the sound echoed in your ears, a reckless confession of your pleasure, and michael paused, his gaze darting to the door, his breath hitching. “gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, the warmth of his breath a contrast to the cool air. he shifted, guiding you gently but firmly, flipping you onto your stomach with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “arch for me,” he said, his hands lifting your hips, coaxing your back into a soft curve, the position opening you to him in a new way.

he pressed your face into the pillow, the uneven fabric muffling your cries, its faint scent of lavender and shampoo a quiet comfort. the pillow swallowed your moans, amplifying the sensation of his touch, and he entered you again, his length filling you with a slow, deep thrust that reached deeper than before, the angle a spark that ignited every nerve. his movements were deliberate, each thrust a measured stroke, slow but profound, the rhythm a quiet symphony of intimacy.

his hands gripped your hips, steady and sure, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and you felt the heat of him, the faint pulse of his arousal, the way he moved with a care that spoke of devotion.

he leaned down, his lips finding your neck again, pressing soft kisses against the sensitive skin, each one a quiet spark that sent shivers through you. his breath was warm, his kisses trailing behind your ear, the tender spot making you tremble. “you’re everything,” he whispered, his voice a soft murmur against your skin, the words a quiet promise that sank into you, warm and heavy. “love you so much, baby.” his lips pressed another kiss behind your ear, then returned to your neck, the rhythm of his kisses matching the slow, deep thrusts, each one a stroke of intimacy that wove you closer together.

the pleasure was a wildfire, spreading from your core, and you clutched the sheets, knuckles white as you fought to stay quiet, the effort a delicious torment. his thrusts were a language, speaking of care and hunger, of a boy who wanted to know every inch of you, to memorize the way you moved and sighed. the wet sounds of your bodies were a secret shared beneath the sheets, a quiet melody that filled the space between you, and you felt every detail—the slick glide, the faint ache of the stretch, the way he moved with a care that spoke of devotion.

the pleasure built in waves, crashing against your restraint, each thrust a spark that ignited the blaze, and when you came, it was with a muffled sob, your walls pulsing around him, a frantic rhythm that echoed in your chest. michael felt the tightening, his breath hitching, and he slowed, his thrusts growing shallower, more controlled. he leaned close, his lips brushing your neck, whispering, “i’m close, baby,” his voice a soft tremor against your skin.

with a final, deep thrust, he pulled out, his release spilling across your lower back, warm and fleeting, his groan stifled against your shoulder, the sound a quiet confession of his unraveling.

he eased you down, pulling you into his arms, his chest warm against your back. he pressed a kiss to your hair, his breath unsteady, and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, gently cleaning you up with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “you okay?” he asked, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, soothing and grounding, a quiet dance of touch that spoke of care.

“more than okay,” you whispered, nestling into him, your cheek against the steady thump of his heart, the rhythm a quiet lullaby in the stillness. the stars on the ceiling watched over you, their painted light a witness to the intimacy you’d shared, and the house sighed, its creak a lullaby that sang you into dreams. his arms were a haven, his love a quiet promise, and as sleep claimed you, tangled in blue sheets, you knew this was a moment in a story that would grow richer with every stolen touch, every whisper, every quiet breath in the dark.

( this was from last year but I have new stuff coming! )