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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ MICHAEL JACKSON x fem!reader
synopsisৎ michaels 'odd' obsession with you, his muse, is hidden between the pages of his sketchbook.
porn w/ plot smut 18+ dry-humping inexperienced michael/reader switch!michael size-kink (if you squint) friends with benefits MDNI.
You were always considered an outlier in the earth’s hypothesis. Something to be dealt with rather than accepted.
You weren’t entirely ‘weird’, but being even slightly outlandish in a family that was all business, networking events, and societies twice your age made you stick out like a sore thumb.
You studied your parents' business partners, trying to understand the scripts they’d write and relay just to sell or be sold something. And when your mind refused to make sense of it, you decided you were okay with always being a step behind.
You were accepting the fact that your unwillingness to alter your oddities would leave you lonely–until him.
The evening you met Michael was clear. Its dim calm blanketed Encino in the type of silence only night could infect busy neighbourhoods with.
You’d been lost in your novel for hours on end, the book in your clammy palms consuming your attention whole, when a sound managed a miracle and drew you from your thoughts.
Leaking in through your unlatched bedroom window was the even steps of a four-legged animal. You were quick to disregard your story and made for the noise, sticking a head out into the night. Below you, lit by the flickering streetlights, was the silhouette of a boy.
In his right hand was the leash attached to what you eventually identified as a snowy-white alpaca.
You couldn’t believe it. Wonder finally spread through you and the ecstasy of it was glorious.
You raced downstairs and out your front-door ‘till you stood face-to-face with the boy and his companion.
You asked his name. He asked yours.
And when you asked of the alpaca's, your hand rubbing at the sensitive spot between his eyes, he was bemused when the beast lowered its head and heaved its way into your chest.
Louie collided with you and you wobbled, grin drawn eye-to-eye as you found your footing. The animal sniffed your oaky perfume and nestled his snout between your torso.
Michael felt he had no other choice than to ask for your company—'Louie says he’s lonely', the boy joked, gently tugging on Louie's bit 'till his snout was 'nodding' in agreement.
When you laughed, Michael swore the stars did too.
And when the boy with the alpaca turned up again the next night, you were quick to be by his side.
This habit soon evolved from strictly late-night walks to being granted access to his home-phone.
Often, if Michael was too preoccupied to visit, you’d simply wait for the chime of your landline. You’d wrap the chord around your finger and fidget as the world around you collapsed.
Warming to one-another came instinctually. It was as though your gut knew you were to be each other’s bandages, the thing to mend the wounds of your shared unconventional lives.
Conversation flowed, late nights sailed by, and when the time for sleep rolled around, putting a dampener in your babbling proved impossible.
Months came and left in short intervals as your friendship flowered. You began to understand Michael, and he developed his own deep-seated need to understand you.
To Michael, your entire existence became light itself. You came into his world like a new star in the night sky—bigger, better, brighter than the sun. Michael was your earth. He turned because you were his reason for a new day.
You became something he was convinced God endowed to him. A muse wrapped in odd socks and delicate eyes.
His muse.
You were in the studio when he needed inspiration. You were thigh-to-thigh with him when a movie resonated around Hayvenhurst's living-room late at night. You were by his side when his father found fault in his talents and were there to hold him if tears lurked in his doe-like brown eyes.
Your trust was carved into marble and cradled in silk only months after your first meeting.
With two existences that now move as one, you’re both encased by an unbroken ease of your own making. It’s a foundations built on questions, on answers, and was only finalised when you knew most things about Michael, and he you.
So, the discovery of his aptitude for art had been uncovered long ago—Michael has a fist-full of talent in nearly every hobby he toys with.
But what is new, unseen until now, are his recent drawings.
They were once stagnant in his A3 sketchbook. Today, they bare themselves to you.
Some are rendered; some just jottings of things you fight to find reason in. Though what grasps your attention is the lone illustration on the next page.
Eyes. Wide and glistening, filled with a life you would only ever distinguish in Michael’s—or your own.
“What d’you think?” His voice is a petal against a pond.
You can feel Michael eyeing you, trying to get a gauge of the thoughts running laps in that beautiful mind of yours. Your mute as your fingers delicately flip to the next page.
This one is a collage—outlines of collarbone, the back of a head of hair, a figure beside an assortment of animals homed in Hayvenhurst.
It’s one vast visual sonnet. And it is all you.
Your hair. Your collar. Your figure and feet and hands and limbs.
“Mike, this is…” You swallow your glee and feel it ripen into something sin-like when it reaches your belly. “These are amazing.”
“You really think so?”
You nod, turning to the next page only to find it bare.
“Your so talented, I almost think it’s unfair.” You flash him a smirk before he’s huffing out a timid grin, watching the floor when embarrassment turns his cheeks scarlet.
“That's only' cus’ you’re the subject.” There it is—those conflicting words that battle his body-language. He’s curled in on himself; knees tucked into his chest like he’s shielding his heart. Yet he succeeds in making yours stutter.
You give him a light nudge that has his limbs unfolding onto the floor before he’s returning that same shove. You tumble theatrically, meeting his delighted expression with a scandalized one.
“Oh, that’s it..” You tuck the sketchbook safely beneath his bed.
“Girl, you started it!” The words are torn apart by his giggles.
You lunge at Michael who’s already prepared for the fingers that jab at his ribs.
This breed of touch is habitual between you both. It’s easy to get lost in, normal to forget whose limbs belong to who as they twist and tangle. It’s almost like the parts of you he’d first touched had already been fashioned to his flesh.
Finally, the battle to uncover the ticklish spot that has him squirming to escape is triumphant.
You get Michael on his back as your knees flank his thin waist. The boy wriggles and writhes, but when his hips meet flush with yours, his entire body stiffens.
You feel something unfamiliar, something alien, perked between his thighs. An inaudible gasp is plucked from your lungs.
Your face doesn’t drop—glee is still sketched into every wrinkle—but now, with something solid lodged between his jeans and your skirt, every muscle coils beneath your skin.
The silence is paralysing.
Michael looks up at you with vast unblinking eyes, his chest rising and falling no longer in the cadence of laughter, but in something you’d both only ever seen fragments of in movies.
Lust.
The feel of lust is unfamiliar, consuming, and the throbbing it's buried between your thighs is almost unbearable.
It sneaks between the fissures of your bodies and has the boy beneath you falling into an unrelenting thirst. It’s like he hasn’t drunk in weeks—like you’re the first and last body of water he’ll ever see.
It drapes around you and pulls tighter than Michael’s boa-constrictor around a neck—and somehow, feels more threatening.
As you search your reflection in the boys auburn eyes, you wonder whether he feels that pull too.
You test your theory and shift ever so slightly. Not enough to stir up the dust on the carpet, just enough to have Michael shuddering beneath you.
The view leaves your vision hazed around the edges.
You do it again, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.
Michael mewls.
Immediately, his scarlet cheeks find shelter beneath his hands. Even though his shame is practically palpable between the cracks in his fingers, his once level legs rise from the floor and bow at the knee.
He’s urging your hips forward.
Your eyes slam shut at the sensation of the new angle, stomach dipping when he rolls once and, somehow, seamlessly inserts himself between you.
“Michael…”
Heaven cannot compare to the way his name descends from your tongue. It’s a hymn, something to be reminisced—something to be kept hallowed.
Finally, the boy’s hands expire from his face.
Embarrassment around you feels… wrong. Like shoving a puzzle piece into an unfitting form and expecting the picture to be whole.
His digits venture across his collar bones, his stomach, ‘till they reach the place where your thighs are bound around his waist.
You tear your eyes from the sight of enormous hands swallowing your skin and soak in the person below you in his entirety.
The dark curls caught in the sheen layer of sweat coating his forehead, the unblinking dark masses that are his swollen iris’s—the need to alleviate that incessant stabbing in your stomach becomes fatal.
You move against him in one concentrated, brutal thrust.
Michael tosses his head back and bites into his bottom lip, a whine pelting past his throat.
“What’s happening...?” You’ve barely moved yet your lungs already fight for air.
“Ion’ know…" A buffer, like he's noticed the cliff your both about to fall from, then;
"Do it ‘gain, please.” He jumps.
You circle yourself on him this time, testing the delicious current that burrows between your ribs.
Your name falls from his lips like he’s calling out to a deity rather than a woman. But when Michael’s eyes blink open, that line becomes one big blur.
With you on top of him, hair framing your jaw and lengthy lashes fluttering each time his dick quivers against you, you're becoming the only thing he believes in.
The thing growing under Michael’s slacks is so stifled, so tender, so full that he finds it impossible to halt his body's instinct to hump up and into yours.
The movement has you sinking forward as hands grasp at his flannel for balance.
“Feel s’ warm inside...” Michael gasps.
The first few times you meet his bulge it almost burns, pumping molten lava into the fabric of your panties. His dick swells beneath you and offers only a sample of what it’d feel like buried inside, polluting that space with a venomous hunger.
“T-think I need more, please...” Michael’s pleads to you through the slits in his eyes as your messy pace gradually builds on the already pulsating glides of his hips.
With each unrestrained jut, the longing which settles into Michael’s glossy skin shoves his usual bashfulness aside. It makes space for the petty need that only ever rises when he’s alone and thrusting into his pillow.
But your body is mountains away from his poor, overworked pillow.
He can feel your puffy clit through his jeans. Has the privilege of watching your features bend to the will of satisfaction. Listens to your mewling when each ridge of his dick entertains that honeyed spot concealed by a solitary piece of fabric.
This outshines any sexually fuelled scenario his lurid mind can conjure.
“D'you feel that heat too? It feel good?” Michael’s winded as each hasty grind breeds broken mewls.
“Yeah, r-real good.” You yelp when he revises the angle of his hips and punches up into you.
In this moment, Michael’s convinced that anything you feel, he feels two times over. The sentiment is silly—he’s not even sure he believes it—but when his eyes train to the stain tinting his slacks, how can he not?
“Is that…” His words wane before he can finish.
The direction of his eyes leads you to where you're divided by only a few layers of fabric.
Your pussy’s weeping against his jeans.
“That’s me, Mikey.” You hum at the way his eyes cement themselves to the stain every time it bares itself from beneath your skirt.
“Didn’t know g-girls could get so wet. Lookit’, jus’ there. Your leakin’ all ova’me—God!” Michael’s fingers dig into the plush of your thighs as his eyes drown beneath a watery gaze. You can’t tell whether he wants to pray or devour you whole.
You’d let him do both.
After two more merciless strokes, Michael’s palms find the confidence to uncover the flesh of your ass obscured beneath your skirt. He raises the fabric with one bulky hand and kneads your supple cheek with the other, until;
His hands still. Something’s wrong.
You watch his gaze grow bothered as the root of his troubles dawns on you—the fabric of your skirt is disrupting his view between your legs.
He gathers the front of the material, mumbles, “Hol’ this.”, before passing it to you. “Lean back, please. Use my knee.”
You follow his instructions blindly, fabric in hand as you swing an arm behind you and feel for his leg.
“Yeah, yeah, jus’ like that...” If Michael is anything, it’s a perfectionist. This is a man who knows what he wants and one that’ll do whatever to get it.
Right now, he wants the uninterrupted image of the expanse of your stomach and front-row seats to the arch in your spine when you seize his thigh for stability.
“Feel–agh! Feel s’ good.” You throw your head back as you work yourself on him, dick twitching when he eyes the tears of sweat dribbling down your clavicles.
“Don’t stop, please. K-keep movin’ on me like that.” He needs this moment to be infinite.
Your knee slips and loses its friction to the floor for just a second. The mistake has your swollen clit colliding with the cool silver of his zipper.
Another moan rips from your pretty pink lips.
“Oh God...!” Michael curses through bared teeth, “Sound so pretty… s’ pretty.” He’s all inexplicit obscenities braided into praises and pleads that sound like poetry.
“Wan’ try this…” Another slur of words you don’t quite catch, but feel when the hand on your ass begins its course over your sea of ribs to the swell of your breasts.
His palm wanders in efforts at finding your nipple above your clothes, but your fervour gets the better of you.
You snatch his hand into your own–able to hold only a few of his fingers due to their sheer size–and steer it to the hem of your top. You introduce the skin of your unadorned chest to his balmy palm.
“T-thank you.” Michael keeps you rocking on his bulge with one hand as the other examines the unmapped land.
It takes only a second for his thumb to discover the swell at the centre of your boob. His finger is tender against the bud, circling only once before studying your body's response.
His touch runs through you like an electric pulse, chest to core, igniting every nerve on the way.
“Do that again.” You whine through the stutter of your hips.
“Tha’ was good? Really? I did it right?” Michael purrs when you eagerly nod.
You shiver as the pad of his thumb teases your nipple again, circles it, tugs. Each swipe shapes another pulse that’s followed by an overpowering ache amid your thighs.
Your end is threatening you like a waterfall to river rapids. And by the blissed-out expression staining the boy below, you realise his too is an impending danger.
Suddenly, your world flies forward.
Michaels managed to heave you toward him by the hand hidden in your shirt.
For a few instants, you swear he’s about to kiss you.
His eyes are unmoving from your parted lips, like he’s been waiting all this time to taste them, so close that when your foreheads touch you can smell the mint gum he’d rid of earlier haunting his frenzied breath.
Yet your lips remain untouched.
They merely linger inches away from each other, wavering with the rhythm of your bodies.
This is just how you two are. The act of sharing breath, uncaring of where yours starts and his ends, carries a weight beyond that of lips locking.
“C-can’t hol’ it much longer if you keep–ngh–goin’, right there…” He exhales his words into your mouth.
“You’re goin’ to ruin your pants, Michael.”
The boy can almost—almost—feel a giggle rise in his chest. Only you’d be darling enough to have concern for something so inane.
“You already dirtied ‘em.” He returns, a flicker of a smile carving his lips as though cognizance fights for a space at the fore-front of his mind.
But when you grind on him just right and leave yourself to your pleasure, his tongue goes slack in his mouth.
“You’re the best fren’ for lettin’ me do this...” It’s that familiar silken tone he wears when he speaks to you like you're something he can break. “This is wha’ we should do, right? Help each other—God!—out.”
“Mhhm…Best, best frie-” You don’t know when it rose—or how long it’d been there—but you feel complete for a few moments, as though your bodies soaking in the sunrise of your relief. No muscle is spared as your body fizzles into the forefront of your orgasm.
“Y-you cummin’?” When your reply is a hefty head plummeting to the crook of his neck, shadowed by the quake in your clenched thighs, he figures your answer.
Your climax hits you like a freight-train. It robs you of your vision and stifles everything but the rise and fall of two synchronised sets of lungs.
“Your cummin’ on me, shit…”
Tears shadow your waterline when his bulge presses against your gushing clit, bodies so near that your certain Michael’s ribs are woven into yours. Yet the persistent pad of his thumb at your nipple has your spine curling and stuffing any stray gaps.
You strangle your sobs against Michael’s collar as your hips convulse with the swell of your release. While it wanes, leaving you only with ruined panties and locked-up limbs, you note the weightlessness in the hollow of your abdomen—the source of your orgasm.
“Wan’ keep goin'. Can I, please..?”
You try to find the strength to not only say yes to Michael’s plea, but to beg him to use your body ‘till the only thing you feel is him planting his seed between your legs.
Yet you're a drooling, sensitive mess against him. You settle on a nod.
The boy below revives your pace with his hands entombed into the plush of your thighs, your wilted body the only aid for his throbbing dick. “Thank you, pretty. Oh god, I-I’m s’ close!”
You ache—God, do you ache—but the filth fleeing Michael’s mouth only feeds the muscles that are jelly beneath your flesh. You fill your lungs with air and rise from his chest with a determined huff.
The unpolluted need to watch him fall apart blinds your frailty.
“Wan’ you to come in your jeans, Mikey.” Your sentence is one big slur as each syllable clings on to the next. “I wan’ taste it. Are you gonna be a good friend and let me have a taste?”
“’Is all for you. O-only eva’ been for you.” Michael nods through a disgruntled whimper.
“So kind n’ pretty… Smell s’ good, too. A-an’ you feel s’ soft ontop o’ me—s-shit, I’m-” The boy's mindless worshipping is devoured by the sharp teeth of his orgasm.
A gut-wrenching wail leaks from Michael’s wet, flushed lips as brown eyes wane to the back of his head. You watch every moment with broad and enquiring eyes, utterly engrossed in his ecstasy-charged expression—the slack jaw, his brows pinched on his forehead, the doleful, whiny little noises that flee in short bursts.
Even the way his fingers brace against your skin is sure to leave pretty prints on your soft flesh. Five dainty souvenirs of your devoutness to one-another.
Michael’s tempo wanes as he uses your overstimulated clit to wring himself dry in his slacks, dick pulsing with each throb, wracking his body ‘till his convulsing settles into tremors. His seed soaks into the head of his boxers, climax staining his eyes and ears with the echo of its might.
After a few attempts at forcing breath back into your lungs, you both wade in the soothed silence of post-orgasm waters.
Things are still. Things are safe.
Michael’s beneath you and he’s collecting the pieces of himself he lost between your slick, when;
His hands rising, reaching for the dishevelled hair atop your head. He loops an orphaned strand around his finger.
Michael's playing with your hair.
This is something he’d do when he was jaded during a movie and had you near, or on the phone to a producer with you by his side.
It’s a habit he’s built around the idea that your constant presence nearby is normal.
Was this where your shared path of oddity led you? To the point of naming a once indescribable sensation as lust?
Michael’s fiddling halts when he catches your movements in a sharpened gaze. He’s too fucked-out to question why your hands meandering lower, lower, ‘till it reaches the indent of dark skin that melts into his briefs.
Your supple fingers sink beneath the thin layer against his crotch, uncovering the tacky, balmy liquid that can only be one thing—your best-friends come.
Your nails caress his inflamed tip for only a moment, yet the faint connection has Michael sucking in air through his front teeth. His fingers intuitively fly to your wrist and are able to trap it with a single hand.
“You promised I could have a taste.” Your words sound like satin.
Michael nods dumbly, his brain melting in his skull.
Your fingers circle the leftovers of the slick mess he made before carrying it to your mouth, parting when you lap at the evidence of Michael’s orgasm.
“How do I taste?” His voice comes out as a whisper before he licks his lips, biting into the bottom one so hard you’re certain he’s broken skin.
You hum whilst cleaning your finger on your tongue, swallowing his seed. It’s salty, pungent, somewhat saccharine as it oozes down your throat.
“As sweet as you sound.”
A/N I don't exactly like this BUT! im desperate to post for mj so take it. i will start working on ur requests soon! I don't have a schedule as i am employed so stuff will b released as it's ready! thank you so much for the insane support on my first post, ily all𑁤
Pairing: Idol, ex Jungkook X Fem, staff Reader X One night stand, photographer Taehyung
Theme: Drama, love triangle au, break up au, strangers to lovers au.
