Peaches

~*~*~*~*

TW // degradation, handjob (m receiving), unprotected p in v sex, oral (f receiving), bondage, pet play, (i think that’s it lmk if i missed anything)

The lights are blinding in that way that makes you feel untouchable.

Your fingers curl around the neck of your guitar, the wood warm from the heat of the stage, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your bones. Sweat clings to your spine, your hair sticks to your cheek, and you swear the bass is rattling your heartbeat out of rhythm.

Final leg. Final city. Final night.

And they are losing their damn minds.

You don’t need to look at the front rows to know the signs are there. They always are.

CLOSE THE TOUR WITH A KISS

LITERAL POWER COUPLE

HES IN LOVE WITH YOU Y/N

You pretend not to see them, focusing your energy in adding little riffs that make the fans scream louder.

Michael—per usual—pretends to be annoyed by them. Rolls his eyes, shakes his head, points at the ones that make him laugh.

It’s all part of the bit.

He’s takes the mic off the stand, grinning like he didn’t just spend the last ninety minutes dragging the crowd through every emotion known to man. His hair is damp and clinging to his forehead, eyeliner smudged just enough to look sinful instead of sloppy. Rockstar beautiful. Cocky as hell.

Magnetic in the way you always notice but always ignore.

He tips the mic stand forward, slotting the mic back into it as he leans into the crowd. “Alright, alright,” he laughs, breathless. “You’re gonna make my ego explode if you’re gonna keep screaming like that, Los Angeles.”

The crowd screams louder.

You roll your eyes and adjust the guitar strap on your shoulder. Typical Michael.

He scans the front row, squinting dramatically. “Wait—wait—what’s this?” He reaches down and grabs a neon poster from a fan. Reads it. His brows lift, slow and theatrical.

Then he looks at you.

Oh god, what now?

“ ‘Last night means you gotta play “Say It Again”, right?’ ” he says, voice dripping with faux innocence. He tilts the sign so the crowd can see. The reaction is immediate—pure chaos. People jumping. Phones shaking. The pit practically imploding.

Your stomach flips.

That song.

That reckless, neon-lit love song that lives in the space between almost and already too late. Michael wrote it last year while the band was taking a little break in London. The verses blur the line between confession and provocation. Because who better than Michael to disguise feelings with double entendres and guitar solos.

And oh that fucking solo.

You have only played this song live a couple times. Why? Because it wasn’t written to be played live like this. It makes your hands ache and your pulse race. It’s really hard to nail without drilling it. And of course Michael fucking brings it up now. Mid-performance.

Michael turns fully toward you now, eyes glinting under the lights. “What d’you think?” he asks, sweet as sin. “You wanna steal my show?”

You stare at him, narrowing your eyes. That annoyed little smirk tugging the corners of your mouth. He knows you can’t say no in front of a crowd like this. Fucking damnit.

You step up beside him, mic just close enough to hear your voice. “So you’re admitting they come to hear me now?”

The crowd howls.

He laughs, shaking his head. “See? This is what I deal with every night. One compliment and it goes straight to her head…”

You shake your head and roll your eyes at him. “Oh get over yourself, Clifford.”

He meets your gaze for half a second too long.

Then, softer—just for you—

“Play it then, show-off.”

Your heart stutters.

The lights dim. The opening chords ring out. The crowd doesn’t stop screaming.

They recognize the intro immediately—because of course they do—and the scream levels become deafening when Michael throws a shit-eating grin your way. He struts back toward the center of the stage, mic in hand now, free from the stand, like he owns the world and the stage is just where he lets people watch.

He sings the first verse with that smug, devil-may-care energy he’s famous for—just gravelly enough to drop panties in the nosebleeds. He’s ad-libbing a little, tossing in lazy yeah’s and a couple slurred give it to me’s just to keep the crowd swooning. You see it happen in real time—one wink and a whole row practically falls apart.

You hate how good he is at this.

Your fingers are already locked into the rhythm, muscle memory taking over as you keep one eye on the fretboard and the other on the chaos. He commands the attention, but they know this song is yours. They’re waiting for your solo. You can feel it building like thunder behind the lyrics.

Still, Michael’s eating it up.

He’s circling the stage now, loose and confident, singing into the crowd like he’s flirting with every last person there. And then, he pivots.

Back toward you.

You don’t need to look up to know he’s coming. You can feel him. Heavy boots. Heavy gaze. He’s circling you now.

“Tell me,” he sings, smirking, “what’s a guy like me supposed to do with a girl like you?”

The crowd erupts.

You keep playing. Stone-faced. Cool. Unbothered.

He leans closer. Drops the mic low and sings the next line directly at you, voice low and syrup-slick:

“How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself, baby?”

The scream that follows is seismic.

He’s trying to break you. You can see it in the twitch of his lip, the way his lashes dip just before he grins like he’s winning. Like he always wins.

Your response?

You raise a brow, lick your teeth to keep from grinning, and keep on strumming.

“Oh, come on,” he laughs into the mic, stepping just behind you now. “Gimme somethin’”

You toss your hair, add a little riff and shift your stance. All while never missing a note.

You mouth “Get a grip” while rolling your eyes at him, your fingers still busy keeping up with the song. That earns another wave of chaos from the crowd.

Michael clutches his heart like you’ve just run him through. “Brutal,” he groans to the audience, playing it up.

You roll your eyes yet again, but the grin finally cracks. Just a little.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“There she is” he whispers away from the mic, victorious.

You glance over your shoulder with a smug smile on your face as your fingers dance effortlessly across the strings.

