Warnings: angst (?) to SMUT, msub, reader portrayed as black, yearning!michael, 18+!
a/n) this is my first oneshot its otw era, be nice please, hope you enjoy.
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Your index and middle finger drum an offbeat rhythm absentmindedly on the cedar dining table, a habit concocted from one of two emotions: anger or anxiety. Tonight? It was a peculiar blend of both. Anger because you had waited for Michael for hours on end; he was supposed to be here by now. This same reason fueled your anxiety as well. What if something bad happened to him on the way to your house?
The nerves expanded into a lump forming at the base of your throat. This would be your first real dinner together in months. He had been relentlessly in the studio, working every hour of the day. The first one in the studio and always the last to leave. You’d barely seen him, almost forgot what he looked like.
Tweety Bird chirped on top of your refrigerator. You were gifted that clock years ago by a close friend who claimed it reminded her of you. You received the gift slightly dusty and cracked on the bottom. She just wanted to get rid of the clock; you knew this. It seemed to become a habit nowadays in your relationships. You always gave more than you received.
You sigh, a huff of air that is both defeated and somewhat sad. That was the third tweet you’d heard thus far. The clock tweeted every hour. Your fingers brush the plate, once hot with food, now cold to the touch. It was now nine o’clock.
Your phone buzzed, and in an instant, you picked it up.
It was a notification from Instagram, a DM from a guy who might actually be present in your life if you gave him a chance. You place the phone back on the table harder than intended, now nipping at the inside of your cheek.
The candlelight you’d set out on the well-prepared table flickers, melted down and on its last breath.
You picked up the phone to call him. His phone didn’t ring.
He must be on Do Not Disturb.
You paused. Your voice came out cracked, fresh hot tears running paths down your cheeks, smearing your makeup. You hadn’t known you’d been crying until now.
“I was wondering if you were coming home anytime soon. I think you forgot about our date. Maybe Quincy’s giving you the work.” You try to tease, try to let out a laugh, but nothing comes. The joke sounds both sad and somehow self-deprecating. “Anyway, call me back. I still want to see you tonight.”
You set the phone back down, your throat working as you bury your head in your hands, sobs hiccuping in your throat.
Another hour rushed by, silence broken only by the sound of your yellow clock. It was now ten-ten. Maybe he didn’t receive your call. Sometimes your phone acted up. The thoughts brushed your mind, forgotten as soon as your phone lit up.
It’s a text from Michael, brief and straightforward.
“Hey, working hard. Be done soon.”
An exhale of relief leaves your barely parted lips. At least he was safe.
You knew this is what came with dating a superstar, but knowing it didn’t cease the pain of missing him.
The sound felt louder this time, taunting almost, as if Tweety Bird himself had been ridiculing you.
You were standing now, the red silk dress growing uncomfortable on your body. An outfit that once made you feel confident as it tugged against your curves now gave you pure irritation. Your heels grew uncomfortable as well, tight against the arch of your foot, a perfect match to the red dress with its draped back.
Jaw tight, working in place.
You weren’t angry anymore.
Eleven-thirty hit, and the door flung open. It had been pouring outside. Michael stood at the entrance, his red knitted sweater drenched, curls drooping down and sticking to his neck and face. He’d forgotten his umbrella by the door. You told him to grab it before he left. He claimed he wouldn’t be out that late. That this would be an early session. That he would be here for dinner.
The wind howled behind him, an augur of a monstrous evening ahead.
He pulled his sweater off, the white tank top beneath clinging to his skin, and slipped his shoes off at the door. His Levi’s protested in a soggy swish as he moved throughout the house, finally noticing you standing near the end of the table.
His gaze softened as he fluttered his lashes, still blinking rain droplets from his vision.
“Y/N…” he sighed, observant eyes missing little.
He caught the pure frustration in your jaw, tight in a way he’d never seen before. The line of tension in your shoulders from sitting in a chair for hours waiting for him to come home. The tear streaks in your makeup that still somehow looked perfect to him.
He walked over to you in a few long strides, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. You caught his wrists before he could place them there, shaking your head definitively.
“I made dinner, Michael. Steak and potatoes.”
His eyes drifted over to the table before your sharp voice caught his attention again, his hands still hovering near your face before falling to his sides.
“I wore your favorite dress, burned candles, took my time picking out music to play, poured drinks, and I was left sitting. Just sitting.”
Michael didn’t interrupt. He just listened, allowing you to express your vexation.
“I really wanted to see you today.”
Your eyes dropped to the floor, voice quieting from both exhaustion and sorrow.
“You said you’d be here.”
Hesitantly, he slid his arms around your waist, sighing as your face settled against his chest, words muffled.
“You haven’t been here for me emotionally or physically, Michael.”
Not only did your heart ache, but your body did too.
“I haven’t felt your touch in so long, I barely remember what it feels like.”
Your confession hangs in the air. You could feel Michael’s stomach clench as he inhaled sharply, a quiet thing expressed so loudly in this moment.
He finally speaks, hands tightening on your waist like you would disappear if they didn’t.
“I’m sorry for not being there for you, mama.”
Slowly, he fell to his knees, eyes never dropping from yours as his hands transitioned from your waist to the curve of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer.
"Please." he murmured. "Let me apologize."
His eyes—those wide, doe-like things—shut as he turned his head, placing the side of his face against your lower stomach. He inhaled your scent, just waiting for a response, content with staying at your feet.