Summary:
Jeon Jungkook is the nation's golden boy. Most of his life is exposed in front of the camera. But as soon as the spot light goes out - you are the person he runs to. In quietness, you two fall in each other's arms offering a piece of solace. But your relationship goes through the ultimate fall when Jungkook's long time crush walks into the scene with the proposal of a collaboration.To deal with the heartbreak, you leave for a solo trip to Jeju. Guess what do you do there? heal? NO! you sleep with an unbearably handsome stranger two days in a row and then run away, wary of dealing with the consequences. One month later when the same stranger, Kim Taehyung, waltz in your life again - hellbent on making things work with you, you are considering to take a chance. The only problem is that Jungkook is not too happy with you moving towards someone that's not him.
Warnings: Will be mentioned in every update.
Masterlinks | Patreon (Early access)
A/N: This will be posted one chapter per month. for early access and weekly updates you can join my Patreon <3
— SUMMARY: Michael’s sleeping over at your house for the first time without your family there. You decide to play a game and give him a taste of your favorite lipgloss.
— WARNINGS: sub!mike, fluff, dual loss of virginity, face-fucking, oral, fingering, protected sex, dry humping, premature ejaculation, scent kink (?), reader is a tease, reader is experienced, use of daddy to tease, manipulation (sorta), michael is lowkey a himbo LMAO, dirty talk, pleasure dom reader. jermaine feature.
— WC: 7.7k (let’s all act surprised).
— A/N: Loosely based on this request. Let’s pretend the strawberry shirt he has on in the photo is a pj shirt. Please leave feedback in the comments and don’t forget to like and reblog!
Michael was absolutely buzzing with excitement today. This evening, he’d be sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house for the very first time. The best part? The two of you would be completely alone.
He honestly didn’t know why he was so excited about the alone aspect of it all, though. It’s not like he was brave enough to do anything more than hold your hand.
The two of you had fooled around before, you mostly taking charge, but his brain got so fuzzy around you. Any sense of self or right and wrong would go out the window as soon as he smelled your honey glaze scented lipgloss.
He’d spent the day driving around and shopping with his brother Jermaine, making sure to pick up things you’d mentioned liking the last time the two of you browsed through retail catalogues. The fuzzy white comforter you imagined sprawled at the end of your bed, the cute pajama set he couldn’t wait to see you in, and the stunning golden charm bracelet from your favorite jewelry store, were all carefully strewn across Jermaine’s backseat, a cute enveloped note written to accompany them sitting on top of the pile.
“Mike, this girl’s got you whipped! You droppin’ 3 thousand on a lil’ bracelet?” Jermaine asked with an incredulous laugh after the two settled into his car, driving along the Santa Monica Pier.
“Maine, she’s not just some girl. She’s the love of my life,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Besides, 3 thousand is nothin’. I’d hang the moon and stars for her,” Michael responded earnestly. He’d do a lot for you for no reward at all; just the thought that it was something that convenienced you even a fraction was enough.
“See, this exactly what I mean. Doin’ all that for her and you haven’t even laid down with the girl yet.” The older brother laughed at Michael’s ‘yes man’ attitude toward you, finding the idea of his superstar brother being a total worm for you hilarious.
“We’ve done plenty!” he defended, not enjoying the idea of his older brother seeing him as less experienced for what he’d allowed himself to explore regarding his sex life.
“Like what?” Jermaine questioned, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
“It doesn’t matter! And I don’t see relationships as transactional anyway. The fact that she even likes me is enough.”
A beat of silence settled over the car as Jermaine drove away from the boardwalk, pulling up the car’s hood as they approached a crowd of teenaged girls dancing to one of their older songs, not wanting to be recognized.
When they finally hit the freeway, Michael spoke.
“What do you do?”
“Whatchu mean?” Jermaine pressed.
“Like, how do you…start? Making love, I mean.” Michael cleared his throat.
“We’ve done stuff before, I wasn’t lyin’ about that. But we haven’t gone all the way. She makes me too nervous, ‘n I’m scared of…I don’t want it to end so fast,” he rambled on, realizing Jermaine wasn’t going to interrupt him and was actually giving this some thought.
“You gotta just let it happen, man. I mean, I usually lay the girl down ‘n start kissin’ up on her, but I don’t see you bein’ the type to…” he trailed off in thought. “Just build up tension. Start givin’ her the eyes, ya know? She’ll get the hint.”
“The eyes? Maine, I can barely get close to her in the moment without goin’ dumb.” Michael wiped his hand across his face, trying to cool himself down before he started blushing.
“Here, how’s this?” Jermaine exited the freeway and began demonstrating what he meant at the red light.
“Take your hand, place it on her shoulder like this, look her up ‘n down from her lips to her eyes, and give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.” He accelerated on the gas pedal as the light turned green.
“O-okay. Yeah that seems easy enough,” Michael responded shyly.
“Don’t bring this up to anyone else, Maine. I’ll kill you,” he added, realizing how vulnerable he’d gotten. He’d never hear the end of it from Marlon if this got out.
At exactly half past 5, Michael was ringing at your doorbell, your gifts and his belongings in tow. He told Bill he was spending two nights at your place, reminding him not to be seen by your neighbors during his patrols, and basically flew to your doorstep.
You opened it almost immediately, seeming just about as excited as he was, and plastered your lips onto his in an intimate kiss- too intimate for your front door.
“Hi, my pretty boy. Let’s get you inside, yeah?” you greeted him, noticing the way he flustered up at the nickname.
“Yeah…” he said with a ditzy grin across his face.
“O-oh! I got you these gifts!” he announced with pride. He was carrying them and all of his belongings for the sleepover in one hand, determined to not let you help him carry anything.
You pushed the door wide for him to come in, knowing better than to offer to help him. He seemed to be moving without thinking, just taking steps by pure instinct. As he neared the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, you could see the defeat dawn across his face.
“C’mon, baby. Lemme at least just carry one bag. I’m a big girl.” You took his duffel bag, presumably with his belongings, and led the way, not giving him a second to stop you.
He sighed dramatically and trailed up the steps behind you, his fingers that were straining under the heavier duffel bag feeling relief from the absence of its weight.
As you pushed into your bedroom, the scent of fresh linen and cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, a sudden comfort settling into his bones at the now familiar scent. You shrugged your robe off your shoulders, and Michael realized you were already in your pajamas. He took his duffel bag from your hands, sat down his belongings, and handed you your first gift.
“I’m realizin’ it’s probably too late for this now, but here! I have a feeling you’ll love ‘em.” He was practically vibrating in anticipation.
“I can’t believe you brought me gifts, Mikey. You’re so thoughtful.” You gave him a quick peck and opened the gift box. Inside sat the pj set you fawned over with Michael 2 weeks ago at your kitchen table. It was a red and white gingham two piece set with strawberry pockets on the butt of the mini shorts. The top was a lace-trimmed camisole that stopped just above your hipbone and was see through around the flowy skirt of it. And it was perfect.
“Oh, Michael! I’m putting this on immediately, are you kidding? This is perfect! Thank you so much.” You grabbed him with both hands by the face and littered his burning cheeks in kisses.
“It was nothin’. Here, open the others!” He was eating up your reactions. You jumped up and down at the blanket and tried to pick him up and spin him once you saw the bracelet.
“Hey, let go!” he’d declared in protest with a surprised chuckle at your strength.
“Put it on me, baby,” you told him, breathless, as you let go of his torso.
With a shy smile, he followed your demand mindlessly.
“Do you like it?” he asked, knowing you did. He just wanted to hear you say it.
“I adore it. The first charm I’m gonna buy will be a little ‘M’ just for you. Wouldn’t that be so cute?” you asked him, twisting your wrist around in the warm lighting of your bedroom.
“You’d do that?” he asked you, genuinely surprised by the act of possession.
“Of course! I’d tattoo your name across my chest,” you responded with a quick kiss to his lips as you made your way to your restroom with your new pajama set in hand.
The idea of you tattooing his name on you filled him with a sickening amount of pride.
You stepped back into the room almost as quickly as you left it, and you looked unreal. The cups in the top held your breasts up in just the right way, and the sheer, flowy bottom of it put your torso on full display for him. The shorts were no better. You gave him a twirl, and when his eyes met your backside, he nearly fell at your feet. Your strawberry-adorned ass was sitting prettily in the fabric, the bottom of your soft cheeks on full display for his greedy eyes. You turned back around and sauntered over to him.
“You look perfect,” he complimented you with a dumb smile.
“Hmm, do I?” you teased him as you unzipped his jacket for him.
“Yes, perfect…” he said, losing his train of thought as his eyes fell to the barely-there neckline of your top. He absentmindedly let you pull the jacket off, completely distracted by the view in front of him.
“Get comfortable, baby. I’m gonna go get us popcorn and oj. Then I’ll pick a movie. How’s that sound?” you asked him, knowing he was barely even paying attention.
“Hmm? Yeah, sounds great…” he responded, not able to find more words.
“Michael. Shower. Now.” You turned on your heel and walked with an extra bounce in your step, purposely doing so to make your ass move a bit more as you stepped. He drank it all up and unpacked his stuff in a daze.
He realized he forgot to bring his own body soap, and reveled in the idea of using yours. He couldn’t wait to smell like his girl. It was all he thought about during the 15-minute shower as he lathered up, scrubbed his body, and rinsed off. He brought his own lotion and toothpaste, disgruntled by the idea that he had no excuse to use yours. After he finished moisturizing, he left the room with a small smile, and placed his clothes into your hamper.
He saw you sitting comfortably on the soft carpet at the foot of your bed, your robe on your shoulders and a deck of cards sat in front of you alongside your snacks. You’d brought 2 big slices of homemade pizza, a bottle of tobasco, wet wipes for your hands, and two water bottles, alongside the share-size bowl of popcorn and two glasses of orange juice you’d mentioned. Bambi was in your VCR displaying the main menu, waiting to be played.
He approached you quietly while holding his breath, his mind going crazy at the sight of your legs crossed in front of you. They were making him nervous. He loved your legs.
You looked up at him and a cocky smile spread across your lips.
“You found a matchin’ shirt, huh?” you pressed your index finger to his torso as he sank down next to you, finding the idea of him searching for something to go with your sleep set cute.
“Oh…Yeah, is the matchin’ too much? I just wanted to…” he trailed off, unable to find any excuse that didn’t expose his intentions.
“I love it, baby. We look cute together.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on his jaw. A shiver ran down his spine.
“Eat. I just got this out of the oven, so it should still be hot.” You picked up his plate of pizza and handed it to him, watching with a devious glint in your eye as he obeyed your command. He said a quick prayer, blew the slice, and took a hearty bite while looking deep into your eyes.
“Thank you so much. It’s really good,” he said earnestly, covering his food-filled mouth as he spoke.
“Thank you. Now eat up. I’m gonna start the movie and we can play cards while we watch, when we’re done with the pizza.”
You did just as you said and so did he, eagerly at that. You’d think he didn’t have a brain for his own with the way he just did whatever you told him to. He was wrapped tightly around your pinky finger, just how you liked him.
After you beat him for the fourth time at Go Fish, the movie long having ended, you had him help you bring down your empty dishes and soiled wet wipes downstairs to clean and get rid of.
“I have a game I wanna play,” you stated casually as you handed him the soapy pizza pan you just washed. He rinsed and dried it immediately.
“What is it?” he asked with a little too much enthusiasm. He would do anything if it meant being in your presence.
“It’s…not really an official game. Just somethin’ I sorta made up. You’re gonna like it though.” You said the last sentence as an order, not an assumption. His stomach turned with excitement at the sternness in your voice. “Finish rinsing and drying these and I’ll go brush my teeth ‘n set it up for us. You also brush your teeth when you’re done.”
You left him to the task and hurried up the stairs. You were much more excited than you were letting on tonight. You’d went on a little shopping trip yourself, earlier, spending spent the day at different makeup and department stores meticulously picking out an assortment of flavored lipglosses and chapsticks. You wanted to try them all on and have Michael guess what each flavor was after kissing you. The thought came to you after a particularly vivid dream of him begging you to wear your honey glaze scented gloss while you fucked. You decided you wanted him to be like that after any scent he ever smelled from there on out.
After brushing your teeth, you took off your robe and then laid all of the lip products evenly on your fluffy carpet, and placed your black eye mask beside them, waiting patiently for your boyfriend to leap up the stairs.
As he made it inside your room from your bathroom, having entered it from the hallway, he took in your position and the random scene in front of you, lifting an eyebrow.
“What kinda game is this?” he asked, sounding almost frightened.
“It’s a chapstick challenge. I put on a layer of one of the glosses or lip balms, and you guess the flavors by french kissing me,” you responded with a dazzling smile.
“K-kiss…Okay.” He was already losing it by the mere idea of the game. “And I wear the blindfold?” he inquired.
“Yep. No peeking, understand?” you said, faux seriousness laced into your voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, only half jokingly with the honorific, with his left hand to his temple in a fake salute.
You placed the blindfold over his thick afro, leaving it up just above the eyes, before giving him a kiss. You pulled away and bit your lip at the dazed look on Michael’s face.
You got up- slightly bouncing your ass again- to turn on the record player sitting on your bedside dresser, and adjusted the volume to a comfortable background hum, setting the ambience.
You plopped back down in front of him, and he looked at you hungrily, licking his lips and trying to ignore the lust growing in his abdomen.
“Can I know the flavors, please? Or am I going into this blind?” he inquired.
“We’ll do 7. They’re pretty easy to guess, so I’m making you go in blind. You’re fine with that though, aren’t you baby? You’ll be the best guesser ‘cuz you’re just so smart, right?” you cooed at him, knowing the way you spoke to him would get him to move a mountain for you if you told him to.
“Y-yeah I’m…It’ll be easy.” Bingo.
You pulled the mask over his eyes and opened the first chapstick, the pop of the lid unsealing catching his surprise since his non visual senses were heightened. Cherry. Easy. You applied a generous layer and rubbed your lips together as you inched toward his face.
You pressed your lips to his harshly and he got to work immediately. His tongue explored your lips much longer than it should’ve. This was one of the easiest flavors to guess, by far. He was being greedy. You pulled away with a pop, smirking at his neediness.
“Ch-cherry?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.
“You sure you don’t wanna search some more? That was one of the easiest. You could’ve been more sly about it,” you said teasingly.
“‘M s-sorry. I just love your lips…” he trailed off, embarrassed.
“I’m just teasin’. Of course it was cherry. One point to you! Good job, Mikey.” His lip twitched at the praise.
Peach was next. It wasn’t too hard, but the scent threw off the flavor; it smelled like mango. That was the exact reason you chose it. The ambiguity left room for more.
You repeated your earlier ministrations of application, and kissed him again, this time scooting a little closer to his body. You even cupped his jaw with your hand, eliciting such a soft whine, you were almost convinced you misheard it.
The kiss was longer this time, but purposely. You even took the opportunity to pull at his hair the tiniest bit, smiling against his lips as he made a surprised sound at the back of his throat. He pulled away this time, out of breath.
“That one stumped me. It smells way different than it tastes. I’m gonna guess somethin’ fruity…Peach?” he guessed.
“You got it!” you responded, genuinely surprised. “That one was one of the hardest ones. Didn’t it smell like mango?”
“Yes, that’s what that smell was! It confused me bad.” He chuckled softly, as he reached his hand out toward you, searching for your waist. You reached out to his hand and guided it to where he wanted it, biting your lip at the contact.
This flavor was watermelon. You applied the sticky balm to your lips and smacked them loudly, warning him of your impact this time. He met your lips with ease and immediately got to sucking and licking. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. He moaned when your wet muscle met his, then pulled back, chest heaving.
“Just been waitin’ to do that. I know it was watermelon,” he announced proudly.
“Someone’s gettin’ a lil antsy, huh?” you responded, trying to conceal your bated breath. His lips faltered at the teasing, trying and failing to find an excuse.
“It’s okay, baby. I like when you get desperate.” He bit his lip and covered his face with his hands.
You reached for the next lip balm, this one being cinnamon flavored. He loved cinnamon, which was the reason you bought it. You lathered it on and pulled his hands away from his cheeks, meeting his lips once more. You decided to turn it up a notch by placing his hands right under your breasts and sliding a hand onto his chest, feeling his heart hammering pathetically under your touch, and throwing one of your legs over his. He gasped slightly and pulled you closer, his fingers holding you with a firm grip.
You led the kiss this time, almost forgetting you were playing a ‘game.’ You bit his lip and sucked his tongue just enough to make him squirm, and pulled away.
“What flavor?” you asked him smugly, staring at the slight sheen of lipgloss scattered about his chin and mouth. He didn’t respond, mouth still slightly hanging open with a dazed grin.
“What’s the matter? Cat gotcha tongue?” you continued teasing.
“No, I…You make me forget things,” he admitted sheepishly.
Scratching his neck while keeping one of his hands on your body, he continued.
“Well, I definitely know that was cinnamon. That’s my guess.”
“I knew you’d get that one. I thought of you specifically when I bought it,” you admitted. You poked his nose and absentmindedly applied the next gloss. It was one you already owned and the two of you absolutely adored. Honey glaze.
You smacked your lips one more, letting yourself taste the flavor as you did so, and settled yourself fully on top of his lap now. You felt how hard he was and ground against him languidly once. He whimpered at the contact immediately.
“Aww, my baby’s getting this turned on just from kissing? What am I gonna do with you?” you cooed at him, your breath fanning over his lips. His dick jumped immediately.
“Oh. You’re wearing my favorite…honey glaze.” His knowledge surprised you.
“You peeked, didn’t you?” you questioned him suspiciously.
“N-no! I just…I love the smell of this one. I can recognize it anywhere. Please kiss me,” he whined.
You leaned in at the kiss turned sloppy immediately.
He gripped your waist hungrily with both of his hands, and rocked up into your crotch desperately. You moaned against his tongue as he licked your mouth inside and out, drool sliding down your cheek.
The both of you got incredibly lost in the moment, allowing your need for each other to bubble up sporadically. You ground harshly against his erection and sucked his neck, leaving a bruise in its wake. He moaned once really loudly, and his hips jerked against yours. Then, his hands flew from your waist and ripped the blindfold off of his face.
“‘M sorry. I need to use the restroom,” he quickly mumbled out. He gently slid from underneath you, then made a beeline for your bathroom door.
“Mich-” you called after him breathlessly as the door shut.
“Damnit,” he mumbled as he pulled down his pants. His cum sat proudly against the fabric of his boxers, much to his annoyance. He grabbed a wet wipe and cleaned his crotch wildly, the cold wetness making him shiver. He couldn’t believe he let himself go like that. Sliding his underwear off, he internally cursed himself for being so embarrassing. He washed his hands and entered the room again, his head hanging low and his underwear balled into his fist. He put it inside your hamper and then sat on the edge of your bed without a word, avoiding your gaze.
You knew exactly what happened, and it made you cocky.
“Mikey, baby. I know you came your pants,” you announced crudely. You sat down next to him with a wicked smile tugging at your lips.
“It’s embarrassing. We didn’t even do anything…” He sniffed in shame.
“Baby, it’s flattering. I’m glad to know that you get that horny for me,” you replied. You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look you in the eye.