He steps away with a laugh, throwing his head back, dragging the mic with him. And as the lights shift, your solo comes into focus—spotlight narrowing, the band dropping low behind you.

The song builds as he sings the verse right before you take over the bridge.

The crowd starts to buzz because they know what’s coming.

Michael turns toward you, already grinning, already smug. His mic lifts to his mouth as he walks backwards across the stage—like he can’t wait to hand you the spotlight. His voice echoes through the venue, smooth and low:

“Give it up for (Y/N), Los Angeles!”

The scream that follows is bone-rattling. And maybe in a very self-absorbed sense, it calms your nerves to hear the crowd going wild just for you.

You smirk, fingers already sliding into position. You’ve only done this solo a couple times live. But the fact that Michael basically challenged you to do it mixed with the fans screaming your name? Yeah. You’ve got this.

You bend into the first riff—sharp, biting, sexy. It slithers through the arena, melting into a spell you’ve mastered by now. You don’t miss a note, don’t miss a beat. Your hips shift with the rhythm, legs wide, grounded, powerful.

No one’s breathing.

And Michael?

Michael is acting up.

He paces closer, mic loose at his side, head cocked like he’s studying something he might die for. He’s not shocked. Not even a little. He’s hungry. Watching you like you’ve got him on a leash you don’t even realize you’re tugging at.

He mouths something to the crowd—something cheeky you can’t hear—and then, with a theatrical roll of his eyes, drops to his knees beside you.

Showmanship. Performance.

That’s what it’s supposed to be.

But his eyes? They betray everything.

Pupils blown wide. Bottom lip caught between his teeth as he grins a little too wide. That little twitch in his jaw like he’s trying not give himself away too much.

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny. There’s nothing funny about how the way he’s looking at you is affecting you. Because this is all pretend. All to boost the speculation. All platonic.

At least you both pretended to. But fuck, the way he’s watching you. How his eyes flicker from your hands to your lips, then back to your eyes. It’s all too reverent, too sinful. Too goddamn hot.

So you release some tension with even more performance. Obviously.

Your hand leaves the neck of your guitar for half a second—long enough to reach down and fluff his hair like he’s your favorite pet. It’s a casual thing. Teasing. A playful way to keep the power in your corner and give the fans something to clip.

But the second your fingers slide through those sweaty locks—

You hear it.

A low, rough whisper, just off-mic.

“Oh, fuck me.”

He says it like a reflex. Like he didn’t mean to. Like you’ve just committed a sin and he needs a minute to survive it.

You pull back immediately, smirk twisting into something dangerous. Something very much not platonic at all.

He plays it up for the fans—arms out, leaning back on his knees, tongue poking out like you’ve just murdered him live on stage.

The final chords ring out, reverberating through the arena like aftershocks. The crowd is still screaming—hoarse and euphoric, drenched in sweat and glitter and adrenaline.

Michael stands center stage, grinning like a maniac because he practically just serenaded the entire city and signed their shirts on the way out. He tosses his pick into the crowd, waves, paces a little with the mic in hand, letting the roar settle just enough.

Then he starts his little routine for the very last time.

“LA, you’ve been incredible tonight! Now for the last time, make some noise for Andy on drums!”

Thunderous applause.

“Give it up for Nate for shredding that bass!”

The crowd obliges, wild as ever.

“And show some love to our tour manager, who’s job I’ve definitely made harder and harder. Dave—love you, man!”

You huff a laugh as you towel off, standing at your spot like you’re not still burning alive from thirty seconds ago. You can feel your fingers tingling, your heart still tap-dancing against your ribs. And your skin—fuck. Still humming from the way he looked at you on his knees.

But you don’t have time to spiral. Because here it comes.

Michael turns, already smirking, already milking it like he does every damn night. But now it’s the last one, so you just know he’s gonna be extra dramatic.

“And of course…” he starts, letting the sentence hang in the air like fog. “Saving my favorite problem for last…”

You raise a brow at him, half-warning, half-daring.

He ignores both.

“…arguably the best part of this whole circus. The only person alive who can outplay me, outshine me, and outsmirk me all in one set.”

The crowd goes insane.

You pretend to be unimpressed, crossing your arms like you’re not actively blushing.

He keeps going. “She makes the guitar sing, makes the crowd scream, and makes it very hard for me to keep things professional—ladies and gentlemen, make some noise for the prettiest lead guitarist, (Y/N)!”

Michael bows dramatically toward you, one hand pressed to his chest like he’s just offered up his soul. You give a small bow back, trying to look chill about it—but it’s impossible when he’s still watching you like that.

Soft. Sweet. And fucking starved.

You shake your head, stepping forward to take your final bow with the rest of the band, waving at the fans like nothing’s been permanently short-circuited in your nervous system.

But as Michael jogs toward the wings, tossing a sweaty towel into the crowd and blowing a kiss at someone in the front row—he glances over his shoulder at you.

Eyes darker. Jaw tight. Smile loaded.You’re barely offstage when the heat hits you.

Not the lights. Not the crowd.

Him.

Michael’s footsteps trail behind yours, boots thudding against the concrete like he doesn’t know how to slow down anymore. Like his whole body’s still running on the high of the show—and you.

You sling your guitar off and hand it to a tech with barely a glance, towel already in your hands, dragging sweat down the back of your neck. Your shirt clings to your spine. Your lips are dry. And you are achingly aware of the weight behind you.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s close.

Way too close.

“Y’know, if I didn’t know better,” he says, voice low and still rough from the set, “I’d say I think you were trying to kill me out there.”