Content with worshipping you.
“Dry off and meet me back here. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”
You wave him off in dismissal despite the warmth running through your chest. You adjust, pulling back from him slightly and pointing toward the bathroom.
He rises slowly, eyes opening again. The orbs usually deemed “innocent” now hooded and filled with promise. Michael almost scurries toward the linen closet before stepping into the bathroom to dry off.
A few minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in a pair of grey sweatpants and a fresh white tank top. Your eyes scan him in a low, predatory stare, hands braced behind you on the table as you lean back.
Once, twice, three times.
Then your eyes stop, landing on his crotch.
He wasn’t wearing any briefs.
His length strained against the grey cotton.
He notices your gaze, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smirk as he tilts his head, feigning innocence.
“I love when you look at me like that.”
You mirror his expression, urging him closer with a crook of your index finger.
He finds his position, sinking back down to his knees and looking up at you through his eyelashes. His hands slowly hike up your dress, settling around your thighs and lifting you effortlessly onto the dining table.
He finally responds, voice a husky whisper.
“Like I’m a piece of meat. Like you desire me.”
His breath hitches as he detects your scent. A mix of arousal and something natural, something all you. He sniffs again, the action animalistic, and lets out a soft whine—the sound sending a shiver over your skin. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if preparing his mouth for what he was about to do.
Michael kisses his way up your thighs, hands holding your hips and pressing you nearer.
“You earn praise, you know that. Give me something to praise you for. So far, you’ve only disappointed me.”
He whines again, the sound softer and more desperate this time. His hands hold the backs of your knees, squeezing tight. His mouth moves to your inner thighs, sucking and nipping at the sable skin there. His plump lips suck harder, leaving marks in their wake.
His fingers slide up your thighs, a trail of fire simmering across your skin. He looks up again with a stare you’d grown to recognize.
You shudder, looking down at him as he parts his lips.
“Mama…” His fingers trace the edge of your thong, a black lace set you’d picked specifically for him prior to him coming home late. “Can I please get a taste? I need it so, so bad.”
Your voice is sharp. He could do better. He could beg better.
He needed to sound like he’d die without it. You trained him that way, relentlessly edging him or depriving him of your body. It made him needy. It made him beg.
So no, this was not him begging.
Michael’s brows knit together as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He looked close to tears. His hands transition to spreading your thighs farther apart, cupping your sex. You were hot and wet beneath his grip.
Another sound leaves his mouth, but this time it is a whimper.
The tear finally falls, running its path down his cheek before hitting the floor.
“I need it, please, fuck…” he sighs shakily, thumb running over your slit.
“You’re so warm and wet. I need to have my mouth on you. I know you taste good. I just know it. You taste better when you’re angry.”
His voice cracks as he continues, gravelly and strained.
“Baby, I’ll make you feel so fuckin’ good if you let me.”
You exhale, hands moving to tangle in his still-damp curls.
His eyes shimmer, a smile spreading across his lips as he pulls down your panties just far enough to expose you.
A sharp inhale leaves your mouth, cool air hitting you, your legs clenching together immediately to shield your bare cunt.
The warmth from your shut legs does not last long.
In an instant, he’s parting your legs again, his tongue falling from his lips as he gives you a few shallow, testing licks. Your fingers tighten in his hair, hips automatically chasing the urgent rhythm he sets.
Taking the motion as a sign, he deepens his pace, pressing long, slow strokes of his tongue against you, his nose brushing smooth sable skin as he adjusts his angle to suck at your clit, fervor seeping through every action.
“You’re doing so good, Michael.”
A few noises escape your lips before you can help it, the sound lost somewhere between a moan and a cry, thighs tightening around the sides of his head.
“You’re such a good boy…”
Michael moans himself, a desperate, weak sound, his hips rolling against the floor, grinding hopelessly against the fabric of his sweats.
He moves one of his hands from your hips, skillful fingers sliding between your thighs, slowly pressing two fingers in simultaneously because he knew you could take it.
You shift, back arching at the new stimulation. You were already so close. It had been so long since you’d had anything like this from Michael, and you forgot how good it felt.
Michael pulls back slightly, noticing the tension in your thighs, his voice hoarse against your skin while his fingers work hastily.
“Cum for me, Ma. Let me feel you…”
Your head falls back, lolling against your shoulders as your orgasm overtakes your body, your frame shuddering beneath his grasp.
Michael rises from his knees, pulling you into a kiss, the taste of you still on his lips.
Despite everything, the kiss is tentative, Michael’s shyness seeping through.
It quickly changes into something deeper—an apology maybe. Or perhaps a declaration of love.
You couldn’t exactly tell, but God, did it feel good.
He pulls back just enough to speak, forehead resting against yours.
“I promise you I won’t ever leave you like this again. Full permission to kill me if I do.”
You both laugh softly, as if laughing too loudly would break the spell of the moment.
He gets ready to pick you up, and you notice the wet spot on the front of his sweats, evidence of his own arousal—untended, but ready and leaking.
He shakes his head, a finger slipping beneath your chin.
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t deserve it. This was all about you. Now let’s get you cleaned up.”
You kiss your teeth, a sound that only makes him laugh again.
“You know I’m gonna make sure you get yours too.”
“I know. You’re so stubborn.”
It was his turn to kiss his teeth, eyes soft with adoration as he reached down to pick you up again.
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