“It’s not…Well, yes. I do get…aroused by you. But it’s your lipgloss. The smell…It makes my brain numb,” he admitted.
You removed your hand and bent over right in front of him to pick up the honey glaze scented gloss from the carpet, purposely nudging your butt against his knee as you reached down. You turned back around and waved it in his face tauntingly.
“This lipgloss? My favorite one?” You opened it and applied another layer. Setting it down on the bed, you placed your hands on either side of his legs and inched toward his face.
“The smell turns you on?” you ask, letting the scent waft around his personal space. He whimpered loudly.
“Yes,” he spat out, shoving down a heavy gulp. He could already feel himself getting hard again, and his eyes trailed down your torso, straight to the curve of your breasts, which were more visible due to you being bent over.
“You checkin’ me out?” you asked him mockingly.
His eyes snapped to your face as if he got caught doing something wrong. You sat back down next to him and stared at his bottom lip, which was being cradled between his teeth.
The way you were looking at him, like you were a predator hunting its prey, made Michael’s heart hammer so loudly against his chest that he swore you could hear it.
Then, a voice echoed in his head.
Start givin’ her the eyes…Take your hand, place it on her shoulder…look her up ‘n down…
He followed each direction as it played in his mind, his sudden confidence faltering your own in its track. Then, he gave you the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen.
…Give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.
“Do you wanna fuck me?” you asked him straightforwardly. He flinched a bit at how direct your words were.
“Yes,” he sighed. “B-but only if you wanna! I don’t…It has to be your choice.” What he really wanted to say was that he wanted you to use his body like he only existed for your pleasure.
“Then fuck me, Michael. Rip my clothes off and plow me into my sheets.” You slid your thumb across his bottom lip and tugged it down. He stared at you like a deer in headlights.
“You gonna touch me, or what?” you asked, cocking your head to the side in fake confusion. You knew your words were scrambling his brain, and you loved it.
“Y- sorry. Um.” He fumbled with his hands, not knowing where to touch you or place them. He felt like an idiot. You’ve engaged in sexual acts before, but he felt out of his league now, the looming state of his virginity making everything much more serious.
“Go get a condom from my dresser. Top drawer,” you ordered him. He obeyed and picked a small foil wrapper from the unopened Trojan box. He secretly thanked God at the sight, realizing you hadn’t recently been using them with anyone else, although he already knew that.
He held the foreign object in his hand and stood between your parted legs.
“C’mere,” you said before pulling him down by his neck and making out with him like you hadn’t been allowed to for a century.
He cautiously explored your body with his large hands, continuing certain gropes and squeezes when you gave him louder whines.
His body was now hovering yours, propped up by his forearms, and you could feel his heavy dick slap against your crotch through his pants as he went to kiss tenderly on your neck.
“I’m not wearing any underwear either. Wanna feel how wet I am for you?” you asked him lewdly.
“Please,” he begged, letting you take his hand and place it square on top of your clothed pussy.
He could feel you pounding beneath his palm, and he felt that familiar slimy substance connecting his hand to your core. He rubbed two of his fingers into you a bit, collecting some of your arousal. Detaching his mouth from your neck, he looked down at you with a dazed expression. With his free hand, he gently gripped your face, making you look at him.
Without a word, he removed his hand from your sex and sniffed his fingers greedily. He bucked his hips into yours, and shoved those fingers into his mouth with a loud groan.
You were in awe.
“I had no idea you were this filthy. Thought you were a good boy, but I guess you’re way dirtier than I thought,” you told him with surprise etched into every word. Your statement only made him needier. He shoved his fingers farther into his mouth and pulled them out, searching for your cunt again.
“Please, let me take these off. Wanna feel you,” he begged, a mixture of drool and your arousal collecting at the corner of his parted lips.
“Go ahead baby. Show me how much you want me.”
With a whimper, he crawled down your body and landed on his knees with effortless agility. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pajama shorts and froze.
“I-i’m a virgin,” he stated, voice barely above a whisper.
“Michael, I know. We’ve talked about this plenty of times,” you responded patiently. You knew he was nervous, but you also knew he wanted this.
“I know, it’s just that…I’m not gonna know how to do everything. I don’t wanna embarrass myself,” he replied meekly.
“Baby…I know you think I’m some sex god, but I’m still a virgin too.” You sat up and looked down at him, forcing him to meet your intense gaze. He looked stunned.
“It’s okay if you’re not. You don’t needa lie to me to make me feel bet-” You interrupted him by clamping your hand over his mouth.
“Michael, I’m not lying. When I told you before we ever did anything sexual that I had experience, that wasn’t a lie either. I’ve just never trusted anyone to go all the way. But I trust you and I want this with you. Don’t you wanna give it to me?” you asked him with a faux-sad pout.
“Of course! I wanna be your first…I want you to be mine. And my last. I wanna give my soul to you,” he rambled, inching your shorts down your thighs as he leaned in closer.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me..” he spoke quietly, mostly to himself, drifting off once he unclothed your lower body. He threw the damp shorts onto the floor and looked up at you with so much gratitude that it made your heart swell.
“Taste me,” you said, as you watched him lick his lips like he was starving.
He placed your thighs atop his shoulder and delved in, immediately grinding against nothing at the scent of your pussy.
“Mmm, th-that’s right. Just how I taught you before,” you spoke to him. He was circling your clit with his tongue with expert precision; just enough to feel like you were floating, but not enough to feel like you were grinding against a rock. Then he did something else you taught him, but with his own twist. He scratched up and down your thighs, the familiar sensation making you feel like music. But then, he slid his tongue down to your entrance and stuck it in, your arousal pooling around it in the act.
“F-fuck. Where’d you learn how to do that? Been seein’ someone else?” you inquired, only half joking. He pulled out and looked up at you with an earnest fire in his eyes.
“Never.” Then, he continued his actions, fucking his tongue into you as far as both of your anatomies would allow.
You pushed his head into you, grinding down with need. His afro acted as a protection against your brutal shove. He slid his tongue back out and worked your clit again, feeling confidence settle into his demeanor. So much confidence, he took two fingers, collected your arousal into them, and slid them into you. You cursed loudly.
“O-oh my god…F-Yeah! Curl them like that,” you mewled, your brain not knowing how to compute your pleasure into words. You’d only felt your own fingers inside there, once or twice, and you didn’t enjoy it. Your fingers couldn’t reach as far as his currently were, though.
You fell back against the bed as you felt your orgasm sprinting toward you faster than you anticipated, gripping onto your sheets and locking your ankles around Michael’s neck in an attempt to hold on.
“M-mikey, ah. Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” you breathed out to him, feeling the knot in your stomach almost unravel. He immediately withdrew his mouth and fingers, you arousal leaving a string of connection to his chin as he did so.
“Did it start to hurt? Sorry, I just thought you were gonna have an or-”
“I was gonna have an orgasm. I just don’t want to yet. I wanna suck that pretty dick of yours first. You’re gonna let me, right?” you asked him, not really leaving space to take no for an answer.
Michael never let you suck him off, to your own disappointment. He’s eaten you out so many times that you’d run out of positions for it, he’s let you grind against his dick with clothes, he’s even let you jerk him off, but he’s never let you get on your knees and put your mouth on it. His exact words were that it was ‘degrading and useless.’ He didn’t wanna hurt you. But you wanted to see him let go. You wanted the proof of your lewd acts with him physically etched into bruises to the back of your throat.
“Baby, I can’t let you do th-” You clamped your hand against his mouth once more.
“You’re gonna let me suck you off. Right?” you asked, slowly moving your hand away from his mouth.
“Ok-kay,” he responded with resignation in his voice.
He stood up and you slid his bottoms off, licking your lips at the sight of him. He was holding out on you because god was it pretty. And big. You thought he was just being a modest gentlemen when he told you he didn’t want to hurt you, but it was more than just that. He was really long, and he knew it.
“So you knew how big your dick was huh? That’s why you never let me do this. Betchu imagine me sucking that pretty thing off all the time.” You reached for it greedily and spit onto his tip, watching it slide down the base slowly.
“Stop- d-don’t talk about it like that..” he said weakly.
“Oh but you like it, though. I could practically feel you getting harder, baby. No need to be shy about it,” you egged him on. Before he could protest any longer, you wrapped your hand around his base and began tugging upward. You reached for your lipgloss with your free hand and applied a thick layer to your swollen lips. You blew a taunting kiss at him. He was visibly holding back his moans, much to your disapproval.
“Nuh-uh, let me hear those pretty moans. Sing for me, Michael,” you directed. He obeyed, and not even on purpose. The way you were touching and talking to him made him forget who he was.
“Feels s- you feel so good. I love you..” he blabbered.
“I love you too, baby.” You leaned forward and gave his shaft an open-mouthed kiss, maintaing eye contact with him. His whole body went rigid in shock as he saw the sticky mark your lip product left in its wake.
“Oh, god,” he groaned, jerking his hips up into your hand. You started twisting it whenever you got closer to his tip.
Without warning, you took it into your mouth, eyes focused on his, and sunk down on it. His eyes rolled back and his hands flew to the back of your head, holding it for composure. You began slowly moving up and down, flattening your tongue and sucking him like he was the best popsicle you’d ever tasted.
“Pl-ease, I don’t wanna cum yet. Plea-, please, please,” he begged on and on, turning please into a chant.
You hummed around his length, ignoring him, and continued to work. Tears stinged at your eyes, and drool dribbled out of your mouth. The sinful sight of you made him do something he swore he wouldn’t do. He rocked into your mouth roughly, just once, but it was enough to make you falter and gag against him. You moaned lustfully and your eyes lolled to the back of their sockets. He removed his hands from your head and scooted back from your mouth with a pop.
“‘M so sorry! I should’ve contained myself better. I know better. Did it hurt? If course it hurt, you’re crying and you gagged. Oh, God I’m so sorry prett-” You gripped onto his dick harshly, cutting him off.
“Michael, I want you to do that. I love it. Fuck my mouth, angel face. I can take it,” you reassured him with a devilish grin.
“N-no, I shouldn’t’ve let you touch me like that. You’re too precious…I can’t hurt you agai-”
“Michael. For the love of God, shut the hell up. I want you to hurt me and bruise me and make me cry. Is that not okay? Am I too dirty for you?” you asked him, feigning hurt. You secretly enjoyed tricking him into getting what you wanted because he somehow always gave it to you, and this time was gonna be no different.
“Not at all! You could never be too dirty for me…You’re perfect. I just don’t wanna degrade you like that. But since it’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you anythin’ you want.” Bingo.
“M’kay, now you gonna fuck my throat like a good boy, right?” you asked him with puppy dog eyes, tears still sitting in your waterline.
“Y-yes,” he responded hesitantly.
“Yes, what?” you asked him, enjoying working him up like this.
“Yes, angel. I-i’m gonna fuck your face…like a good…boy?” he responded, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than he was you.
You gave him a soft hmm and pulled him back towards you, spitting a glob into your hand once more. You jerked him slowly 4 times and then looked him in his face.
“Don’t worry about me, ‘kay? If I want you to stop, I’ll make you stop. But, I trust you,” you said earnestly. “C’mon, stand up and give it to me, baby.”
Then, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out in anticipation. He hesitantly stood up, jerked himself twice, and then pushed into your mouth. Holding the back of your head gently, but firmly, with both of his hands, he set an inexperienced pace with his thrusts. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harshly whenever he would drag his hips back, causing his legs to shake.
“Th-this is so, AH, wrong. You shouldn’t look this pretty like this. With my…thing in your mouth.”
You scrunched your brows into a pout and moaned loudly, forcing him to unconsciously fuck your mouth harder.
“B-baby you can’t do that, ‘m gonna finish if you do.” You continued moaning and sucking loudly, noticing his breaths shorten as his climax neared.
“God, you’re so pretty d-down there. Ngh- wait-” You forced yourself away from his crotch and crawled to the center of your bed, positioning yourself on all fours. You turned around and coaxed him over to you with a teasing finger.
“Baby, I need you. See how wet I am?” You arched your back and swayed your hips side to side, letting the light catch your arousal. “I need you to make me feel better. It’s aching,” you pouted. His feet were moving before his conscious mind could register your words, and he joined you in bed. He picked up the condom he mindlessly dropped earlier and unwrapped it.
“I-i’ll make you feel better,” her says as he pulled the rubber from its foil packet.
You turned around and took the contraceptive from him.
“Let me put it on you, daddy,” you smirked as you said the nickname.
“Don’t call me th-that,” he pouted.
You placed it on his tip with unnecessary friction and rolled it down his shaft, raising your eyebrows and smirking at the pathetic boy in front of you.
“Mmm, but you like it when I tease you with it,” you told him.
“Okay.” He gulped audibly and leaned down to press a hot kiss to your lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Michael. Now fuck me like you need it,” you said as you went back to your position on all fours. You were almost scared that he’d be too big, or that you’d need lube that you didn’t have, but as soon as he pushed his tip in, your pussy sucked him in. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being stretched like this, but your body didn’t register too much pain. You were drenched.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he called out as your sex squelched around him, forcing him in deeper. You moaned out as he stretched and filled you. As soon as he bottomed out, he laid on top of your back, already feeling overwhelmed.
“M-michael! Oh my god, ‘m so wet. Needed your dick inside me so bad, fuck,” you inched forward and slammed back against his length forcefully, arching your back in the process. He sat up immediately and gripped onto your hips.
“The way you talk…” he trailed off as he started thrusting into you slowly.
“You like m-my dirty mouth, baby? Want me to talk to you through it, pretty boy?” you asked him, feeling his tip hit your g-spot with ease.
“Yes, please,” he whined, speeding up slightly in anticipation.
“F-fuck me harder, baby. Feels so good.” You pushed your head into your mattress, arching your back up higher, allowing yourself to take him deeper. He followed your instructions and snapped his hips into you harshly once, gauging your body’s response to the action. You pushed your ass further into his crotch, and he took that as silent permission.
“Mikeyyy. You’re so bad, taking my virginity in my bedroom like this. Mmm-fuck,” you whined, your vision going blurry with tears of pleasure.
“Y-yes, so bad. ‘M so bad,” he repeated, slamming into you faster. Your bed was creaking with his thrusts. He could already feel himself losing it again.
“Mmm, mmm, Mikey p-push my head into the mattress baby. Be rough.”
He obeyed immediately, leaning over and pressing his palm to the side of your head. He took one look at your face and felt his orgasm creeping up. Your mouth was wide open and there was a huge wet spot where your mouth leaked drool onto your sheets.
“You’re so pretty, baby. You look so good like this,” he complimented.
“With you plowin’ me into m-my own sheets? Thank you, baby boy.”
Your tongue licked at his thumb that was near your lips, and you sucked it into your mouth.
“OH! I’m g-onn…I’m cumming. Shit, I’m cumming!” he cried out as his hips stuttered. He buried himself into you deeply and filled the condom with his seed. He collapsed his torso onto your arched back and you bit his thumb. He clutched it after you spat it out of your mouth.
“I didn’t say to stop, did I? I thought you were a gentleman. Make me cum,” you demanded.
“Yes, baby. ‘M sorr-y…” he apologized in between whines of overstimulation.
You reached your hand down to your clit and started playing with it needily, overeager to cum on him. He pounded into you again, his dick half hard, as you started babbling into your bedsheets.
“Mikey, ‘m s-so close. Keep fuckin’ me like that, baby. You’re doin’ so well for me. You’re fillin’ me up so good.” The sound in the room was so unmistakable. The noise of creaky box springs, skin slapping and sticky arousal drowned out the hum of music leaving your record player.
He leaned down and hovered over your ear, whimpering into it. He sounded like an undiscovered instrument. The sound made your pussy squeeze against his shaft, signaling your orgasm.
“Y-yeah be louder. Love your filthy little whimpers, Michael. Gimme more,” you said with the last of your breath. He pounded harder and fully moaned into your ear, causing you to completely come undone.
You reached behind you and dug your nails into his sides as your legs shook and your pussy spasmed around his spent dick, already hardened again. You screamed his name like a prayer and Michael wished that was the only sound his ears would ever be subjected to again.
As you began going limp, Michael slid his arm underneath you, wrapping around your waist, and pulled out of you. He rolled into his side and pulled you on top of his chest, ignoring how hard he was again.
“I’m so glad it was you,” he said after he caught his breath.
“Hmm?” you asked him, looking up to the side of his face.
“My virginity. I’m glad you took it. It feels like you were exactly who I was waitin’ for whenever I would tell my brothers I was waitin’ on the right girl. No, you’re even better,” he said bashfully.
“Well, I’m glad you took mine too. You were absolutely perfect. I’m so glad we get to share this memory with each other. We fit so well together, don’tcha think? Like two halves of a puzzle,” you mused with a faint smile.
“I’d say so,” he said with a gulp loaded with a double meaning.
“Whatcha mean by that, baby?” you questioned him.
“Just…It’s like your body was swallowin’ me whole. It was incredible.” He bit his lips as he looked you in your eyes. You felt a pulsing at your abdomen, finally noticing how hard he was.
“Ohhh, my baby’s ready for round two? You have stamina…Good ta know,” you teased him with a giggle.
“‘M sorry, you just look ‘n sound so pretty when you’re tellin’ me what to do…”
“It’s okay, baby. Here. Let’s go take a quick shower, yeah? Then we can sixty-nine,” you said as you sat up on your knees. You gave him a wink. He gulped both audibly and visibly.
“Oh, yes please. I’d love that,” he responded with unconcealed enthusiasm. You pulled him behind you and led him toward the restroom, the excitement of round two noticeable in your light steps. You discarded your shirt and pulled Michael’s over his head for him.
“Take off that condom, baby. I’m gonna wash you up.”
He threw the soiled condom into your tiny tin trash can, and trailed after you like a puppy.
You turned on your shower and faced him, your tits on full display to him now. He swallowed loudly and gave a kiss to each of your nipples, surprising you in the act.
“I love you,” he whispered, and then leaned in to give you an intense kiss. His tongue slotted between your lips before you pulled away.
“Uh-uh. Don’t start something you can’t finish in here, needy boy. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
You stepped into the shower, him immediately after you, and the two of you let a comfortable silence settle in the air, washing yourselves and then each other’s backs.
With the two forgotten lip balm flavors lying lazily on the floor, the promise of your newly broadened sexual history etched into the empty house with a faint trace of a sweet scent. The scent of honey glaze.
— SUMMARY: Michael’s sleeping over at your house for the first time without your family there. You decide to play a game and give him a taste of your favorite lipgloss.
— WARNINGS: sub!mike, fluff, dual loss of virginity, face-fucking, oral, fingering, protected sex, dry humping, premature ejaculation, scent kink (?), reader is a tease, reader is experienced, use of daddy to tease, manipulation (sorta), michael is lowkey a himbo LMAO, dirty talk, pleasure dom reader. jermaine feature.
— WC: 7.7k (let’s all act surprised).
— A/N: Loosely based on this request. Let’s pretend the strawberry shirt he has on in the photo is a pj shirt. Please leave feedback in the comments and don’t forget to like and reblog!