You keep walking, down the narrow corridor that leads to the dressing rooms, pretending like you can’t hear how close his breath is to your shoulder. “You’ve got fans throwing bras at you every night, Mikey. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Oh, no, no.” His chuckle curls down your spine like smoke. “They’re not the ones who had me on my knees not five minutes ago, (Y/N).”

You stop walking.

That was your mistake.

Because the second you pause, he’s there—right behind you, chest brushing your back, just enough to make you burn. His hand comes up and grazes your arm, feather-light. Not grabbing. Just reminding you he’s right there.

“Are not talking about it?” he asks, softer now. “That little moment we had?”

You turn, slow, towel still in your hands, mouth sharp. “That moment was for the crowd.”

“Bullshit,” he says, grinning, eyes already dragging down your face to your lips. “They didn’t get to see the way your hands were shaking after that solo.”

You scoff, trying to sidestep him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he moves too, blocking your path, tilting his head. “Right. So fluffing my hair and making me beg was just part of the act, yeah?”

Your jaw clenches. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Even as your thighs squeeze together. Even as your core pulses at the memory of him—mouth open, eyes dark, worshipping you in front of a sold-out arena like you were the fucking altar.

You try again to get past him. He doesn’t let you.

This time, his hand lands on your waist. Not rough. Not tight either. Just enough to still you.

His voice is quieter now, darker. “You can pretend all you want, pretty girl. But I know you. I know what I saw while you were playing that song… That wasn’t acting”

You swallow hard.

He steps closer, crowding you gently into the wall—still not touching you beyond that one hand, but it’s enough to make your head spin.

“And I know,” he murmurs, “what I felt when you touched me. Also not acting.”

And the look in his eyes now? That isn’t for the fans. That’s for you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, leaning in so close his nose nearly brushes your ear.

You don’t say a word. Because you don’t want him to stop. Your breath catches just for a second. That’s all it takes.

His mouth is a whisper away, his fingers warm against your waist, and the moment hovers there—that unwritten rule of never crossing the line begging to be broken.

You jerk back, quick and sharp, like you’ve just come up for air.

“Careful, rockstar...”

It’s not loud. Definitely not angry. Just the last bit of your composure finally pushing through the haze.

You step to the side, putting space between your bodies before your brain gets fully shut down by your hormones. You don’t even look at him. You just start walking again—faster this time—because if you stop, if you think, you’ll end up doing something really fucking stupid.

“C’mon, (Y/L/N)” he calls after you, voice low and tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Mikey?” you throw over your shoulder. “I’m not one of your fucking groupies, I’m good.”

But he’s not buying it. Not for a second.

He catches up, boots heavy, energy heavier. And this time, when he reaches out, he doesn’t let you slip away.

His fingers wrap around your wrist—rougher but not enough to hurt. Just enough to halt your next step. Enough to make your breath hitch again.

“Cut the shit, pretty girl” he says, quieter now. “You don’t get to walk away when you know I’m right.”

You glance at him, already glaring. “About what?”

He takes one slow step closer, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist now—where your pulse is pounding. His eyes are all fire and focus and that maddening, aching restraint.

“That wasn’t pretend and you know it.”

You try to speak. To cut him off. But he leans in, eyes locked on yours, voice dropping to that exact register that ruins your self-control:

“The way your hands shook when I got close. The way you laughed—it was nervous, baby, don’t lie to me. You felt it.”

You hate how warm your skin goes. Hate how easily he can see it. You hate even more that you know he’s not done.

“And I know you’re scared,” he continues, soft and persuasive and fucking lethal. “’Cause once we cross that line? We can’t take it back...”

His fingers tighten just slightly on your wrist. Enough to make your knees wobble.

“But tell me—” his smile goes crooked, boyish, filthy. “—aren’t you dying to know what I’d do on my knees without the crowd there?”

Your heart slams in your chest.

He leans closer again, this time to whisper right against your ear. “I swear to God, let me have you once and I’ll make it worth it… Celebrate our last show...”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Because fuck him, he’s getting to you. And then—his lips skim the shell of your ear as he adds, breath hot and ruined—

“But not in a goddamn hallway. Come with me.”

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he’s already got your thighs around his waist. Like the only thing between you and total destruction is the two steps to that door.

You should say no.

“Don’t make me regret this, rockstar”

That’s what you chose to say, your feet already following him closely.

The walk to the dressing room is purposeful. Borderline speed walking, but you keep pulling back to slow him. The last thing you wanna look is desperate… even if you are.

Well—no, desperate is an understatement. Your skin feels hot. Chest tight. Every step echoing with don’t do this—but your legs don’t listen.

Michael’s hand is still wrapped around your wrist, loose now, but not letting go.

Not until he has you alone. Because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the optics of what’s happening. He’s Michael Clifford.

People stare. A couple crew members glance up, heads swiveling, eyebrows raised. They know what they just saw onstage. They’re definitely flagging this right now.

Michael doesn’t even flinch. He flashes them that cocky grin, the one he always wears when he’s being a menace. As if dragging you down the hall like this is just another post-show ritual.

He even tosses out a wink and a casual, “G’night, fellas,” to some roadies walking past, like he’s not seconds away from devouring you.

You feel insane. Like you’ve left your body somewhere in catering and now you’re just heat and hunger and noise. And yet, you play off his energy. You pretend that you’re not being dragged away. Like no one knows what you’re about to do… but it’s crystal clear.

This is a mistake. A terrible idea. But maybe if you just get it out of your systems… Maybe you can still come back from this? I mean it’s just you two finally putting the game to rest… Totally healthy—

The door swinging open pulls you out of your thoughts. You both step in.

Click. He locks it.

And suddenly—he’s right there.