Michael was absolutely buzzing with excitement today. This evening, he’d be sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house for the very first time. The best part? The two of you would be completely alone.
He honestly didn’t know why he was so excited about the alone aspect of it all, though. It’s not like he was brave enough to do anything more than hold your hand.
The two of you had fooled around before, you mostly taking charge, but his brain got so fuzzy around you. Any sense of self or right and wrong would go out the window as soon as he smelled your honey glaze scented lipgloss.
He’d spent the day driving around and shopping with his brother Jermaine, making sure to pick up things you’d mentioned liking the last time the two of you browsed through retail catalogues. The fuzzy white comforter you imagined sprawled at the end of your bed, the cute pajama set he couldn’t wait to see you in, and the stunning golden charm bracelet from your favorite jewelry store, were all carefully strewn across Jermaine’s backseat, a cute enveloped note written to accompany them sitting on top of the pile.
“Mike, this girl’s got you whipped! You droppin’ 3 thousand on a lil’ bracelet?” Jermaine asked with an incredulous laugh after the two settled into his car, driving along the Santa Monica Pier.
“Maine, she’s not just some girl. She’s the love of my life,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Besides, 3 thousand is nothin’. I’d hang the moon and stars for her,” Michael responded earnestly. He’d do a lot for you for no reward at all; just the thought that it was something that convenienced you even a fraction was enough.
“See, this exactly what I mean. Doin’ all that for her and you haven’t even laid down with the girl yet.” The older brother laughed at Michael’s ‘yes man’ attitude toward you, finding the idea of his superstar brother being a total worm for you hilarious.
“We’ve done plenty!” he defended, not enjoying the idea of his older brother seeing him as less experienced for what he’d allowed himself to explore regarding his sex life.
“Like what?” Jermaine questioned, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
“It doesn’t matter! And I don’t see relationships as transactional anyway. The fact that she even likes me is enough.”
A beat of silence settled over the car as Jermaine drove away from the boardwalk, pulling up the car’s hood as they approached a crowd of teenaged girls dancing to one of their older songs, not wanting to be recognized.
When they finally hit the freeway, Michael spoke.
“What do you do?”
“Whatchu mean?” Jermaine pressed.
“Like, how do you…start? Making love, I mean.” Michael cleared his throat.
“We’ve done stuff before, I wasn’t lyin’ about that. But we haven’t gone all the way. She makes me too nervous, ‘n I’m scared of…I don’t want it to end so fast,” he rambled on, realizing Jermaine wasn’t going to interrupt him and was actually giving this some thought.
“You gotta just let it happen, man. I mean, I usually lay the girl down ‘n start kissin’ up on her, but I don’t see you bein’ the type to…” he trailed off in thought. “Just build up tension. Start givin’ her the eyes, ya know? She’ll get the hint.”
“The eyes? Maine, I can barely get close to her in the moment without goin’ dumb.” Michael wiped his hand across his face, trying to cool himself down before he started blushing.
“Here, how’s this?” Jermaine exited the freeway and began demonstrating what he meant at the red light.
“Take your hand, place it on her shoulder like this, look her up ‘n down from her lips to her eyes, and give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.” He accelerated on the gas pedal as the light turned green.
“O-okay. Yeah that seems easy enough,” Michael responded shyly.
“Don’t bring this up to anyone else, Maine. I’ll kill you,” he added, realizing how vulnerable he’d gotten. He’d never hear the end of it from Marlon if this got out.
At exactly half past 5, Michael was ringing at your doorbell, your gifts and his belongings in tow. He told Bill he was spending two nights at your place, reminding him not to be seen by your neighbors during his patrols, and basically flew to your doorstep.
You opened it almost immediately, seeming just about as excited as he was, and plastered your lips onto his in an intimate kiss- too intimate for your front door.
“Hi, my pretty boy. Let’s get you inside, yeah?” you greeted him, noticing the way he flustered up at the nickname.
“Yeah…” he said with a ditzy grin across his face.
“O-oh! I got you these gifts!” he announced with pride. He was carrying them and all of his belongings for the sleepover in one hand, determined to not let you help him carry anything.
You pushed the door wide for him to come in, knowing better than to offer to help him. He seemed to be moving without thinking, just taking steps by pure instinct. As he neared the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, you could see the defeat dawn across his face.
“C’mon, baby. Lemme at least just carry one bag. I’m a big girl.” You took his duffel bag, presumably with his belongings, and led the way, not giving him a second to stop you.
He sighed dramatically and trailed up the steps behind you, his fingers that were straining under the heavier duffel bag feeling relief from the absence of its weight.
As you pushed into your bedroom, the scent of fresh linen and cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, a sudden comfort settling into his bones at the now familiar scent. You shrugged your robe off your shoulders, and Michael realized you were already in your pajamas. He took his duffel bag from your hands, sat down his belongings, and handed you your first gift.
“I’m realizin’ it’s probably too late for this now, but here! I have a feeling you’ll love ‘em.” He was practically vibrating in anticipation.
“I can’t believe you brought me gifts, Mikey. You’re so thoughtful.” You gave him a quick peck and opened the gift box. Inside sat the pj set you fawned over with Michael 2 weeks ago at your kitchen table. It was a red and white gingham two piece set with strawberry pockets on the butt of the mini shorts. The top was a lace-trimmed camisole that stopped just above your hipbone and was see through around the flowy skirt of it. And it was perfect.
“Oh, Michael! I’m putting this on immediately, are you kidding? This is perfect! Thank you so much.” You grabbed him with both hands by the face and littered his burning cheeks in kisses.
“It was nothin’. Here, open the others!” He was eating up your reactions. You jumped up and down at the blanket and tried to pick him up and spin him once you saw the bracelet.
“Hey, let go!” he’d declared in protest with a surprised chuckle at your strength.
“Put it on me, baby,” you told him, breathless, as you let go of his torso.
With a shy smile, he followed your demand mindlessly.
“Do you like it?” he asked, knowing you did. He just wanted to hear you say it.
“I adore it. The first charm I’m gonna buy will be a little ‘M’ just for you. Wouldn’t that be so cute?” you asked him, twisting your wrist around in the warm lighting of your bedroom.
“You’d do that?” he asked you, genuinely surprised by the act of possession.
“Of course! I’d tattoo your name across my chest,” you responded with a quick kiss to his lips as you made your way to your restroom with your new pajama set in hand.
The idea of you tattooing his name on you filled him with a sickening amount of pride.
You stepped back into the room almost as quickly as you left it, and you looked unreal. The cups in the top held your breasts up in just the right way, and the sheer, flowy bottom of it put your torso on full display for him. The shorts were no better. You gave him a twirl, and when his eyes met your backside, he nearly fell at your feet. Your strawberry-adorned ass was sitting prettily in the fabric, the bottom of your soft cheeks on full display for his greedy eyes. You turned back around and sauntered over to him.
“You look perfect,” he complimented you with a dumb smile.
“Hmm, do I?” you teased him as you unzipped his jacket for him.
“Yes, perfect…” he said, losing his train of thought as his eyes fell to the barely-there neckline of your top. He absentmindedly let you pull the jacket off, completely distracted by the view in front of him.
“Get comfortable, baby. I’m gonna go get us popcorn and oj. Then I’ll pick a movie. How’s that sound?” you asked him, knowing he was barely even paying attention.
“Hmm? Yeah, sounds great…” he responded, not able to find more words.
“Michael. Shower. Now.” You turned on your heel and walked with an extra bounce in your step, purposely doing so to make your ass move a bit more as you stepped. He drank it all up and unpacked his stuff in a daze.
He realized he forgot to bring his own body soap, and reveled in the idea of using yours. He couldn’t wait to smell like his girl. It was all he thought about during the 15-minute shower as he lathered up, scrubbed his body, and rinsed off. He brought his own lotion and toothpaste, disgruntled by the idea that he had no excuse to use yours. After he finished moisturizing, he left the room with a small smile, and placed his clothes into your hamper.
He saw you sitting comfortably on the soft carpet at the foot of your bed, your robe on your shoulders and a deck of cards sat in front of you alongside your snacks. You’d brought 2 big slices of homemade pizza, a bottle of tobasco, wet wipes for your hands, and two water bottles, alongside the share-size bowl of popcorn and two glasses of orange juice you’d mentioned. Bambi was in your VCR displaying the main menu, waiting to be played.
He approached you quietly while holding his breath, his mind going crazy at the sight of your legs crossed in front of you. They were making him nervous. He loved your legs.
You looked up at him and a cocky smile spread across your lips.
“You found a matchin’ shirt, huh?” you pressed your index finger to his torso as he sank down next to you, finding the idea of him searching for something to go with your sleep set cute.
“Oh…Yeah, is the matchin’ too much? I just wanted to…” he trailed off, unable to find any excuse that didn’t expose his intentions.
“I love it, baby. We look cute together.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on his jaw. A shiver ran down his spine.
“Eat. I just got this out of the oven, so it should still be hot.” You picked up his plate of pizza and handed it to him, watching with a devious glint in your eye as he obeyed your command. He said a quick prayer, blew the slice, and took a hearty bite while looking deep into your eyes.
“Thank you so much. It’s really good,” he said earnestly, covering his food-filled mouth as he spoke.
“Thank you. Now eat up. I’m gonna start the movie and we can play cards while we watch, when we’re done with the pizza.”
You did just as you said and so did he, eagerly at that. You’d think he didn’t have a brain for his own with the way he just did whatever you told him to. He was wrapped tightly around your pinky finger, just how you liked him.
After you beat him for the fourth time at Go Fish, the movie long having ended, you had him help you bring down your empty dishes and soiled wet wipes downstairs to clean and get rid of.
“I have a game I wanna play,” you stated casually as you handed him the soapy pizza pan you just washed. He rinsed and dried it immediately.
“What is it?” he asked with a little too much enthusiasm. He would do anything if it meant being in your presence.
“It’s…not really an official game. Just somethin’ I sorta made up. You’re gonna like it though.” You said the last sentence as an order, not an assumption. His stomach turned with excitement at the sternness in your voice. “Finish rinsing and drying these and I’ll go brush my teeth ‘n set it up for us. You also brush your teeth when you’re done.”
You left him to the task and hurried up the stairs. You were much more excited than you were letting on tonight. You’d went on a little shopping trip yourself, earlier, spending spent the day at different makeup and department stores meticulously picking out an assortment of flavored lipglosses and chapsticks. You wanted to try them all on and have Michael guess what each flavor was after kissing you. The thought came to you after a particularly vivid dream of him begging you to wear your honey glaze scented gloss while you fucked. You decided you wanted him to be like that after any scent he ever smelled from there on out.
After brushing your teeth, you took off your robe and then laid all of the lip products evenly on your fluffy carpet, and placed your black eye mask beside them, waiting patiently for your boyfriend to leap up the stairs.
As he made it inside your room from your bathroom, having entered it from the hallway, he took in your position and the random scene in front of you, lifting an eyebrow.
“What kinda game is this?” he asked, sounding almost frightened.
“It’s a chapstick challenge. I put on a layer of one of the glosses or lip balms, and you guess the flavors by french kissing me,” you responded with a dazzling smile.
“K-kiss…Okay.” He was already losing it by the mere idea of the game. “And I wear the blindfold?” he inquired.
“Yep. No peeking, understand?” you said, faux seriousness laced into your voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, only half jokingly with the honorific, with his left hand to his temple in a fake salute.
You placed the blindfold over his thick afro, leaving it up just above the eyes, before giving him a kiss. You pulled away and bit your lip at the dazed look on Michael’s face.
You got up- slightly bouncing your ass again- to turn on the record player sitting on your bedside dresser, and adjusted the volume to a comfortable background hum, setting the ambience.
You plopped back down in front of him, and he looked at you hungrily, licking his lips and trying to ignore the lust growing in his abdomen.
“Can I know the flavors, please? Or am I going into this blind?” he inquired.
“We’ll do 7. They’re pretty easy to guess, so I’m making you go in blind. You’re fine with that though, aren’t you baby? You’ll be the best guesser ‘cuz you’re just so smart, right?” you cooed at him, knowing the way you spoke to him would get him to move a mountain for you if you told him to.
“Y-yeah I’m…It’ll be easy.” Bingo.
You pulled the mask over his eyes and opened the first chapstick, the pop of the lid unsealing catching his surprise since his non visual senses were heightened. Cherry. Easy. You applied a generous layer and rubbed your lips together as you inched toward his face.
You pressed your lips to his harshly and he got to work immediately. His tongue explored your lips much longer than it should’ve. This was one of the easiest flavors to guess, by far. He was being greedy. You pulled away with a pop, smirking at his neediness.
“Ch-cherry?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.
“You sure you don’t wanna search some more? That was one of the easiest. You could’ve been more sly about it,” you said teasingly.
“‘M s-sorry. I just love your lips…” he trailed off, embarrassed.
“I’m just teasin’. Of course it was cherry. One point to you! Good job, Mikey.” His lip twitched at the praise.
Peach was next. It wasn’t too hard, but the scent threw off the flavor; it smelled like mango. That was the exact reason you chose it. The ambiguity left room for more.
You repeated your earlier ministrations of application, and kissed him again, this time scooting a little closer to his body. You even cupped his jaw with your hand, eliciting such a soft whine, you were almost convinced you misheard it.
The kiss was longer this time, but purposely. You even took the opportunity to pull at his hair the tiniest bit, smiling against his lips as he made a surprised sound at the back of his throat. He pulled away this time, out of breath.
“That one stumped me. It smells way different than it tastes. I’m gonna guess somethin’ fruity…Peach?” he guessed.
“You got it!” you responded, genuinely surprised. “That one was one of the hardest ones. Didn’t it smell like mango?”
“Yes, that’s what that smell was! It confused me bad.” He chuckled softly, as he reached his hand out toward you, searching for your waist. You reached out to his hand and guided it to where he wanted it, biting your lip at the contact.
This flavor was watermelon. You applied the sticky balm to your lips and smacked them loudly, warning him of your impact this time. He met your lips with ease and immediately got to sucking and licking. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. He moaned when your wet muscle met his, then pulled back, chest heaving.
“Just been waitin’ to do that. I know it was watermelon,” he announced proudly.
“Someone’s gettin’ a lil antsy, huh?” you responded, trying to conceal your bated breath. His lips faltered at the teasing, trying and failing to find an excuse.
“It’s okay, baby. I like when you get desperate.” He bit his lip and covered his face with his hands.
You reached for the next lip balm, this one being cinnamon flavored. He loved cinnamon, which was the reason you bought it. You lathered it on and pulled his hands away from his cheeks, meeting his lips once more. You decided to turn it up a notch by placing his hands right under your breasts and sliding a hand onto his chest, feeling his heart hammering pathetically under your touch, and throwing one of your legs over his. He gasped slightly and pulled you closer, his fingers holding you with a firm grip.
You led the kiss this time, almost forgetting you were playing a ‘game.’ You bit his lip and sucked his tongue just enough to make him squirm, and pulled away.
“What flavor?” you asked him smugly, staring at the slight sheen of lipgloss scattered about his chin and mouth. He didn’t respond, mouth still slightly hanging open with a dazed grin.
“What’s the matter? Cat gotcha tongue?” you continued teasing.
“No, I…You make me forget things,” he admitted sheepishly.
Scratching his neck while keeping one of his hands on your body, he continued.
“Well, I definitely know that was cinnamon. That’s my guess.”
“I knew you’d get that one. I thought of you specifically when I bought it,” you admitted. You poked his nose and absentmindedly applied the next gloss. It was one you already owned and the two of you absolutely adored. Honey glaze.
You smacked your lips one more, letting yourself taste the flavor as you did so, and settled yourself fully on top of his lap now. You felt how hard he was and ground against him languidly once. He whimpered at the contact immediately.
“Aww, my baby’s getting this turned on just from kissing? What am I gonna do with you?” you cooed at him, your breath fanning over his lips. His dick jumped immediately.
“Oh. You’re wearing my favorite…honey glaze.” His knowledge surprised you.
“You peeked, didn’t you?” you questioned him suspiciously.
“N-no! I just…I love the smell of this one. I can recognize it anywhere. Please kiss me,” he whined.
You leaned in at the kiss turned sloppy immediately.
He gripped your waist hungrily with both of his hands, and rocked up into your crotch desperately. You moaned against his tongue as he licked your mouth inside and out, drool sliding down your cheek.
The both of you got incredibly lost in the moment, allowing your need for each other to bubble up sporadically. You ground harshly against his erection and sucked his neck, leaving a bruise in its wake. He moaned once really loudly, and his hips jerked against yours. Then, his hands flew from your waist and ripped the blindfold off of his face.
“‘M sorry. I need to use the restroom,” he quickly mumbled out. He gently slid from underneath you, then made a beeline for your bathroom door.
“Mich-” you called after him breathlessly as the door shut.
“Damnit,” he mumbled as he pulled down his pants. His cum sat proudly against the fabric of his boxers, much to his annoyance. He grabbed a wet wipe and cleaned his crotch wildly, the cold wetness making him shiver. He couldn’t believe he let himself go like that. Sliding his underwear off, he internally cursed himself for being so embarrassing. He washed his hands and entered the room again, his head hanging low and his underwear balled into his fist. He put it inside your hamper and then sat on the edge of your bed without a word, avoiding your gaze.
You knew exactly what happened, and it made you cocky.
“Mikey, baby. I know you came your pants,” you announced crudely. You sat down next to him with a wicked smile tugging at your lips.
“It’s embarrassing. We didn’t even do anything…” He sniffed in shame.
“Baby, it’s flattering. I’m glad to know that you get that horny for me,” you replied. You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look you in the eye.
“It’s not…Well, yes. I do get…aroused by you. But it’s your lipgloss. The smell…It makes my brain numb,” he admitted.
You removed your hand and bent over right in front of him to pick up the honey glaze scented gloss from the carpet, purposely nudging your butt against his knee as you reached down. You turned back around and waved it in his face tauntingly.
“This lipgloss? My favorite one?” You opened it and applied another layer. Setting it down on the bed, you placed your hands on either side of his legs and inched toward his face.
“The smell turns you on?” you ask, letting the scent waft around his personal space. He whimpered loudly.
“Yes,” he spat out, shoving down a heavy gulp. He could already feel himself getting hard again, and his eyes trailed down your torso, straight to the curve of your breasts, which were more visible due to you being bent over.
“You checkin’ me out?” you asked him mockingly.
His eyes snapped to your face as if he got caught doing something wrong. You sat back down next to him and stared at his bottom lip, which was being cradled between his teeth.
The way you were looking at him, like you were a predator hunting its prey, made Michael’s heart hammer so loudly against his chest that he swore you could hear it.
Then, a voice echoed in his head.
Start givin’ her the eyes…Take your hand, place it on her shoulder…look her up ‘n down…
He followed each direction as it played in his mind, his sudden confidence faltering your own in its track. Then, he gave you the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen.
…Give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.
“Do you wanna fuck me?” you asked him straightforwardly. He flinched a bit at how direct your words were.