An inch from your mouth. Breathing hard. Eyes wild. Hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting not to grab you.

His voice is low, wicked, and smug as ever when he says, “So… we finally doing what everyone’s been begging us to?”

Way to kill the mood.

You roll your eyes, lips already curling. Because you can’t help that condescending tone he naturally brings out in you. “Because suddenly you’re so good at doing what you’re told… You wanna treat, puppy?”

That stops him. His grin drops. Just for a second.

His hand snaps forward and curls at your waist, pulling you in hard enough to steal your breath. His mouth crashes into yours like the last thread of his control just snapped.

There’s nothing soft about it.

It’s not a test. Not a tease. It’s a full-body surrender. All teeth and tongue and groaning heat. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like he’s been waiting for permission and now that he’s got it, he’s gonna take everything.

You gasp into it, arms flying up around his neck. He doesn’t waste a second—spinning you and immediately pressing you hard against the door like he’s staking a claim.

Your back hits wood. His hips slam into yours.

And you feel it.

That hunger. That months-long ache wrapped in tension and banter and backstage near-misses.

He growls against your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair. His thigh wedges between your legs, and your body moves without permission—grinding down, chasing the friction of your body against his.

You break apart like it hurts.

The kiss ends with a gasp—yours, his, maybe both. Youre not quite sure.

You don’t even know where his hands are anymore. Somewhere between your hips and your ass, gripping hard enough to bruise, but right now all you can process is the way he’s looking at you.

Michael’s panting. Chest rising like he just ran a mile, eyes blown wide. His lips are swollen—your crimson lipstick smeared across his mouth like a damn trophy. There’s a tiny scratch blooming red on his jaw where your ring must’ve caught him. He looks drunk. Already wrecked.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, head tipping back like he’s about to slide to the floor again. “You might actually fucking kill me.”

You laugh.

Not a cute giggle, not some flirty little performance.

You laugh because look at him.

Michael Clifford—rockstar, asshole, arrogant little shit—currently staring at you like you just ruined his fucking life with your mouth alone. His fingers twitch like he needs to touch skin, like he doesn’t know where to grab first. And god, the way he’s panting? Almost whining?

It’s pathetic. It’s sexy. It’s so goddamn fun.

“You always get like this when a girl kisses you back, Clifford?” you tease, still a little breathless yourself.

He narrows his eyes, like he wants to protest, but he’s still recovering. You watch his gaze flicker down to your lips again—like he needs more—and that’s when you say it.

“Easy there, puppy.”

His whole body reacts again.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. He just freezes—for a single beat. His jaw tenses, like he’s trying to stay composed, like that one word did something to him he wasn’t prepared for.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes lighting up. “Oh. That’s what does it, huh?”

“I am literally begging you” he says, dead serious, voice rough. “Don’t test me right now.”

You fist your hand in the front of his shirt, yank him forward, and kiss him again. Because you need this too. And because seeing him like this? Desperate, needy, pliant under your touch?

Consequences be damned, you’re definitely not stopping now.

This time, when your mouth crashes into his, he groans—deep and guttural—and you swear you feel him twitch against your thigh. Your fingers slide into his hair again, tugging harder now, and his whole body shudders.

“God, fuck—baby,” he gasps, half-choked between kisses.

You smile against his mouth.

“Good boy.”

His hands are everywhere now. Shaky. Clutching. Tugging at the hem of your shirt like it offended him. Like the fact that you’re still wearing it is personally driving him insane.

“Off,” he mutters, lips dragging over your jaw. “Please—fuck, I need—just—off.”

You laugh again, breathless but composed. Too composed, considering the way he’s practically grinding against your thigh like a teenager who just discovered what friction feels like.

“Use your words, rockstar.”

He groans—growls, almost—fingers fumbling at the bottom of your shirt, finally managing to yank it over your head with a curse and a huff. His eyes rake over you like he’s seeing something he’s only ever been allowed to dream about. Like he might drop to his knees again just to thank you.

“You’re so mean to me,” he mumbles, mouth dragging down your throat as his hands roam. “But fuck, I need you.”

“So needy, baby…” you mutter in his ear, nails scratching his head.

He doesn’t answer. Too busy sucking bruises into your collarbone. Too busy rubbing himself against you like he can’t help it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out as his mouth explores the swell of your chest, the side of your neck, then back to devouring your mouth.

You let him have it. For now. Let him kiss and groan like he’s never going to get another chance.

Because the way he’s rutting against you—hips desperate, cock hard through those black jeans, chasing friction like he needs it to breathe? Priceless.

You lean in, lips brushing his cheek ever so slightly, voice syrupy-sweet.

“Aww,” you coo, dragging your nails down his back. “Is this how my puppy says thank you?”

His hips jerk.

“Oh my god, you gotta stop that.” he gasps, forehead thunking against your shoulder.

You grin, cruel and lovely, tilting his chin back so he’s forced to look at you—face flushed, lips swollen, pupils wrecked.

Your fingers slide to his belt with precision. No fumbling. No hesitation.

Just the metallic click of the buckle, the soft shift of leather as you undo him—slow enough to watch the way his chest rises, sharp and stuttering, like he’s bracing for a hit.

You cup him through his jeans. Because you want to feel what this has done to him. What you’ve done.

His mouth drops open, just slightly. His hips twitch beneath your touch.

You tilt your head, amused. “This all for me, Mikey?”

He exhales something between a breath and a laugh—tight, strained. “Could be for the crowd.” Poor idiot thinks he can regain control.

Cute.

You squeeze. Gently. Deliberately. He lets out a quiet, broken sound.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “that’s what I thought.”

You drag his belt fully from the loops, watching the way he watches you—eyes hungry, jaw tight, already falling apart and pretending he’s not.

Then, with a soft push, you guide him backwards.

“Sit down,” you say while walking him towards one of the chairs near the vanity.

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want to—oh, that much is obvious. But because your voice sounds different now. No faltering, like you just know he won’t refuse.

He sits.

The dressing room feels suddenly too small. The lights too dim. The air too thick with everything you’ve both been trying not to touch all tour.

You straddle his lap, one knee pressing between his legs, belt still in your hands. You lean in close—nose to nose, breath to breath—and wordlessly begin to tie his wrists.

Not to the chair. Just to each other.

A suggestion of power. A promise.

He watches you work, eyes wide and darkened now, lips parted just slightly. You could almost believe he’d behave if you couldn’t feel the way his thighs tremble beneath you.

When you finish the knot, you trace a fingertip down his throat, smiling faintly at the way he swallows.

“No hands,” you whisper.

His smirk falters.

“No mouth,” you add, a little softer.

And when you shift in his lap—slow and cruel, grinding once against him—he groans, biting it back like it cost him.

You settle, still fully clothed from the waist down, just perched atop him like a ruler on a throne.

“Should’ve known,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back. “A girl can’t be like that onstage without being a freak in bed.”

Your lips brush his ear.

“And yet,” you hum, “you’re sitting there, perfectly obedient.”

He huffs a laugh—sharp, wrecked, breathless. “You’re very convincing, pretty girl…”

You smile.

“Oh you’ve got no idea.”

Your fingertips drag along the waistband of your pants, slow and deliberate. You don’t rush—not for him, not for this. The fabric glides down your hips, pooling at your ankles with a soft whisper. You step out, slow and unbothered, watching the way his eyes devour the curve of your thighs.

His wrists flex in the leather loop behind the chair, like he forgets he gave up his hands.

“Fuckin’ show off, as always” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You smirk—because he’s right. And you haven’t even really started.

The red, lacy bra you’ve been sporting comes off next, slow. You unhook it and let it slide down your arms like silk, letting him see the full arch of your body as you stretch. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Then the matching panties—drenched now, and you know it. You hook your thumbs in and peel them down, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Michael lets out a quiet, strangled groan. His thighs spread wider, just a little, cock visibly straining beneath denim he can’t fucking get off himself.

You pause, letting him sit with it. Basking in the sight of him like this.

The man that’s usually he’s all swagger and noise. Sharp tongue, smug eyes, always two seconds away from making things a joke? He’s currently undone.

Breathing hard. Jaw clenched like he might lose it if you keep teasing him. His cock twitches beneath his jeans, aching for relief, his fingers tightening in the looped belt like he’s seconds from begging.

Not a crowd. Not a fantasy. Just you—eyes sharp, mouth soft, taking your time, making him mad.

And fuck, if the power of it doesn’t go straight to your core. You can feel the arousal slick between your thighs, hot and heavy and wanting—but not desperate.

Not like how he is right now.

You walk over slowly, each step measured, and his eyes follow like he’s starved.

Then you kneel.

Right in front of him.

His breath punches out of him, chest rising like he’s in pain. “Jesus.”

You palm him again, this time with purpose, and he jerks. You watch him, all flushed skin and twitching muscle, completely at your mercy.

“This what you need, huh?” you murmur, fingers dragging over the button.

He nods too fast. “Please.”

You hum, pleased. Unbutton. Unzip. Tug his jeans down his thighs.

He springs free—hard, leaking, aching for you. The groan he lets out when the air hits him is filthy.

“God, you’re…” he starts, but the words don’t land. He’s too far gone.

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, warm, just enough pressure—and his head thumps back against the chair.

You wrap your hand around him—tight, just shy of too much—and his hips jerk into your palm like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

“Shit,” he hisses, head pressing back, fists clenched in his lap. “Fuck, that’s—”

You stroke once. Long. Cruel.

Then pause at the tip, thumb dragging over the bead of precum there, slow enough to watch his lips part.

He breathes like he’s in pain. Like this is heaven and hell, all at once.

You smile.

“Awfully quiet now,” you murmur, hand moving again, lazy and teasing. “Where’d all that attitude go, rockstar?”

He tries—he tries—to scoff, but it dies in his throat when you twist your wrist just right at the base. His thighs twitch. His breath stutters. He’s so fucking hard it must hurt.

Still, he finds a scrap of defiance. “Y-You’re just lucky you tied me up,” he pants.

You let out a soft laugh and tighten your grip—slowly pumping him with a firm, mean rhythm that makes his whole body seize.

“Lucky?” you echo, voice sharp with delight. “Oh, Mikey…”

You lean in, tongue flat against the head of his cock for just a moment. Not a kiss. Not a lick. Just a taste.

He gasps—whines—and you pull back before he can even process it.

“Lucky would be letting you fuck my throat,” you whisper, stroking faster now. “This? This is control.”

His breath is shaky, hands flexing uselessly behind his back.

“Look at you,” you coo, tilting your head. “Usually so smug… And now you’re just my desperate little mutt.”

He shudders.

You can see him fighting it—trying to keep his edge, trying not to fold. But your hand is moving faster now, grip just shy of cruel, squeezing at the base, dragging slow near the top. You watch the way his jaw tenses. The way his thighs strain. The way his hips can’t stay still.

He’s breaking.

And fuck, is it beautiful.

“You love this, don’t you?” you whisper, leaning in. “Being put in your place.”