“Yes,” he sighed. “B-but only if you wanna! I don’t…It has to be your choice.” What he really wanted to say was that he wanted you to use his body like he only existed for your pleasure.
“Then fuck me, Michael. Rip my clothes off and plow me into my sheets.” You slid your thumb across his bottom lip and tugged it down. He stared at you like a deer in headlights.
“You gonna touch me, or what?” you asked, cocking your head to the side in fake confusion. You knew your words were scrambling his brain, and you loved it.
“Y- sorry. Um.” He fumbled with his hands, not knowing where to touch you or place them. He felt like an idiot. You’ve engaged in sexual acts before, but he felt out of his league now, the looming state of his virginity making everything much more serious.
“Go get a condom from my dresser. Top drawer,” you ordered him. He obeyed and picked a small foil wrapper from the unopened Trojan box. He secretly thanked God at the sight, realizing you hadn’t recently been using them with anyone else, although he already knew that.
He held the foreign object in his hand and stood between your parted legs.
“C’mere,” you said before pulling him down by his neck and making out with him like you hadn’t been allowed to for a century.
He cautiously explored your body with his large hands, continuing certain gropes and squeezes when you gave him louder whines.
His body was now hovering yours, propped up by his forearms, and you could feel his heavy dick slap against your crotch through his pants as he went to kiss tenderly on your neck.
“I’m not wearing any underwear either. Wanna feel how wet I am for you?” you asked him lewdly.
“Please,” he begged, letting you take his hand and place it square on top of your clothed pussy.
He could feel you pounding beneath his palm, and he felt that familiar slimy substance connecting his hand to your core. He rubbed two of his fingers into you a bit, collecting some of your arousal. Detaching his mouth from your neck, he looked down at you with a dazed expression. With his free hand, he gently gripped your face, making you look at him.
Without a word, he removed his hand from your sex and sniffed his fingers greedily. He bucked his hips into yours, and shoved those fingers into his mouth with a loud groan.
You were in awe.
“I had no idea you were this filthy. Thought you were a good boy, but I guess you’re way dirtier than I thought,” you told him with surprise etched into every word. Your statement only made him needier. He shoved his fingers farther into his mouth and pulled them out, searching for your cunt again.
“Please, let me take these off. Wanna feel you,” he begged, a mixture of drool and your arousal collecting at the corner of his parted lips.
“Go ahead baby. Show me how much you want me.”
With a whimper, he crawled down your body and landed on his knees with effortless agility. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pajama shorts and froze.
“I-i’m a virgin,” he stated, voice barely above a whisper.
“Michael, I know. We’ve talked about this plenty of times,” you responded patiently. You knew he was nervous, but you also knew he wanted this.
“I know, it’s just that…I’m not gonna know how to do everything. I don’t wanna embarrass myself,” he replied meekly.
“Baby…I know you think I’m some sex god, but I’m still a virgin too.” You sat up and looked down at him, forcing him to meet your intense gaze. He looked stunned.
“It’s okay if you’re not. You don’t needa lie to me to make me feel bet-” You interrupted him by clamping your hand over his mouth.
“Michael, I’m not lying. When I told you before we ever did anything sexual that I had experience, that wasn’t a lie either. I’ve just never trusted anyone to go all the way. But I trust you and I want this with you. Don’t you wanna give it to me?” you asked him with a faux-sad pout.
“Of course! I wanna be your first…I want you to be mine. And my last. I wanna give my soul to you,” he rambled, inching your shorts down your thighs as he leaned in closer.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me..” he spoke quietly, mostly to himself, drifting off once he unclothed your lower body. He threw the damp shorts onto the floor and looked up at you with so much gratitude that it made your heart swell.
“Taste me,” you said, as you watched him lick his lips like he was starving.
He placed your thighs atop his shoulder and delved in, immediately grinding against nothing at the scent of your pussy.
“Mmm, th-that’s right. Just how I taught you before,” you spoke to him. He was circling your clit with his tongue with expert precision; just enough to feel like you were floating, but not enough to feel like you were grinding against a rock. Then he did something else you taught him, but with his own twist. He scratched up and down your thighs, the familiar sensation making you feel like music. But then, he slid his tongue down to your entrance and stuck it in, your arousal pooling around it in the act.
“F-fuck. Where’d you learn how to do that? Been seein’ someone else?” you inquired, only half joking. He pulled out and looked up at you with an earnest fire in his eyes.
“Never.” Then, he continued his actions, fucking his tongue into you as far as both of your anatomies would allow.
You pushed his head into you, grinding down with need. His afro acted as a protection against your brutal shove. He slid his tongue back out and worked your clit again, feeling confidence settle into his demeanor. So much confidence, he took two fingers, collected your arousal into them, and slid them into you. You cursed loudly.
“O-oh my god…F-Yeah! Curl them like that,” you mewled, your brain not knowing how to compute your pleasure into words. You’d only felt your own fingers inside there, once or twice, and you didn’t enjoy it. Your fingers couldn’t reach as far as his currently were, though.
You fell back against the bed as you felt your orgasm sprinting toward you faster than you anticipated, gripping onto your sheets and locking your ankles around Michael’s neck in an attempt to hold on.
“M-mikey, ah. Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” you breathed out to him, feeling the knot in your stomach almost unravel. He immediately withdrew his mouth and fingers, you arousal leaving a string of connection to his chin as he did so.
“Did it start to hurt? Sorry, I just thought you were gonna have an or-”
“I was gonna have an orgasm. I just don’t want to yet. I wanna suck that pretty dick of yours first. You’re gonna let me, right?” you asked him, not really leaving space to take no for an answer.
Michael never let you suck him off, to your own disappointment. He’s eaten you out so many times that you’d run out of positions for it, he’s let you grind against his dick with clothes, he’s even let you jerk him off, but he’s never let you get on your knees and put your mouth on it. His exact words were that it was ‘degrading and useless.’ He didn’t wanna hurt you. But you wanted to see him let go. You wanted the proof of your lewd acts with him physically etched into bruises to the back of your throat.
“Baby, I can’t let you do th-” You clamped your hand against his mouth once more.
“You’re gonna let me suck you off. Right?” you asked, slowly moving your hand away from his mouth.
“Ok-kay,” he responded with resignation in his voice.
He stood up and you slid his bottoms off, licking your lips at the sight of him. He was holding out on you because god was it pretty. And big. You thought he was just being a modest gentlemen when he told you he didn’t want to hurt you, but it was more than just that. He was really long, and he knew it.
“So you knew how big your dick was huh? That’s why you never let me do this. Betchu imagine me sucking that pretty thing off all the time.” You reached for it greedily and spit onto his tip, watching it slide down the base slowly.
“Stop- d-don’t talk about it like that..” he said weakly.
“Oh but you like it, though. I could practically feel you getting harder, baby. No need to be shy about it,” you egged him on. Before he could protest any longer, you wrapped your hand around his base and began tugging upward. You reached for your lipgloss with your free hand and applied a thick layer to your swollen lips. You blew a taunting kiss at him. He was visibly holding back his moans, much to your disapproval.
“Nuh-uh, let me hear those pretty moans. Sing for me, Michael,” you directed. He obeyed, and not even on purpose. The way you were touching and talking to him made him forget who he was.
“Feels s- you feel so good. I love you..” he blabbered.
“I love you too, baby.” You leaned forward and gave his shaft an open-mouthed kiss, maintaing eye contact with him. His whole body went rigid in shock as he saw the sticky mark your lip product left in its wake.
“Oh, god,” he groaned, jerking his hips up into your hand. You started twisting it whenever you got closer to his tip.
Without warning, you took it into your mouth, eyes focused on his, and sunk down on it. His eyes rolled back and his hands flew to the back of your head, holding it for composure. You began slowly moving up and down, flattening your tongue and sucking him like he was the best popsicle you’d ever tasted.
“Pl-ease, I don’t wanna cum yet. Plea-, please, please,” he begged on and on, turning please into a chant.
You hummed around his length, ignoring him, and continued to work. Tears stinged at your eyes, and drool dribbled out of your mouth. The sinful sight of you made him do something he swore he wouldn’t do. He rocked into your mouth roughly, just once, but it was enough to make you falter and gag against him. You moaned lustfully and your eyes lolled to the back of their sockets. He removed his hands from your head and scooted back from your mouth with a pop.
“‘M so sorry! I should’ve contained myself better. I know better. Did it hurt? If course it hurt, you’re crying and you gagged. Oh, God I’m so sorry prett-” You gripped onto his dick harshly, cutting him off.
“Michael, I want you to do that. I love it. Fuck my mouth, angel face. I can take it,” you reassured him with a devilish grin.
“N-no, I shouldn’t’ve let you touch me like that. You’re too precious…I can’t hurt you agai-”
“Michael. For the love of God, shut the hell up. I want you to hurt me and bruise me and make me cry. Is that not okay? Am I too dirty for you?” you asked him, feigning hurt. You secretly enjoyed tricking him into getting what you wanted because he somehow always gave it to you, and this time was gonna be no different.
“Not at all! You could never be too dirty for me…You’re perfect. I just don’t wanna degrade you like that. But since it’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you anythin’ you want.” Bingo.
“M’kay, now you gonna fuck my throat like a good boy, right?” you asked him with puppy dog eyes, tears still sitting in your waterline.
“Y-yes,” he responded hesitantly.
“Yes, what?” you asked him, enjoying working him up like this.
“Yes, angel. I-i’m gonna fuck your face…like a good…boy?” he responded, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than he was you.
You gave him a soft hmm and pulled him back towards you, spitting a glob into your hand once more. You jerked him slowly 4 times and then looked him in his face.
“Don’t worry about me, ‘kay? If I want you to stop, I’ll make you stop. But, I trust you,” you said earnestly. “C’mon, stand up and give it to me, baby.”
Then, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out in anticipation. He hesitantly stood up, jerked himself twice, and then pushed into your mouth. Holding the back of your head gently, but firmly, with both of his hands, he set an inexperienced pace with his thrusts. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harshly whenever he would drag his hips back, causing his legs to shake.
“Th-this is so, AH, wrong. You shouldn’t look this pretty like this. With my…thing in your mouth.”
You scrunched your brows into a pout and moaned loudly, forcing him to unconsciously fuck your mouth harder.
“B-baby you can’t do that, ‘m gonna finish if you do.” You continued moaning and sucking loudly, noticing his breaths shorten as his climax neared.
“God, you’re so pretty d-down there. Ngh- wait-” You forced yourself away from his crotch and crawled to the center of your bed, positioning yourself on all fours. You turned around and coaxed him over to you with a teasing finger.
“Baby, I need you. See how wet I am?” You arched your back and swayed your hips side to side, letting the light catch your arousal. “I need you to make me feel better. It’s aching,” you pouted. His feet were moving before his conscious mind could register your words, and he joined you in bed. He picked up the condom he mindlessly dropped earlier and unwrapped it.
“I-i’ll make you feel better,” her says as he pulled the rubber from its foil packet.
You turned around and took the contraceptive from him.
“Let me put it on you, daddy,” you smirked as you said the nickname.
“Don’t call me th-that,” he pouted.
You placed it on his tip with unnecessary friction and rolled it down his shaft, raising your eyebrows and smirking at the pathetic boy in front of you.
“Mmm, but you like it when I tease you with it,” you told him.
“Okay.” He gulped audibly and leaned down to press a hot kiss to your lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Michael. Now fuck me like you need it,” you said as you went back to your position on all fours. You were almost scared that he’d be too big, or that you’d need lube that you didn’t have, but as soon as he pushed his tip in, your pussy sucked him in. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being stretched like this, but your body didn’t register too much pain. You were drenched.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he called out as your sex squelched around him, forcing him in deeper. You moaned out as he stretched and filled you. As soon as he bottomed out, he laid on top of your back, already feeling overwhelmed.
“M-michael! Oh my god, ‘m so wet. Needed your dick inside me so bad, fuck,” you inched forward and slammed back against his length forcefully, arching your back in the process. He sat up immediately and gripped onto your hips.
“The way you talk…” he trailed off as he started thrusting into you slowly.
“You like m-my dirty mouth, baby? Want me to talk to you through it, pretty boy?” you asked him, feeling his tip hit your g-spot with ease.
“Yes, please,” he whined, speeding up slightly in anticipation.
“F-fuck me harder, baby. Feels so good.” You pushed your head into your mattress, arching your back up higher, allowing yourself to take him deeper. He followed your instructions and snapped his hips into you harshly once, gauging your body’s response to the action. You pushed your ass further into his crotch, and he took that as silent permission.
“Mikeyyy. You’re so bad, taking my virginity in my bedroom like this. Mmm-fuck,” you whined, your vision going blurry with tears of pleasure.
“Y-yes, so bad. ‘M so bad,” he repeated, slamming into you faster. Your bed was creaking with his thrusts. He could already feel himself losing it again.
“Mmm, mmm, Mikey p-push my head into the mattress baby. Be rough.”
He obeyed immediately, leaning over and pressing his palm to the side of your head. He took one look at your face and felt his orgasm creeping up. Your mouth was wide open and there was a huge wet spot where your mouth leaked drool onto your sheets.
“You’re so pretty, baby. You look so good like this,” he complimented.
“With you plowin’ me into m-my own sheets? Thank you, baby boy.”
Your tongue licked at his thumb that was near your lips, and you sucked it into your mouth.
“OH! I’m g-onn…I’m cumming. Shit, I’m cumming!” he cried out as his hips stuttered. He buried himself into you deeply and filled the condom with his seed. He collapsed his torso onto your arched back and you bit his thumb. He clutched it after you spat it out of your mouth.
“I didn’t say to stop, did I? I thought you were a gentleman. Make me cum,” you demanded.
“Yes, baby. ‘M sorr-y…” he apologized in between whines of overstimulation.
You reached your hand down to your clit and started playing with it needily, overeager to cum on him. He pounded into you again, his dick half hard, as you started babbling into your bedsheets.
“Mikey, ‘m s-so close. Keep fuckin’ me like that, baby. You’re doin’ so well for me. You’re fillin’ me up so good.” The sound in the room was so unmistakable. The noise of creaky box springs, skin slapping and sticky arousal drowned out the hum of music leaving your record player.
He leaned down and hovered over your ear, whimpering into it. He sounded like an undiscovered instrument. The sound made your pussy squeeze against his shaft, signaling your orgasm.
“Y-yeah be louder. Love your filthy little whimpers, Michael. Gimme more,” you said with the last of your breath. He pounded harder and fully moaned into your ear, causing you to completely come undone.
You reached behind you and dug your nails into his sides as your legs shook and your pussy spasmed around his spent dick, already hardened again. You screamed his name like a prayer and Michael wished that was the only sound his ears would ever be subjected to again.
As you began going limp, Michael slid his arm underneath you, wrapping around your waist, and pulled out of you. He rolled into his side and pulled you on top of his chest, ignoring how hard he was again.
“I’m so glad it was you,” he said after he caught his breath.
“Hmm?” you asked him, looking up to the side of his face.
“My virginity. I’m glad you took it. It feels like you were exactly who I was waitin’ for whenever I would tell my brothers I was waitin’ on the right girl. No, you’re even better,” he said bashfully.
“Well, I’m glad you took mine too. You were absolutely perfect. I’m so glad we get to share this memory with each other. We fit so well together, don’tcha think? Like two halves of a puzzle,” you mused with a faint smile.
“I’d say so,” he said with a gulp loaded with a double meaning.
“Whatcha mean by that, baby?” you questioned him.
“Just…It’s like your body was swallowin’ me whole. It was incredible.” He bit his lips as he looked you in your eyes. You felt a pulsing at your abdomen, finally noticing how hard he was.
“Ohhh, my baby’s ready for round two? You have stamina…Good ta know,” you teased him with a giggle.
“‘M sorry, you just look ‘n sound so pretty when you’re tellin’ me what to do…”
“It’s okay, baby. Here. Let’s go take a quick shower, yeah? Then we can sixty-nine,” you said as you sat up on your knees. You gave him a wink. He gulped both audibly and visibly.
“Oh, yes please. I’d love that,” he responded with unconcealed enthusiasm. You pulled him behind you and led him toward the restroom, the excitement of round two noticeable in your light steps. You discarded your shirt and pulled Michael’s over his head for him.
“Take off that condom, baby. I’m gonna wash you up.”
He threw the soiled condom into your tiny tin trash can, and trailed after you like a puppy.
You turned on your shower and faced him, your tits on full display to him now. He swallowed loudly and gave a kiss to each of your nipples, surprising you in the act.
“I love you,” he whispered, and then leaned in to give you an intense kiss. His tongue slotted between your lips before you pulled away.
“Uh-uh. Don’t start something you can’t finish in here, needy boy. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
You stepped into the shower, him immediately after you, and the two of you let a comfortable silence settle in the air, washing yourselves and then each other’s backs.
With the two forgotten lip balm flavors lying lazily on the floor, the promise of your newly broadened sexual history etched into the empty house with a faint trace of a sweet scent. The scent of honey glaze.
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ㅤꨄ︎ in honour of 2,000 beautiful followers — i present my 2k event ; ‘through every era, him’. a commemoration to every divine era, co-ordinated with each enchanting album, michael jackson gave to us very sincere fans! turned lustful — naturally. a daily fic will be posted on this account ebonymuse and linked here — a sublime array of romantic erotica to display my utmost affection to not only the ethereal man in question, but also my supportive followers ౨ৎ
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
synopsis: after almost getting caught with michael, you both go down for dinner and michael decides to play with fire but it doesn’t turn out how he thought it would.
warnings: teasing, doing things in front of people, smut, riding, lowk sub!michael.
part one.
"i mean, i did. you were up there trying not to scream my name." he teases.
you both walk into the living room like nothing happened. his brothers are sitting at the table, eating the pizza they said they were ordering. "took you long enough," marlon says to michael, "pizza's gettin' cold." he replies, you and michael both taking a seat at the table next to one another.
michael grabs a slice of pizza and takes a bite, acting completely normal. he leans over to you and whispers, "i would much rather be eating you again instead of this," before taking another bite. his brothers are too busy arguing over something stupid to notice anything suspicious. you kick him lightly under the table, instantly crossing your legs as you feel the wetness pool in-between your legs again; even just at the mention of what he done to you not even ten minutes ago.
michael chuckles softly at your reaction, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of his orange juice. he sets the glass down and reaches under the table, his hand slowly creeping up your inner thigh. you freeze, your eyes widening slightly as you look at him like he's crazy, "michael." you warn, side eyeing him.
he smirks at you, his fingers slowly inching closer to your centre. he leans over to grab another slice of pizza with his other hand, acting causal as his brothers continue arguing. his fingers press against your clothed pussy, rubbing softly through the fabric.
everyone else is too preoccupied to notice michael slowly pushing your skirt up under the table. his fingers are now directly on your soaked panties, rubbing circles on your clit through your white lace thong. you can feel him smiling against your neck as he leans over you slightly.
he keeps his hand under the table, his fingers tracing slow circles over your clit through the damp fabric of your panties. his thumb presses down just enough to make your breath hitch, but not enough to push you over the edge. he leans back casually, taking another bite of pizza like nothings happening, but his eyes are dark and full of mischief as he watches your face.
jackie finally turns around to michael and asks him a question, "mike, what movie do we watch so they can all stop arguing like kids?" jackie asks, completely oblivious to michael's hand under the table. michael just shrugs nonchalantly, his fingers still circling your clit slowly. "either one is fine, just pick one." he replies casually, his voice even as he continues his subtle teasing.
michael's finger suddenly presses down harder, catching you off guard and making you let out a soft, surprised noise. his brothers immediately turn around, looking at you with confused expressions. "what was that?" marlon asks, his eyes scanning between you and michael curiously.
you quickly try to play it off, clearing your throat and taking a sip of your soda. "nothing," you say softly, trying to keep your voice steady. michael's hand remains under the table, his fingers still gently teasing you but not moving enough to give anything away.
michael suddenly pulls his hand out from under the table casually, acting completely normal as he turns his attention to his brothers. your eyes shot to him, but being greeted with a view of his side profile, you were fuming that he had took his hand away.
he starts discussing the movies they were arguing about earlier, completely ignoring you and the fact that his hand was just between your legs.
michael glances over at you out of the corner of his eye, a small smirk playing on his lips. he leans back in his chair, his hand now resting on his knee, looking completely innocent. only you know what he was just doing under the table.
the argument between his brothers continues, growing louder and more heated as they debate which movie is better. michael laughs, shaking his head at their bickering. suddenly, he stands up from his chair, grabbing the pizza box and the plates, "i'll take these to the kitchen."
as soon as michael enters the kitchen, you instantly stand up and follow him into the kitchen. as soon as you're both in the kitchen, you pin around and face him, your arms crossed over your chest. "what was all that about?" you demand in a low voice, not wanting his brothers to hear.
michael sets the pizza box and the plates down on the counter and turns to face you, a smug grin on his face. "what?" he asks innocently, trying to play dumb. "i was just eating pizza with my brothers." you narrow your eyes at him, "you know exactly what i mean, michael jackson. you were touching me under the table with them right there!"
he takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "and? they didn't see anything. they didn't hear anything. they have no idea what i was doing to you in there." he pauses, his eyes flicking down to your body before meeting your gaze again.
"besides," he continues, "you didn't exactly push my hand away, did you?" his hand reaches out, gently grasping your hip as he pulls you closer. he leans down, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "you liked it," he whispers.
"michael!" you hiss, pushing against his chest lightly but not actually pulling away. "your brothers are right there in the other room!" he smirks, clearly turned on by how close you two are and how dangerous it feels, "exactly."
he leans in even closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before pulling back and turning away to start washing his plate. "go back in there and act normal, ill be out in a minute," he says casually, like he didn't just make your knees weak.
you watch him wash his plate, feeling frustrated and very horny. without thinking, you step closer behind him snd press your body against his back. "no," you whisper firmly, "im not going back out there. i want you to fuck me, right now. upstairs."
michael freezes, his hands still in the soapy water. your sudden demand and the way you're pressing against him has just flipped the power dynamic. he swallows hard, his voice coming out hoarse when he speaks. "baby...my brother are right there." he weakens.
you spin him around, pushing him back against the counter and loving how surprised and turned on he looks. "oh, so now it matters that your brothers are there but it didn't before?" you say firmly with a smirk, hands on his chest.
"that's not fair," he protests weakly, but he's already following you out of the kitchen and up the stairs. his brothers glance up as you both walk past the living room, but they quickly go back their conversation, oblivious to the fact that michael is being dragged upstairs by his girlfriend.
once inside his bedroom, he kicks the door closed behind you both. "you're being really bossy," he comments, though there's no real compliant in his voice. he watches you walk towards his bed, stripping off your clothes without hesitation. "and kinda hot..." he adds softly.
you turn around to face him, now naked, and watch as he quickly strips off his shirt and pants. he's clearly very turned on, his cock already hard. he starts to walk towards you, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. "no," you say firmly.
he looks up at you in surprise, stopping in his tracks. "no?" he repeats, his brow furrowing slightly. he's used to being the one in control normally, the one calling the shots. this new dynamic has him a little flustered. you push him backwards until he falls onto the bed then climb on top of him.
"not this time," you whisper, pressing him down onto the bed. you can feel his hard cock against your thigh, and it only makes you more determined to be in charge. you lean down and kiss him deeply, grinding your hips slightly against his to show him what you want.
he groans into the kiss, his hands coming up to grip your hips tightly as you grind against him. he tries to thrust up against you, but you push him back down, breaking the kiss to look at him sternly. "stop moving," you order. his big brown eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement on his face.
"okay," he agrees quietly, his hands falling back to his sides as he tries to stay still. you reach down between your legs and grab his hard dick, positioning it at your entrance before slowly sinking down onto it. he lets out a loud groan, his head falling back against the pillow.
you start riding him slowly, using his cock exactly how you want it. you've never been so dominant during sex before, and its clear he loves it, he's letting you use his body for your pleasure with no complaints. "mm, baby."
"baby," he repeats, his voice strained as you continue to ride him at your own pace. his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, clearly struggling not to touch you or take control. you lean forward, pressing your hands against his chest and increasing the pace slightly. "just like that."
"you're so perfect like this," he whimpers out, watching you use his cock. "I've never seen you so...bossy during sex." you smile down at him and change the angle of your hips slightly, finding a spot that makes you gasp.
"o-oh...right there," he moans loudly, his hips trying to buck up to meet your new angle despite himself. you do it again intentionally, loving the sounds he's making. "baby, please," he begs softly, "can i move my hands?" you shake your head no.
"please," he begs again, his body trembling with effort to stay still. "i need to touch you." you shake your head again, riding him harder now, using him for your own pleasure without any regard for his needs. he's completely at your mercy and loving it.
his breathing is getting more ragged, his cock twitching inside you as you continue to use him ruthlessly. "please, baby," he practically whimpers, his eyes pleading. "im gonna... im so close, i need to touch you, i need to hold you, please let me--" you cut him off with a sharp and deliberate grind. "no."
his mouth snaps shut, a loud, desperate moan escaping instead as you grind down on him hard, your pussy clenching around his dick. "oh god" he chokes out, his whole body tensing up as he struggles not to finish from the intense sensation. "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--" he's right on the edge.
you can tell he's never felt so powerless during sex before, never been used purely for someone else's pleasure like this. its driving him crazy in the best way, his cock throbbing heavily inside you as you use him exactly how you want. "baby, i can't--"
"i can't hold back much longer," he gasps, his body shaking with the effort to stay still and not cum inside you. you smile down at him, knowing you have complete control. "you better not," you say, speeding up your pace even more and leaning back slightly to change the angle.
"oh, fuck, f-fuck," he stutters out, his eyes rolling back as you completely overwhelm him with the new angle. his hands are still clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles white from the effort not to grab onto you.
"im gonna cum," he warns through clenched teeth, his bod tensing up even more. "baby, please let me touch you," he begs one last time before you feel his cock pulse inside you. you ignore his plea and ride him harder through his orgasm.
he comes with a broken whimper, his whole body shaking uncontrollably as you continue to work his dick through the pleasure. "fuck, oh god--" he gasps, his hips finally giving in and thrusting up against you despite his best efforts. you feel his warm come filling you up as you keep moving, still not finished yourself.
he's completely spent, his body limp and shaking beneath you as you continue to ride him through his orgasm. his cock still twitching inside you, leaking more cum with each movement. you finally slow down, grinding against him as you reach your own climax, grinding down onto him as you come with a soft cry. your body trembles and squeezes around him, making him groan softly at the feeling. you collapse forward onto his chest, both of you panting heavily. "holy shit," you mutter after a moment.
you press a soft kiss to his lips before crawling into bed next to him and curling into his side. he wraps an arm around you immediately, holding you close as he kisses the top of your head "mm, come here."
he pulls you even closer, until you're basically on top of him your head resting on his chest. he can feel your soft breath against his skin. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your back as he holds you, "i love you."
I have a story (smut??) idea where Michael (any era idc) and reader are the hottest new celebrity couple in Hollywood but one day Michael makes a sex tape of the two of them and it gets leaked…
Sorry if this isn’t the best description cuz i am not good with explaining things 😭😭
Thank you :)
t/w: 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, oral (f! receiving), sex tape, hair pulling, you get ran through a mattress, choking, mature! era, controversially young gf? soft!dom michael, after the tape leaked no one ever thought he was asexual again and the “are you a virgin?” questions stopped
wc: 2.4k
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, messing with the edge of the glove you wore. A new outfit Michael had bought for you and insisted that you wore.
He was leaving in two days and would be gone for a while, not to mention you were about to go on a press tour for your new movie, and he had been slowly working up your confidence to get you to say yes to making a tape.
A sex tape.
The thought made you blush as you watched him set up the camera, the lens positioned directly at the bed. Your eyes then cautiously trailing to the door— because of course he chose to do this when your family was visiting. Not only that, you two were supposed to go to dinner with them in an hour.
You already felt light headed. Even though it was just you and Michael, you still felt watched. One half of you found it terrifying, the other a little thrilled.
You loved trying new things, especially if he was excited about something.
Thus your current get up of black latex.
Your eyes then flicked down- it was crotchless.
And there you go feeling lightheaded again.
"Okay," Michael muttered, mostly to himself. "I think that's good." He then stepped behind it, checking to see the angle and the grin that stretched his face as he saw you through the monitor was down right fiendish.
“You look beautiful, baby.” He said softly, “I’m gonna start recording now, okay?”
You bit your lip, eyes glancing at the door one last time before you nodded. “Ready.”
That flashing red light started a moment later and you watched in bated breath as Michael lowered his boxers, his lips tilting in amusement at the immediate starstruck look to your gaze.
You barely had time to appreciate the size of his cock when his mouth pressed to yours in a heated kiss, his hands raking along your bare back and you melted against him. His teeth grazed along your bottom lip and opened for him, his wet tongue sliding into your mouth and tracing every inch.
The feel of your breasts pressed against him sent blood all the way down to his already painfully hard cock and he had to hold himself back from grinding into you. Instead he pushed forward, pressing your back down into the sheets. His lips trailed down to your jaw, a hand winding in your hair and he yanked your head to the side to expose your neck, earning a lovely sound from the back of your throat.
Open mouthed, he latched onto your soft skin, sucking and biting lightly, careful not to leave a mark even though he desperately wanted to. That was fine though, he’d mark you a different way.
“We… we need to be quick.” You managed, your fingers burying themselves in his hair.
“Not too quick, I plan to wreck you baby,” he muttered into your skin as his mouth drifted to your collar bones, his free hand coming up to caress and tease your nipples and that made you groan and buck against him, your bare pussy peeking out from the slit in the crotch and sliding against him.
Michael shivered, reeling in his self restraint. “None of that. Keep still.”
Nonetheless, he pushed against you harder and your hips rolled again, causing him to pull on your hair harder and you whimpered, but it only made you more wet. “You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”
“All for you, honey.”
He hummed and you yelped as he suddenly hooked a hand under each of your knees and pushed your legs up and out.
You could hear the voices of people passing by down the hall, but you didn’t have time to dwell as Michael lowered his hips and you ground against his length, an electric sort of friction against your clit and you moaned and a groan tore its way up his throat.
His hands dug into your sides and his mouth latched onto your right breast, causing you to arch into him. Your hands came up to hold his head to you, but before you could manage, your wrists were then pinned above you, Michael holding you against the mattress with his hips to yours and he ground into you again. “Don’t try to take control, baby. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”
“Usually the man finds it hot when the woman takes control.”
“It’s an entertaining thought but I rather like the sight of you writhing beneath me, and I bet you just love it when I do this…” Michael slowly snaked a hand up your throat, his fingers dancing along the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat before his grip slowly tightened.
You could still breathe, but you could feel your pulse thudding violently and you shuddered as he pressed against you again.
“Keep your hands above your head, don’t move them.” He ordered, his voice a caress on your skin and you nodded, eyes heavy as he started to move down your body.
Then his fingers were pulling the latex out of the way, a blissful sigh leaving him as his breath hit your exposed pussy, making you shiver. “God, look at you… your fucking dripping, baby.”
And then his mouth was on you, tongue flattening from the bottom of your opened and dragging up to your clit before he wrapped his lips around it, rolling his tongue in a point and your back arched off the bed. You bit down harshly on your bottom lip, trying to keep your moaning at a minimum and your fingers grasped at the sheets, desperate to reach down into his hair but wanting to do as told.
You felt like your soul was leaving your body as his mouth dragged down, tongue fucking you as his ofher hand came up to play with your clit.
“Michael, please.” Your tone was torn between a moan and a whimper.
“Use your words.”
“I need your fingers—“
He abided immediately, lips dragging back up to your clit while two of his long fingers sunk into you. Dragging and curling up, his pace quick and deep and you threw your head back, feeling euphoric.
You came embarrassingly quickly, the sensation taking you by surprise but then he kept going— his other hand pressing low on your abdomen while he fucking you with his fingers and his tongue flattened on your clit.
“Michael, I feel… what—“
“Come for me, babygirl. I know you can do it again.”
He pressed down on your pelvis just a bit more and you came again, liquid squirting out of you and all over his face and fuck… he looked so pleased.
“Such a good girl for me,” he praised, bringing up his hand to suck his fingers clean as he then settled his hips against yours.
You bit your lip, your gaze becoming even more hungry as you took him in. Like everything else about him, his cock was an impressive length, thick, and the tip flushed as pre-come leaked out.
Brushing his hips forward, the head of his cock slid through your folds and rubbed against your clit, causing a buzzing moan to leave your lips and you rolled her hips forward, desperate for more but his hand danced back up to your throat and tightened. “None of that,” he warned, his dark eyes nearly looked feral as he glanced down at your dripping and awaiting cunt.
Slowly, he began to enter you, not taking his eyes off the way you stretched around him as he sank in.
“Fuck ,” you hissed, throwing your head back against the bed and you felt dizzy with your lower lack of air supply, his hand warm and firm around your neck.
A groan rumbled in the back of his throat, you were so tight but he didn’t stop pushing in until he was at the hilt. Then slowly pulling out, you clenched around him and he bit into your shoulder to bite back his own moan.
Michael’s thrusts were slow and steady, in no hurry and every few seconds his grip on your throat would loosen before tightening again. He rolled his hips forward, stretching you out and his pelvis created friction against your clit and you moaned loudly, momentarily not caring who heard you but his mouth swallowed the sound as he kissed you, wet and opened mouth.
Picking up his pace, his thrusts rammed into you, rocking the bed frame into the wall and the wood groaned in protest.
You continued to moan and whimper into his mouth, your arms tingling and begging to hold onto him. Michael must’ve read your body language and he pulled back, “rest them on my shoulders.”
They fell immediately, your nails digging into his shoulders and your eyes watered as you were temporarily deprived of air.
“You feel so good, baby.”
He shifted the angle of his hips, dragging himself in deep to the point where he hit your cervix. It was painful and wonderful and maddeningly delicious all at once.
Michael tilted his hips forwards and ground into you, his pelvis creating a slippery friction against your clit, then as he pulled out the the head of his cock dragged against that sweet spot and for fuck’s sake you practically screamed.
“Fuck! Do that again, please, oh my-”
Michael clamped a hand over your mouth, not being able to help it as he laughed and he didn’t stop his rough thrusts—
There was suddenly a knock on the door.
“Sweetheart, we’re gonna leave for dinner in about half an hour.” Your dad called through the door. “You okay? Or still getting ready?”
Michael’s cock continued to drag against your inner walls, slamming into you, his grip on your throat tight and tears slipped down your cheeks. He looked at you pointedly before removing his hand from your mouth, instead burying it in your hair as his mouth latched onto your neck.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. I’m still getting ready… fuck-” Michael bit into your neck. “My hair won’t cooperate.” You bit down on your lip so hard to stop yourself from screaming again as his hand left your hair and dragged down to rub tight circles into your clit.
“Do you want your mom to come help?”
“Fuck no,” your voice was breathless and you cleared your throat the best you could, “I’m sorry, I think she’ll stress me out more. I’m okay… God, I’ll be down soon.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” Your dad walked away and Michael nearly laughed but it turned into a moan of his own as you clenched painfully hard around him. You were close.
“Did that excite you, baby? Nearly getting caught while I fuck you?”
You whimpered, your nails biting into his shoulders painfully and he took in the tears that were streaming down your cheeks, how your chest was heaving, how he stretched you out and how your clit was swollen.
“Come for me, come all over my cock, baby. I want the whole fucking house to hear you.”
The head of his cock rammed into that spot again and he rubbed another circle into your clit and you came with a hard cry, the sensation felt like you just shattered from being struck by lightning.
Michael didn’t stop, but he shuddered violently as you clamped around him.
His rough pace slipped into something erratic, fucking you harshly and the bed slammed hard into the wall, rocking violently on its legs and your heels dug into his lower back, pushing him in deeper.
“Fuck,” he panted, you were trembling and your skin was flushed, his pelvis grinding into your oversensitive clit and you clenched again.
“Just like that baby,” his grip on your throat tightened to the point where it hurt and you genuinely couldn’t breathe.
“Michael!” you cried out, your voice a rasp and laced in pain and arousal.
His whole body shuddered as he came with a deep moan tearing up his throat, his come filling you up, spurting and hot and you felt full.
Michael had never finished inside of you before.
You weren't on any contraceptives, but the thought was lost in the shadows of your subconscious as Michael rode out his high before pulling out, sighing as he watched how his cum mixed with your pooled between her pussy and dripped between your thighs. He ran a finger through it and you whimpered.
Michael lifted his hand to your lips, his eyes burned as he looked at you, “open.”
Doing as told, you parted your lips and his finger slid against your tongue, which you then took to swirling it around the digit and sucked on it.
He could only long to have those pretty lips of yours wrapped around him, but he knew they didn’t have the time before dinner.
You let go of his fingers with a pop and immediately after his mouth pressed to yours, though this time much more gentle and he slowly lowered your legs and rubbed circles into your thighs through the latex.
“You did so good for me,” he muttered and your hands buried in his hair and pulled him closer, your lips molding together.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
It was seven in the morning and you had only just forced yourself up to make a cup of coffee after the London premiere for your movie when the phone rang. Your tired eyes blinked at it, confused as to why it would be doing such an offensive thing at this hour.
You picked it up on the last ring, voice rough around the edges with sleep, “hello?”
“Baby? Did I wake you?”
Your sleepiness waned a little bit at the sound of Michael’s voice. “No, I got up a few minutes ago. You okay? Isn’t it like two—“
“Have you turned on the tv or read the paper at all?”
As your grogginess faded, you started to pick up on the edge to his voice.
Your brows furrowed. “No? Why?”
He sighed. “Baby, I’m really sorry. Really. I don’t know how it happened, someone must’ve gone through my things. I’m gonna have to have Bill do a screening on everybody and—“
“Michael, slow down.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What happened?”