Michael groans—raw and low, helpless in the way that makes your thighs clench. “Fuckin’ menace,” he grits out. “God, you’re so—fucking hot like this.”

You smile against his skin. “Good boy.”

Your hand does not let up. It’s a steady, deliberate rhythm—tight and practiced, just rough enough to keep him on the edge of bliss but never quite push him over. And every time his hips jerk forward, desperate to chase more, your other hand presses down on his hip, pinning him firmly in place.

“Nuh-uh,” you say sweetly. “Stay still.”

Michael groans—frustrated, wrecked, twitching under your touch. His fingers flex behind the belt binding them. You can see the muscles in his thighs clench, see the vein in his neck throb.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. “You’re—ohmygod You’re the worst.”

You smile. “Watch it, Clifford”



Your grip changes just slightly—slower now, more pressure. Just enough to make his breath catch in that broken, ruined way you’ve become addicted to.

He’s close. You can feel it. Every twitch of his cock, every choked moan, every trembling breath is screaming it.

And just as he starts to unravel, hips starting to falter—

You stop. Not completely. Just… enough.

Still stroking him. Still teasing. But never letting him fall.

Michael gasps like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

“No,” you say calmly, voice like velvet and fire. “You don’t get to cum until I say you can, puppy.”

His head snaps back, jaw slack with disbelief. “You’re joking.”

Your fingers tighten, just enough to make his cock throb helplessly in your grip.

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

He groans—long and tortured, hips straining against your grip like he wants to argue, wants to defy, but he can’t. He physically can’t pull away from what you’re doing to him.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N)” he pants, voice breaking. “I’ve been—fuck, I’ve been hard since your fuxkin’ solo, I—”

You lean in, mouth ghosting over his ear.

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why this is so fun.”

He whimpers.

Actually whimpers.

And then tries—tries—to pull it back together, to glare, to keep some sliver of dignity.

But your hand doesn’t stop. And his voice?

Just shattered fragments of what it once was.

“I—fuck—I could’ve had anyone tonight,” he groans. “But I’m here… tied up… getting tortured.”

“Poor thing,” you click your tongue, fake pity making you pout at him mockingly. Your hand’s stroking him slow again, watching his thighs tremble. “You’re gonna cry about it, baby?”

“I hate you,” he moans, head falling back, lashes fluttering.

“No, Mikey,” you purr. “You hate how much you like this.”

He’s twitching in your hand now. Thighs trembling. Jaw slack.

And the cocky little fucker finally breaks.

“Please,” Michael gasps, the word ripped from his throat like it cost him something. “Please, baby—I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t finish, I won’t—just let me be inside you. I need—fuck, I need to feel you.”

Your hand slows. Not stopping—never that. Just drawing it out, savoring the sight of him: flushed, desperate, bucking uselessly into your fist like he’d trade his whole soul to come right now.

You tilt your head, eyes lazy, lips parted.

“Was that begging?”

His head drops forward, hair sticking to his forehead. He looks wrecked.

“If you want me to fucking kneel again, I will.” he pants. “You want my credit card? My fuckin’ house? I’ll put it in your name, I don’t care. Just—fuck—just ride me, pretty girl.”

“Oh,” you murmur, releasing him with a slow drag of your palm, “so now you remember your manners.”

His head hits the back of the chair like he’s praying.

As for you, you can’t deny it anymore—you’re soaked. You’ve been throbbing with every twitch of his hips, every ruined moan, every failed attempt at holding it together.

So you stand back up and swing a leg over him, then the other, straddling his thighs.

And when you reach between you to line him up—press the head of his cock against your dripping cunt—his breath snaps.

“You gonna behave for me, puppy?” you whisper, rocking your hips just enough to tease, not enough to take him.

Michael’s hands are still tied, his chest heaving, pupils blown wide.

“Baby,” he groans, voice cracking, “I’ve never wanted to behave more in my fuckin’ life.”

You give him a wicked little smile. Then, you drop onto him in one smooth, soaked, slow slide.

The sound he makes is not just a moan. It’s a confession. It’s relief, and disbelief, and worship all in one broken breath.

You bottom out, hips flush, walls pulsing around him as his entire body shakes beneath you.

“Fuck,” he rasps, head falling forward, lips at your collarbone. “You feel—God, you feel so good—”

You roll your hips once. Hard. Purposeful.

He grunts like he’s been edged for a year and is finally being fed. Because he has.

You don’t move. Not yet.

Not even after you’ve sunk down onto him, deep and pulsing and perfect. He’s inside you—finally—and you can feel how badly he needed this. How hard he is. How desperate his cock twitches inside you, like he’s scared you’ll take it away.

Michael moans through gritted teeth, head back, lips parted. “So fuckin’ tight—”

“Shhh,” you interrupt, leaning forward until your mouth brushes his ear. “I didn’t hear a thank you yet, rockstar.”

He groans—deep, frustrated, feral. “I— what?”

You smile. Start to roll your hips once—slow, cruel, dragging over every inch—and he shudders so violently you feel it in his thighs.

“I mean it’s the least you could do, c’mon be good for me…”

His eyes open—glazed, wide. His jaw works like he wants to be smart, wants to sass. But the way you squeeze around him just then? The way your fingers slide through his hair, so sweet while your hips stay still? He folds.

“Thank you,” he breathes, chest rising with the effort. “Thank you for letting me feel you. F’letting me inside this perfect little pussy, baby.”

You hum, pleased, hands trailing down his chest. “Good boy.”

He whines, and the sound goes straight to your core. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, almost sweet—and start to move.