The other end of the line was dead silent and you gnawed at your lip, dread suddenly pooling low in your stomach.
“…No.”
“I’m really sorry.”
Your knuckles tightened on the phone and your teeth sank into your bottom lip before you threw your head back— “Fuck!”
You slumped against the wall, not having the faintest idea on what to do with yourself.
“I mean,” Michael started, tone cautious, “on the bright side, you looked great—“
“Michael, do not finish that sentence.”
You lowered the phone and stared up at the ceiling. Mind reeling because of course this had to happen. Your manager was going to kill you and you dreaded the phone call you’d undoubtedly get within the next hour.
Your gaze then flicked down to the kitchen counter, breath hitching because you had completely forgotten you’d taken a test last night. Two, actually. Just in case.
“Michael,” you started slowly, staring at the two pink plus signs.
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Summary: Broadway's leading lady. The most famous man in the world. Three months of restraint, one jealous breakdown in the rain, and a midnight knock at the door. He's done being patient and you're done waiting.
Tags: 18+, possessive + jealous michael, he's a bit older, dangerous/history era, theatre setting, you are an actress in the 90s, michael is slightly avoidant and dramatic, but ever so sexy ;), he legit rips your panties rather than taking them off oop
Word Count: 11621
Author’s Note: request for @moonshadowsx, i hope this is ok for u. it got really long, i have been writing since 8 this morning and its now 7pm lmao. i loved exploring this world as i LOVE a streetcar named desire.
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
part 2 is up - HERE
There was a stillness in the house tonight that wasn't the usual Tuesday vibe. Streetcar Named Desire always pulled a quieter audience than the musicals next door; people came to listen, and to fall deeply in love with Blanche and her unwinding madness.
It was your 108th show. Eighteen months on and off as Blanche Dubois in the infamous St James Theatre, performing rigidly through illness, mental anguish, family drama, and public scrutiny. Being a popular theatre actress had been a dream since childhood and you had gone on to achieve what you wanted. It was divine timing.
But as you finished Scene 8 in Act 3, something niggled in your stomach. You had a sickly feeling someone of enormous fame was watching, somewhere out there in the stalls.
You pushed it away. You owed Blanche every drop of yourself, eight times a week, regardless of who was sitting in the dark.
When the lights went down for the final time and you came off into the wings, Sandra was already there with the wet cloth for the back of your neck.
"Oh you little darling," you said. "I'm so peaky tonight."
"I wasn't going to say a thing. But I had briefly assumed it had something to do with our star-studded audience member sitting out there."
You froze.
"Who?"
She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile. "Michael Jackson. Third row, centre. And it's his third night."
You stared at her. Heart thundering.
"Third night?"
"Third night, baby."
You let her walk you back to the dressing room without saying anything else, because you didn't want her to know how hard your hands had started shaking. You sat down in front of the mirror — the old, dirty NYC theatre mirror with the bulbs around it and lipstick stains from starlets long gone and pictures of your family tucked into the edges — and you tried to look unbothered.
You were a fan of his. He had just released Dangerous. He was at the crux of his fame, and you'd read his book in your twenties and looked up to him for years.
There was a knock at the door. James, the front-of-house manager, burst in.
"Y/N. A dashing performance, as per usual." He held out an envelope. Heavy cream paper, your full name on the front in beautiful handwriting. "Secret admirer. He said if you agree to the arrangement, you're to call his assistant."
You took it with shaking hands.
Sandra ushered James out. Then she ushered herself out too, with a knowing look over her shoulder.
You broke the wax seal.
Y/N,
Forgive me for writing to you like this. I am a very shy person off stage — quite the departure from the onstage persona, but I'm sure you can understand, being a performer yourself.
I have seen your show three nights in a row. The first night I came because I'd read about you in the NY Times. The second night I came because I didn't believe what I'd seen and needed to know if you could do it again. Tonight I came because I've realised you do it every night, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in between.
I would like to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go, whatever night you have free. If your answer is no, I won't write again and I won't come back to the theatre. The work is yours and I would never want to be the reason you were uncomfortable.
If your answer is yes, please call the number below.
With great care, Michael Jackson
You called the next morning, still in your pyjamas, coffee going cold beside the phone.
You'd rehearsed three opening lines and abandoned all of them by the time the line picked up. You just gave your name and said you were returning a call about a dinner. The assistant was warm and easy. He didn't make it weird. He asked what night you had free and whether you'd eaten at La Grenouille. You said Thursday. You said no. He said a car would come for you at the stage door at half past eleven. He said the driver's name was Frank.
You hung up and sat at the table for a long time, looking at the letter still folded on the kitchen counter where you'd read it again over breakfast. Twice.
₊˚°⊹˚
Thursday came around faster than you could prepare for.
You did the show in a strange, light-headed state. Blanche came out of you anyway, because muscle memory wouldn't be shaken by one dinner regardless of who was on the other side of it, but you walked off the stage feeling like you'd performed through gauze.
Sandra had your dark green silk dress laid out before you got there. She zipped you up and smoothed the back of your hair.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart."
"Sandra, I am really nervous."
"He'll love you. And if he doesn't, you have a really cool story for those fancy cocktail nights you go to."
She squeezed your shoulders once and pushed you toward the door.
₊˚°⊹˚
La Grenouille was on East 52nd. Frank had you there in twelve minutes.
You stepped out onto the pavement, into the kind of restaurant where Jackie Onassis used to lunch — low light, white tablecloths, an absurd quantity of fresh flowers. You knew the place by reputation. Only the rich rich dined here.
You stepped inside.
It was empty.
He had bought it out for the night.
Your stomach turned over once, slowly. What kind of mad person buys out a whole restaurant?
The maître d' walked you the length of the room to a table at the back, beneath an arrangement of roses you could have hidden behind. And sitting at the table, already standing as you approached —
Michael.
Dark trousers. White shirt, open at the collar. A black jacket cut close to his shoulders, a sparkly brooch on the lapel. His hair was tied back loosely, dark curly strands framing his face. He looked expensive but matter of fact. He looked nervous.
He looked at you like you'd walked into a room he had been waiting in for a long time.
"Hi," he said softly, with a cheeky grin.
"Hi."
He pulled your chair out himself. You sat. He sat opposite. He folded his hands on the white tablecloth and looked at you and didn't say anything for a beat too long.
Then —
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I wasn't sure I would either."
He laughed; small, sudden, more relieved than amused. It was a wonderful sound — soft and slightly cracked, like he hadn't laughed in a few days and his throat had to remember how.
You stayed at the restaurant until almost two in the morning.
He asked you about Blanche — he actually wanted to know. He told you the one moment in the second act, after the line "I don't want realism. I want magic," when your smile faded before the sentence was over. He said it genuinely moved him, the nuance in the performance. He said he'd been thinking about you for three days.
You stared at him.
"You're not like other men," you said.
He didn't do anything performative with the line. He didn't deflect. He just looked at you across the table with that quiet attention, like he already knew it.
"Good."
When Frank appeared at the door at quarter to two, Michael stood first, came around the table to pull your chair out, walked you to the car. He helped you into your coat. His hands lingered very briefly on your shoulders.
Outside, on the dark pavement, you turned to face him.
"Will you let me write to you again?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Will you let me call you?"
"Yes, Michael." You laughed.
He nodded. He looked down at his shoes. Looked back up. He was nervous again, properly nervous, the calm of the dinner falling away now that the night was nearly over.
"Can I —" he started.
You didn't let him finish.
You stepped forward, reached up, and put your hand on the side of his jaw.
He stilled completely under your touch. His eyes went huge.
Then you kissed him.
It was meant to be a soft thing. A thank you for the evening thing. A see you soon thing.
It became something else within about two seconds.
His mouth was warm and he made a small sound against you — somewhere between a sigh and something raw — and then his hand was at the small of your back, gentle but very present, and he was kissing you back like he had been thinking about kissing you for the last three hours and could not quite believe he was being allowed to.
He broke the kiss first. Slowly. Like he didn't actually want to.
His forehead came to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven. So was yours.
"Get in the car," he said. "Before I ask you to come home with me."
So you got in the car.
You touched your lips with the back of your fingers as Frank pulled away from the kerb. You looked back through the rear window and saw him standing on the pavement outside La Grenouille with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching the car go.
You barely slept that night.
₊˚°⊹˚
That was three months ago.
Three months of him in your life now, properly. Three months of his handwriting on the envelopes that arrived at the stage door every 2 show day, without fail, never anything elaborate, just a card, a few lines, sometimes a pressed flower from wherever he was that week.
Three months of long phone calls at strange hours, because he was on the road and the time zones rarely lined up, and you would pick up the phone at one in the morning to hear his voice on the other end saying he was sorry, he was sorry, he should have called yesterday and the day got away from him.
You always told him to stop apologising. He always apologised anyway.
He came to New York whenever he could. He sent a car. The car always took you to somewhere thoughtful; a private dining room at a restaurant he'd remembered you mentioning, a quiet table at a hotel bar after your show, once to a small jazz club in Harlem where the owner had cleared the back room for the two of you and the band had played until three in the morning and Michael had held your hand under the table for the whole set.
He kissed you a great deal. He said he loved to kiss.
He kissed you in the back of cars and in the corridor outside your dressing room and once, memorably, on a fire escape in the Village at four in the morning when neither of you had wanted the night to end. His hands had been at the small of your back and in your hair and skimming the edge of your waist over your coat, and you had been pressed against the brick wall behind you with his mouth at the side of your throat, and you had genuinely thought — yes, tonight, here, in this freezing alley if it has to be —
And then he had pulled back. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathed out slowly.
He had said not like this.
You hadn't known what to do with that, so you'd nodded, and he had walked you to your front door and kissed the back of your hand like a man from another century and gone home alone.
He had never once brought you back to his place. Wherever his place was in the city; a hotel suite, a friend's townhouse, you weren't entirely sure — he kept it separate. He took you out. He held you close in perfectly picked out places. He left you at your door.
You had asked him about it once, gently, you didn't want him to think it was a complaint. He had looked at you for a long time and then said — I've done this wrong before. I don't want to do it wrong with you.
You had not pushed the subject after that.
He was smarter than you had expected, and that was the thing that had made you fall for him more than anything else.
You'd known he was talented. Everyone knew that. You'd known he was an adorer of all things theatrical, — three nights at Streetcar had told you that before you'd ever spoken to him.
What you hadn't been ready for was how widely he read, how carefully he thought, how much he knew about your world specifically.
He knew theatre. Properly. Not the surface of it, not the famous productions and the names everyone could recognise; he knew Stanislavski and the Group Theatre and what Lee Strasberg had been doing in the basement of Carnegie Hall in 1948. He could tell you which production of Long Day's Journey Into Night he thought was the best one ever staged and why. He had opinions on Stoppard. He had read Mamet.
You had asked him, once, where he had learned all of this.
He had shrugged, a small private shrug, and said — I had a lot of time on tour buses when I was young. I read everything I could find.
You had been smitten before then. After that you had been quietly, comprehensively gone.
In April he flew you out to LA for a long weekend.
He was working on a short film for his new album. A piece for the History record — something elaborate, something cinematic, with a proper script and proper scenes that needed acting rather than performing. He told you over the phone that he was nervous about it. He told you he didn't quite trust his own ear for the dialogue. He asked you, very tentatively, if you would mind sitting with him for a few hours and helping him run the lines.
You had said yes before he had even finished asking.
He sent a car for you at JFK and you flew first class and Frank; Frank was apparently a permanent fixture in your life now, kind, quiet and secretly very funny. He picked you up at LAX and drove you to a house in the hills you had never been to before, and you understood, by the way he stopped the car a respectful distance from the front door, that this was where Michael lived.
He came out of the front door before you had got out of the car.
You had not seen him in three weeks. He was in a soft white t-shirt and dark trousers and his hair was loose and he looked, in the late afternoon California light, like a slightly different version of the man you had been spending time with in the cold city. More relaxed. More at home in his own skin.
He held you on the gravel drive for a long minute without saying anything, cradling your head in his hands.
You spent two days running his lines for him.
You sat on the floor of a sun-filled living room, grand piano and all with the script between you. You ran scenes. You pushed back on line readings. You asked him what his director had said about a particular beat and then told him gently that you disagreed. He listened. He took notes.
He made you cups of tea and brought them over without spilling a drop. He asked you, at one point, what your second year movement teacher at Juilliard would have said about the way he was holding his shoulders in a particular scene, and you laughed so hard you had to put the script down. He was filming some sort of horror short and he was taking it entirely too seriously.
He kissed you on the sofa in the late afternoon of the first day and you spent an hour there together, just kissing, his hand under the back of your shirt, hovering on your bra clasp, the script forgotten on the coffee table. He stopped before it could go anywhere. He always stopped. You were starting to understand it as a kind of devotion; a careful patience — even though you privately wished, more and more, that he would stop being so careful with you.
He drove you back to the airport on Monday morning himself. No Frank. Just him in a car he kept in the garage, with the windows down and the radio low and massive sunglasses on his face, so he wouldn't be recognised.
At the curb of the airport drop off, he kissed you politely on the side of your face and told you he would call you that night.
He did. And the night after. And the night after that.
You came back to New York and back to Blanche and back to the eight shows a week.
You felt — for the first time in a long time; like a person whose life had a bit of excitement outside work in it. A private part. A warm element.
Your relationship with michael was like a room with the door closed that nobody else got to see inside.
You had no idea you were about to walk into the worst of it.
₊˚°⊹˚
You had been nominated.
You had received the call on a Tuesday morning from your agent and you had sat down on the floor of your kitchen and cried, properly, the way you had not cried in a long time. Best Actress in a Play. A Streetcar Named Desire. Your second Broadway nomination and your first in a lead role.
Michael had been the third person you'd called. He had gotten very emotional on the phone. You couldn't really tell if he was crying or not. He had said I knew it, I knew it, I knew it about six times in a row.
The luncheon was at the Rainbow Room. Three weeks after the nomination. The whole industry would be there. He was flying in from LA the night before to come with you. He had asked you, very seriously, if you were sure you wanted him there. He had said he didn't want to be the story and would be very happy to wait at the hotel and meet you afterward if you would prefer.
You had told him you wanted him with you. You wanted to become public and let the world know that you were fully, incomprehensibly in love with him. But you had to tell him this first, and you had no clue how to say it out loud.
You had also told him, more carefully, that Daniel was going to be there and would be a large fixture within the day.
Daniel.
Your co-star. Your Stanley. The man who had been pawing at you and breaking you down and dragging you across a stage for fourteen weeks of the run, eight shows a week. A wonderful actor and a carefree socialite with a great career ahead of him, who had never, in all the time you had worked together, ever made you feel uncomfortable for a single second.
He had been nominated too. Best Actor. The two of you had done press together for the nominations. You had hugged him on stage at the press call and the photograph had gone everywhere — Streetcar leads embrace after Tony nods.
You never really brought up Daniel to Michael, because you assumed he knew: it was all business.
He had been excited about the event and he had been excited for you. The morning of the luncheon you had got ready in your apartment and he had arrived to collect you in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he had told you, quietly, that you looked extraordinary.
₊˚°⊹˚
The Rainbow Room was at the top of 30 Rock and it was a beautiful, slightly absurd venue for a lunch.
You had been there once before, briefly, for some industry thing. You had not been there as a nominee. You had not been there with a date, never mind an international heart throb.
Everything had been fine on the lead up, until your agency in collaboration with the production team of Streetcar, threw a hefty stick of dynamite your way that changed the tone of what would play out.
The call was quick, snappy, almost 2 days before the event.
It had been Greg, your producer. Greg who you trusted. Greg who said the words darling, listen, this is a wonderful opportunity in a tone of voice that made your stomach drop.
"The studio had a thought"
You rolled your eyes, you already knew. Daniel was single. You were nominated together.
"The press already loved the photograph of the two of you embracing. The buzz around the production was good but it could be great — and the Tonys were only 3 weeks away, and a little bit of fanfare around the two leads going into the awards could move the needle on a Best Revival nod for the production itself.
Would you consider going to the luncheon together?
Just as professional dates. Just for the photographs."
You had stared at your kitchen wall for a long moment.
You had said "Greg, I'm seeing someone."
He had said "I know, darling, and I would never ask you to do anything you weren't comfortable with. But it's one event. It's a few hours. The story writes itself for the morning papers and then it's done."
You had said you would think about it.
You had thought about it.
You had said yes, eventually, because Greg had been good to you and because the production deserved the boost and because Daniel had been a generous co-star for fourteen weeks and you wanted him to win Best Actor.
And because — and this was the part you hadn't quite admitted to yourself — you and Michael had not yet had the conversation about what you were to each other. Not properly. He had not asked you to be anything specific. He had kissed you on fire escapes and held you on his sofa in LA and told you he didn't want to do it wrong with you, and that had been wonderful and patient and lovely, but it had also left a great deal in the room undefined.
You did not have a boyfriend.
You had Michael, and Michael had you, and neither of you had said the word yet.
So you said yes to Greg.
And you called Michael that night.
You told him on the phone.
You told him exactly what Greg had said, exactly, and what it was and exactly what it wasn't. You told him it was for the production. You told him it was photographs and a luncheon and two hours and then it was done. You thought he'd know these things, coming from the industry himself.
You said "Michael, I would still very much like you to come. I want you there. I want you there with me. We can arrive separately and you can sit at the table with my agent and I think Sandra is going, and it will all be fine. People can finally see us in public together"
There was a very long silence on the other end of the line.
Then he said very quietly, evenly — "of course. Whatever you need."
"are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I want to be there for you."
"Michael."
"Honestly. I am fine with it. Get some sleep."
He hung up before you could say anything else.
You sat on your bedroom floor for a long time with the phone in your lap.
You had known him for three months. You had been on enough phone calls with him to know what every register of his voice meant. The voice he had used to say I'm fine had not been fine.
You wanted to call him back. You knew that calling him back would make it worse.
So you didn't.
He arrived at your apartment in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he kissed your temple and told you you looked extraordinary, and you held onto him for a beat longer than you meant to in the hallway, and he stroked the back of your hair and didn't say anything further about it. One of his spare drivers would take you, separately and you'd meet up.
You hoped deep down that you'd be able to juggle responsibility and still introduce Michael to your industry friends and just… have a good time.
₊˚°⊹˚
Daniel was waiting at the entrance to the Rainbow Room.
He looked good. He always looked good. He was thirty six years old and had perfect bone structure, and that was basically what had got him cast as Stanley in the first place. Broad through the shoulders, slightly rough at the edges, the kind of handsome that worked better in person on stage, rather than in the movies.
He was wearing a navy suit and his hair was pushed back from his forehead and he was grinning at you, wiggling his eyebrows at the presence of a man; of Michael, as you came across the marble floor toward him.
You felt Michael's hand drop from the small of your back about three feet before you reached the door.
He had peeled off to find his seat. You had not seen him do it. You realised it in the second after it had happened and your stomach churned with anxiety.
Daniel reached for you.