Long, slow rolls of your hips at first. Grinding down in deep, endless waves that have his wrists flexing against the belt again, mouth open in silent praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, nipping his jaw. “You like being this good for me?”

He nods furiously, moaning against your throat. “Yes, fuck—yes, baby, please don’t stop.”

Your rhythm quickens.

Every bounce, every drag, every slick sound of your bodies colliding pulls a new sound from his chest. You feel drunk on it—on the way his head tips back when you squeeze him just right, on how his whole body chases your pace like he’s being led.

“You’ve needed this for months,” you whisper, voice tight with pleasure. “All that flirting, all that talk—and now look at you.”

He moans. “Fuck—yes. Needed this. Needed you.”

You lean back, letting him see the full picture—your body moving over him, your lips parted, eyes on him like he’s yours to devour.

And when you untie his hands mid-ride and guide them up to your hips, your rules—he gasps like you’ve just granted him something sacred.

“Don’t get greedy” you warn, breathless.

He nods. Hands trembling, staying exactly where you placed them.

As your ministrations keep going, your rhythm, your filthy words, your hands scratching and claiming as they please, it becomes clear: He’s so close.

Too close.

You can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips—trembling, tightening, like he’s holding on for dear life. The way his thighs tense beneath you, body shaking with the effort not to come. Not yet. Not until you say.

But you’ve been watching him unravel for weeks.

And now, with you bouncing on his cock, walls fluttering around him, your nails dragging down his chest and your lips parted in something close to a smile—he’s done for.

“F-fuck,” Michael gasps, voice ragged. “Fuck, baby—I’m not—I can’t—”

You clench around him—hard.

His mouth drops open, eyes wild.

“Don’t,” he groans, broken, wrecked, panting like he’s burning alive. “Baby—fuck—stop, I’m gonna—I’m gonna fuckin’ cum—”

You slow down. Grind. Squeeze. Move your hips in cruel, perfect circles that make him writhe underneath you.

His hands twitch uselessly on your thighs, his head slamming back against the chair. “Y’gotta—fuck, get off, I’m gonna bust inside if you don’t—baby please—”

You lift off him just in time.

He chokes on a moan, and then—he’s gone.

He fists his cock as it jerks in the open air, twitching violently. He spills across your thighs, your stomach, gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

Thick. Hot. Messy.

He groans through it, one arm thrown over his face, the other shaking against your hip as he empties every last drop onto your skin.

You watch this obscene work of art unfold.

Amused. Pleased.

And when he finally catches his breath, chest heaving, eyes still glassy? You tilt your head.

“Well that’s pathetic, puppy,” you say, calm as ever. “I wasn’t even done.”

He lets out a wrecked, wheezing laugh, one hand dragging down his face.

“Fuck you,” he mutters.

You’re smiling, still seated in his lap, sticky with his release, your thighs streaked with evidence of just how little control he has when it comes to you.

He’s definitely trying to look less wrecked, but he’s blinking slow, dazed. Spent. The high still clinging to him in the form of half-lidded eyes and flushed skin.

You trail one finger through the mess on your stomach, then lift it slowly to his lips—not offering it. Just watching him watch you.

“Came so fast,” you murmur, mock-pity in your tone. “You must’ve been real desperate.”

He groans, head tipping back. “Jesus.”

You tilt your head, feigning sweetness. “And after all that waiting? All that teasing? All the shit you pulled onstage… You’d think you’d be able to last a little longer, no?”

He narrows his eyes at you. Still defiant. Still him. But the damage is done.

“I mean…” you sigh, dragging your fingers across your slick thigh. “I thought about letting you finish inside me, Mikey... But that’s for guys who can control themselves.”

His jaw flexes. Just once.

You continue, soft and syrupy. “And now I’m all worked up, soaked, and all for nothing… but don’t worry, puppy. I’ll figure it out myself.” You pat his cheek and start to get off him. Like that’s the end to this whole rendezvous.

That gets him. Because no. That’s not it.

You see the flicker in his eyes—the shift from shame to challenge.

“Let me eat you out,” he blurts, breathless, eager.

You pause, blinking at him, all sweet surprise and slow-drawn curiosity.

“Oh?” you say, with the barest hint of mischief. “Generous, are we?”

Michael beams. So fucking proud of himself, still panting a little.

“Yeah,” he says, like he just won the fucking Nobel Prize. “I mean—what else am I supposed to do? You’re dripping, pretty girl. That’s my responsibility.”

You hum, trailing your finger across your still-wet thigh like an afterthought. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Something flickers in his gaze.

A second passes. And then it hits him. His grin twitches. His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Wait a minute,” he says slowly, eyes scanning your face. “You played me.”

You keep your expression neutral, but there’s no hiding the glint in your eye.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stares. You smile wider.

“You said— and you showed me— I—,” he says, as he puts everything together, voice rising just slightly. Like his brain just turned back on after everything they did. “And I fell for it so quick…”

You drag your thumb over his lower lip and coo at him. “Mm. You looked so smug I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Michael lets out a disbelieving little scoff, jaw dropped, then tips his head back and laughs. Loud. Wrecked.

“You’re unbelievable,” he groans, licking his lips. “And you know what? I don’t even care.”

You raise a brow, amused. “No?”

He leans forward, eyes locked on yours, voice low and confident now—finally catching his wind again. “You think I wouldn’t beg for the chance to get on my knees for you again? You’ve been dripping down my cock for twenty minutes and you’re surprised I wanna taste you?”

You roll your eyes as you back toward the couch, wiping the stickiness from your thighs, when he slides off the chair and drops to his knees.

It’s fluid. Effortless. Like that’s where he was meant to be.

He kneels between your legs, panting lightly, still flushed from his orgasm. And even though his hands are free now, he doesn’t reach for you. He just looks up—cocky and reverent, all in one breath.

“You should put the belt back on.”

Your brow lifts. “Oh?”

He shrugs, grinning like he’s being generous. “I don’t need hands to make you cum for me. My mouth does all the work anyway.” Then he winks. Fucking cocky bastard.

You smile slow—delicious and knowing—and step forward, letting his breath hit your inner thigh as you lean down and grab the belt.

Loop it behind his back. Pull his wrists together. Tie him up again.

“Mm. I see the little mutt likes his leash.”

His smirk falters—just slightly. You see it. That flicker of something in his eyes. Something that’s not ego. Need.

He likes this.

Being bound. Being looked down at. Being under you. And you’re not about to deny him that.

Once his wrists are secured, you step back again and sit—spreading your legs slowly, casually, watching his eyes darken as your slick folds glisten under the low light.

He licks his lips and then immediately dives in. No teasing. No warm-up. No hesitation. He leans in and feasts like he’s starving.

His tongue drags through you with filthy precision, firm and flat, then swirling around your clit with maddening focus. It’s obscene—the slurps, the groans, the way he fucking moans against you like you’re the one feeding him.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tug gently, and he groans louder. His tongue dips inside you, then drags up again, circling, sucking, licking, like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He’s right—he doesn’t need hands.

You throw your head back, hips arching toward him. “Fuck—Mikey—don’t you dare stop.”

He hums against your clit like he’s proud. Like this is his victory.

You look down at him, hands tied, mouth wet, eyes locked on you as he eats like a man possessed.

Tongue slick and strong, not just wild, but focused—grinding tight, precise circles around your clit one second, then licking up every drop of arousal with a hunger that borders on madness. He shifts, tilts his head, moans into you like he’s trying to live inside you.

Your thighs tremble around his face. And he fucking loves it.

You glance down, hair damp, breath ragged, and he’s looking back at you like a man in worship. Pupils blown wide, tongue still moving—lips soaked, chin messy, arms flexing behind his back where they’re bound tight.

His mouth is doing things your brain can’t even process correctly. Little flicks of pressure in just the right place, then flattening again, then that subtle pull of suction that sends your hips jerking forward on instinct. You ride his face shamelessly now—grinding down, moaning, chasing the edge with no apologies.

He groans beneath you, like your desperation is the only thing keeping him alive.

“Mikey,” you pant, gripping his hair, “You’re just a dirty fucking mutt, hm?”

He moans against you.

“Such a good little puppy, for me” you breathe, voice cracking as your thighs twitch. “Begging for me... Licking me like it’s your job.”

He’s panting through it, tongue fucking relentless now. Lost in it. Loving it. You can feel the sounds he’s making against your clit—desperate, feral, like he can’t spend a second apart from you.

“My good boy,” you gasp, just as your orgasm starts to build—slow at first, then blistering. “Fuck—Michael—don’t stop. So good baby—”

His whole body shudders. Of course he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he doubles down—tongue working faster, firmer, dragging you toward the edge like it’s his divine fucking purpose. His wrists flex behind him like he forgot he was bound for a second. His moans echo against your cunt. And his eyes?

Obsessed. Because he can feel it. He can taste it. You’re right fucking there.

It hits you like a tidal wave—sharp, sudden, and completely consuming.

Michael groans against your cunt as your thighs seize around his head, his tongue still working, relentless, possessed. Your hips grind down with no rhythm now, no control, chasing every last pulse of it as your orgasm breaks over him.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the scream that rips from your throat, eyes wide, head thrown back. The world blurs. Your body shakes. And all you can hear is the slick, obscene sound of him devouring you like he’s been starving.

He doesn’t stop. Not even as your whole body trembles. Not even as you sob a breath and yank at his hair, grinding your release into his face.

He moans through it—loud, filthy, desperate.

And fuck, if he isn’t close again himself. So close he has to shift his hips away from the floor to keep from rutting into the air. His cock’s twitching, leaking, untouched—but the way you ride his face? The way you lose yourself on his tongue?

It almost pushes him over again.

You’re panting now. Wrung out. Your hand still gripping his hair, his face slick with you, eyes glassy and dazed and proud.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, finally pulling back, thighs trembling as you collapse onto the couch behind you. “You—fuck.”

He leans back on his knees, still breathless, lips shiny, jaw flexing like he’s not sure if he wants to smirk or worship.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty. Sticky. Stunned.

The dressing room’s quiet now, save for the echo of your ragged breathing.

Tour’s over. The act is over.

But you’re still breathing like the stage lights never shut off. Still trembling, thighs damp, arms heavy, head spinning.

You finally reach for his wrists, tugging at the belt looped tight behind his back. His skin is red where the leather bit into it—pressure marks flushed across him like a necklace of ownership.

He flexes his fingers when you loosen it. Rolls his wrists.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the faint burn. “That stings.”

You glance up at him, lazy and amused. “Regrets?”

Michael smirks, already rubbing the tender skin. “You kidding? Best pain I’ve ever felt.”

You toss the belt to the side, lean back into the couch with a soft groan, and let your eyes shut for just a second.

He stretches beside you, muscles stiff, mouth still damp. He looks wrecked in the most satisfying way—hair a disaster, lips kiss-bruised, chest blotchy with heat and sweat.

He shifts, glancing over at you. Then shrugs, all faux-casual as he says, “So… we should do this again sometime.”

You blink over at him. Lift one brow.

“Which part? The show or the part where you made a mess on my stomach and then begged to be leashed again?”