You let him. He kissed your cheek and held both of your hands and looked at you the way Daniel always looked at you when there was a camera nearby — a little too warm, a little too proud, a little too here she is — and the photographers on the press line started flashing immediately.
"There she is," Daniel said, loud enough for them to hear. "There's my Blanche."
You inwardly grimaced at the use of that statement.
"There's my Stanley," you said, because the script of these things wrote itself.
He kept hold of one of your hands. He drew you in toward the press line. The flashes started in earnest now — the proper, blinding, sustained kind that you only got at events like this, when you were the photograph the photographers had been told to get.
Daniel was wonderful at it. He had grown up on a soap opera, multi camera, before he had moved to the theatre. He knew exactly how to angle his body, exactly when to laugh, exactly when to lean in toward you and say something private into your ear that the cameras would read as intimacy. His hand was at the small of your back now, creeping toward your backside, where Michael's had been not ten minutes ago. It was lower than it needed to be, and you knew; you just knew, professionally, that this was the kind of touch that sold a photograph. The only kind, really.
You forced a smiled at the photographers.
You let him put his arm around your shoulders for a posed shot. You let him kiss the side of your head for another. When one of the photographers called out give her a proper one, Danny, come on, Daniel laughed and ducked his head and kissed you on the cheek, very close to the corner of your mouth, and held it for a beat too long, and the flashes went off so brightly you saw spots for thirty seconds afterward.
When you finally got past the press line, when Daniel finally released you to go and stand with his own publicist, you turned around to look for Michael.
He was at the table. He was already sitting down. His back was to you.
You crossed the room.
You made your way to the table with your stage smile on, greeting the people who stopped you, accepting congratulations on the nomination, kissing cheeks. You had done this a hundred times. You could do it on autopilot.
Michael stood up to pull your chair out for you. He did it without even thinking, a true gentleman. Courteous attention; that had been one of the first things you had ever loved about him. He smiled at you; small, warm, a little bit out of control — and helped you into your chair.
He didn't say anything.
You knew, by the angle of his jaw and the jittery mess of his hands, and the way he had not yet looked at you since you had sat down, that something was really wrong.
"Michael," you said quietly.
"Mm."
"Are you alright?"
He turned to look at you. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.
"I'm fine, these things make me really anxious."
He turned back to the table, and politely asked Bill to hand him the salt.
You felt your stomach drop as you saw Daniel approach the table.
He was being a good sport about the whole scenario, was the thing. However, he had no idea what was happening, he had no idea Michael was anything other than a friend who had come with you for moral support, because the production had not told him anything different and you certainly hadn't. He was laying on the charm; and thick.
He shook Michael's hand.
He said it was an honour.
He said
"thank you for coming to support my girl " — and he meant it warmly, he meant it in the goofy way, the way an older brother might tease; but you watched Michael's hand tighten very briefly on his napkin under the table.
Michael smiled at him.
"My pleasure," Michael said. "She's spoken highly of you. I've been looking forward to meet the man behind the Stanley."
Daniel laughed. Clapped Michael on the shoulder.
You saw Michael flinch very faintly under the contact.
Daniel went back to his own table.
You turned to Michael.
"Michael —"
"I said I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just eat lunch and get through this."
His voice was perfectly even. He still wasn't looking at you.
You started to overthink; maybe it was a mistake to bring him here? Maybe he wasn't ready to commit to someone? Show the world that you were his?
You chewed the inside of your lip, totally catastrophising the situation. When your eyes flickered up, Sandra gave you a woeful look.
Everyone could sense the tense energy.
It got worse during the speeches.
The production's publicist had clearly briefed Daniel. He truly was a sweet man with no malice in him at all, but he was also an actor, and when he was given a brief he ran with it.
During the cocktail portion of the afternoon, while you were trying to talk to Greg, Daniel kept appearing at your elbow. He kept putting his hand on the small of your back. He kept laughing at things you said and tipping his head back the way the photographs liked.
The photographers loved it. They were getting their story. You could see the headlines already Streetcar leads electric at Tonys luncheon, sources say more than chemistry between the stars than even the characters themselves.
You simply could not get back to the table. Back to him.
Every time you tried, somebody stopped you. A nominator. A producer. An old friend. They wanted to congratulate you. They wanted a photograph. They wanted to introduce you to someone.
You looked over at the table.
He had not moved. He was talking politely to Sandra, who had been seated next to him as a buffer and a familiar face, and Sandra was watching you across the room with a look on her face you knew very well. The Sandra look that said I see what is happening and I am keeping him calm but you need to get over here.
His security detail was intimidating enough that no other guests approached the table. He must have been jealous, and feeling rather left out. Regret started rushing through your body.
You tried.
You really did.
You were two feet from the table when Daniel caught your elbow.
"Photographer wants one more by the window," he said cheerfully. "Light's perfect. Five minutes, darling."
He looped his arm through yours.
You looked toward the table. Michael was watching now. He had turned his head slightly. He was looking at Daniel's arm through yours.
His face was completely blank.
You felt sick.
"Daniel," you said quietly. "I really need to —"
"Five minutes, darling. Greg's orders."
He was already steering you away.
You looked back over your shoulder. Michael was standing up. He was buttoning his jacket with those gorgeous hands. He was saying something to Sandra. Sandra was reaching for his arm. He was shaking his head, gently, and stepping past her. His security entourage followed.
He walked toward the door at the back of the room.
He did not look at you on his way out.
You stood frozen by the window with Daniel's arm through yours and a photographer asking you to look this way please, miss, just one more, and you felt every part of your heart slowly shatter. How could you have let this get so screwed up?
You don't remember making the decision to run, your brain was in complete overdrive.
And then you were moving.
You pulled your arm out of Daniel's so abruptly that he stumbled half a step.
"Darling, wait —"
"I'll be back."
"Greg said —"
"Tell Greg I'll be back."
You were already walking. Half walking. Mostly running, by the time you got to the door — and you did not care, in that moment, that you were a Tony nominee in a designer dress and heels who had just abandoned her co-star in front of half the New York theatre press. You did not care about a single one of them.
You shoved the door open.
You were in a service corridor. White walls, fluorescent strip lights, a janitor's trolley parked against one wall. The sound of the luncheon dimmed behind you the second the door swung shut.
You ran.
You did not know where he had gone. You followed the corridor on instinct — the instinct that came from years of touring theatres and knowing how back of house corridors worked. Service routes always led to service exits. Famous people who didn't want to be seen always went out the back.
You took a left.
Then a right.
You came down a flight of metal stairs in your heels too fast and almost went over, caught yourself on the railing, kept going.
You burst out of a fire door onto a loading dock and the rain hit you like someone had thrown a bucket.
It was coming down hard. It had not been raining when you'd arrived — the sky had been overcast but holding — and apparently in the last hour the weather had broken properly and now it was the kind of New York summer downpour that turned the city's gutters into rivers.
You saw him immediately.
He was at the bottom of the loading dock ramp, in the alley. Bill was beside him. There was a black car pulling up at the kerb. Michael was already moving toward it.
"Michael!"
He stopped.
He didn't turn around. Not at first. He stopped in the middle of the alley with the rain coming down on him, and his shoulders went up slightly, and then very slowly he turned to face you.
He looked at you across the alley.
You came down the loading dock ramp. Your shoes had no grip. The rain was already in your eyes. You could feel your hair flattening against your scalp and your makeup running and you did not care. Heart hammering in your chest.
You crossed the alley.
Bill stepped back slightly, gave the two of you a space, and then slid into the back of the black car.
You stopped in front of Michael.
He was soaked through already. His suit was ruined. His hair had come loose where he had been pulling at it and was sticking to the side of his face. He was looking at you with an expression you had never seen on him — not anger exactly, but something much rougher than anything he had shown you in three months.
"Michael —"
"Go back inside Y/N."
"What?"
"Go back inside. They're going to be looking for you."
"I don't care."
"Yes you do."
"Michael, I don't —"
"You should." His voice cracked very slightly.
He looked away from you, down the alley. "You should care. That's the whole point of today. That's the whole point of life, to care. You've worked your butt off for this and you should be in there right now with your co star, smiling for the cameras, and not out here in the rain ruining your dress."
"I'd rather be out here with you."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that." He was still not looking at you. His jaw was working. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."
You felt something shift very coldly in your chest.
"Make what harder?"
He looked at you.
The rain was running down his face. His eyes were wet and you could not tell, in that downpour, whether any of it was tears or whether it was all just water, and you understood, in a slow terrible way, that it didn't matter.
"I shouldn't be here," he said.
"What?"
"Today. This. I shouldn't be here. I knew it when you called me on Tuesday and I came anyway because I'm — " he stopped, gathered himself. "Because I'm selfish. Because I wanted to be near you. But I should not be here."
"Michael, what are you talking about?"
"You're at the start of something." He gestured vaguely toward the building behind you. The rain was coming off his sleeve in a sheet. "You're at the beginning. You've built this on your own. You've done everything right. You've got reviews and a nomination and a co star who looks like that; touches you hungrily, and a publicist who knows exactly how to position you. And I am — "
His voice cracked properly this time.
"I am not a good thing to attach yourself to right now."
You stared at him.
"What are you saying?"
"You know what they say about me."
"Michael. You can't seriously be doing this to me right now."
"You know what they print. You know what the papers do. You know what they were doing last summer. They are not done with me. They are not going to be done with me for a long time, and you do not deserve to be standing next to that. You do not deserve the questions. You do not deserve some journalist asking you in the middle of an interview what you think about — " he stopped dead, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye.
"You don't deserve any of it. You deserve someone better. You deserve someone proud to be with you in public, and I don't know if that can be me right now."
The last few words were like a butcher knife carefully plunged straight through your heart.
"I knew this was too good to be true. That you'd be like every other celebrity - underneath all the exquisite fame and fortune - cold and unbothered." You seethed.
"I don't even know why I trusted you. I fell for you Michael, invite you out here to show you off because I was proud and you pull this?"
You pushed the wet hair from your face, the rain still pouring down heavy. "How very cliche of you."
He didn't flinch.
He looked at you for a long moment with the rain coming off his face, and you watched something in him settle into a shape you had not seen before. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Something more depressing. Something that had been sitting in him for a long time, maybe his whole life, and had just been waiting for the right night to come out.
"Y/N."
He said your name like it was the last time he was going to.
"Look at me."
You were looking at him. You did not understand what he meant.
"No," he said softly. "Look at me. Look at me."
You looked.
You looked at his ruined suit and his soaked hair and the rain running off his jaw, and you looked at his eyes, and you looked at the way he was holding himself — slightly hunched, slightly small, like a man who was trying to take up less space than his body actually took up.
"You see me. Right?"
"Michael —"
"You see what I am. The papers tear me apart. The hair. My face. The —" he gestured at himself, vaguely, the whole of him — "everything. You see it."
"I see you. the real you."
"Yeah." A small, sad smile. "But you see all that too. You have to. Everybody does."
"Michael, what are you doing."
"I'm trying to be honest with you. For once. I've been — I have been pretending for three months that this could work, and I came here today and I sat at that table and I watched you walk around with him and I watched the way the room moved for the two of you, and I understood something I should have understood a long time ago."
"Don't."
"You're going to leave me eventually."
"Michael —"
"You are. You're going to. Maybe not this year. Maybe not the year after that. But you are going to wake up one morning next to me and you are going to look at me and you are going to realise that you could have had — " he stopped. Swallowed. "I want you to have the easy version. You could have had the man who walks into a room with you and the room doesn't make up a crazy tabloid rumour about you. You could have had the man who can take you to your own award show without ducking out the back."
"Michael — stop —"
"I'd rather you leave now."
You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.
"What?"
"I can't do this again. I can't be the thing that gets left."
"Michael, please look at me — "
"Go back inside."
"Michael — "
"Go back inside. Please."
You reached for him.
He stepped back.
It was the worst thing he had done to you yet. He stepped back from you, further out of the alley, and you watched his hands come up between you like a barrier. You understood that he had decided this and that you were not going to be able to talk him out of it.
"I am asking you," he said quietly. "I am asking you please to let me go"
You could not speak.
"Please."
You could not speak.
you stood in front of him with your mouth open and nothing coming out — he nodded once, very slowly, like you had answered him.
"Take care of yourself."
He turned around.
He walked to the car. Bill was holding the door. Michael got in without looking back at you. The door slammed shut, the rain still plummeting down, bouncing off the black sidewalk.
The car pulled away and turned left at the end of the alley and disappeared into the wet smear of traffic on the avenue.
₊˚°⊹˚
You don't remember the cab ride home.
You don't remember Sandra getting you into your building or up the stairs or through your front door. You don't remember her running you a bath or peeling the ruined dress off you or wrapping you in your dressing gown. You remember pieces of it. You remember her hands at the zip and her voice somewhere above you saying baby, baby, baby in the soft repetitive way she said it when she didn't know what else to say.
You'd asked her to leave eventually.
She had not wanted to. She had stood in your doorway in her own coat with her own hair still damp and looked at you for a long time, and you had told her, quietly, that you needed to be by yourself. You had told her you would call her in the morning.
That had been an hour ago. Or two. Or six. You weren't sure.
You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom.
You did not know why you were on the floor. You had walked in here to find a hairbrush and you had sat down with your back against the foot of the bed and you had not got up again. Your body could not manage any task, for the thought of him completely disabled you.
Your dressing gown was loose at the front and your hair was still wet and there was a small dark patch on the rug where your hair was dripping, and you watched the patch grow without doing anything about it.
You kept replaying it.
The alley. The rain. The way he had stepped back from you when you reached for him. The red brake lights at the end of the alley.
You kept replaying the wrong parts of it.
You should have grabbed him. You should have grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined jacket and pulled him into you and told him every single thing you had been too composed to say for three months. You should have told him, in the alley, in the rain, in front of Bill — you should have told him that you were in love with him. You should have told him you had known it since the night on the fire escape in the Village. You should have told him that you didn't care about the papers. You should have told him you would walk into any room in the world with him as long as he was the one walking in with you.
You had stood there with your mouth open like an idiot and you had let him decide for both of you, and now he was somewhere in the city — a hotel, a friend's apartment, a car going to the airport, you had no idea — and you had no way of reaching him because you had never been to his place and you didn't even have a number for him that wasn't Wayne's, and Wayne was not going to put you through tonight, you knew that, Wayne was going to be polite and protective and very firm, just as an assistant should be.
You had let him go.
You had let him go and you had not even fought for him properly, and now he was alone and he thought he was right and he thought he had done you a favour.
The worst part was that he had been wrong about everything.
You did not want the easy version. You had never wanted the easy version. You had spent fourteen weeks playing a woman who had been destroyed by the easy version, by the man who looked right on paper, by the brother in law who fit into the family photograph — and you had walked off that stage every night and gone home to phone calls with a man who blissfully did not fit anywhere, who was complicated and strange and famous and shy and clever and gentle and could not eat lunch in a restaurant without buying it out first, and that was the man you had wanted. That was the man you had been falling in love with. The complication had never been the problem. The complication had been the point.
He didn't know because you had never told him. You had spent three months letting him think he was a luxury you were graciously accommodating in your otherwise clean and uncomplicated career, and now he had decided to remove himself from your life as a kindness, and you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom realising you had loved him for at least eight weeks of those three months and had not said a single word.
You had been so careful. You had been so good and so professional and so grown up about the whole thing. You had not wanted to scare him. You had not wanted to push. You had wanted to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and understanding about his patience.
You wished, now, that you had been someone completely different.
You wished you had been the kind of woman who, on the fire escape in the Village at four in the morning, had said yes, like this, exactly like this, please don't stop. Take me right here and now.
You wished you had told him, on the sofa in his house in the hills that you would burn your career to the ground for him if he asked you to. You wished you had said it like that, exactly, in those words. You wished you had been melodramatic and naked and unreasonable and thirty three years old, the way you had every right to be. You wished you had been less of a professional.
You wished you had told him you were in love with him.
You wished —
There was a knock at the door.
You froze.
You looked toward the bedroom doorway. The apartment was dark beyond it — you had not bothered to turn any lamps on after Sandra had left — and the only light was the spill from your bedside lamp pooling at your feet on the rug.
It was past midnight.
It might be Sandra. She might have come back. She might have decided not to leave you alone tonight after all.
The knock came again.
Not Sandra's knock. Hers — three quick taps, businesslike, the same knock she used at your dressing room door. This was different. This was harder. This was the knock of a person who had been standing on the other side of a door for a long time trying to work up to it.
You got off the floor.
You did not breathe properly. You walked through your dark apartment in your bare feet with your damp hair sticking to your neck and your dressing gown loose around you, and you reached the door, and you put your hand on the latch.
You did not look through the peephole.
You opened the door.
Michael was standing in the corridor.
He didn't speak. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim light of the corridor, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, rainwater still gleaming on his skin. The silence between you was a live wire, humming with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.
Then he moved.
It wasn't a slow movement. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was a sudden, decisive lunge, as if he'd been holding himself back by a thread and the thread had snapped. His hands came up, not to push you away this time, but to seize you.
One hand clamped around your upper arm, the other went to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your damp hair. He pulled you into him with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.
His mouth came down on yours.
He kissed you like a man trying to undo his own decision. There was no softness, no exploration. It was hard and desperate and wet with rain and something saltier—tears, maybe his, maybe yours, you couldn't tell.
He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was air. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the alley, the last hour, the last three months of careful distance. His tongue pushed past your lips, rough and demanding, and you gasped into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his soaked shirt.
He broke the kiss only to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes screwed shut.
"We drove eight blocks," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "and then I told Frank to turn around. I told him to bring me back here. I sat in the car downstairs for hours mulling over what I said to you. How unfair and jealous I was..."
You tried to speak, but he shook his head, a sharp, frantic motion.
"Don't," he said. "Don't say anything. If you say anything reasonable, if you tell me to go, I will. I'll go. So don't."
He kissed you again, swallowing any response you might have made. This time, his hands began to move. The hand on your arm slid down, over the slippery silk of your dressing gown, finding the tie at your waist.
He fumbled with it, his fingers clumsy with urgency, and when the knot gave way, he shoved the fabric apart. The gown fell open. The cool air of the corridor hit your bare skin underneath—you had nothing on but your panties.
A low, guttural sound vibrated from his throat into your mouth.
He pushed you backward, into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the dark space. He didn't turn on a light. He just walked you back, his mouth still devouring yours, until your shoulders hit the wall beside the entryway table. The impact made a frame rattle.
He tore his mouth from yours, his breath scorching hot against your cheek. "I tried," he whispered, almost to himself. "I tried to be the good one. I tried to let you go. I can't. I can't do it. Even if this life is complicated"
His hands were everywhere. One palm slid up your ribcage, rough and warm, and closed over your breast, his thumb sweeping over your nipple in a circle that made you arch off the wall with a sharp cry.
He bent his head, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. When he took your nipple into his mouth, biting it slightly, you cried out again, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Michael—"
"You said my name in the alley like that," he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing the peak. "I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth."
He straightened, his eyes blazing in the near-darkness. With a sudden, shocking strength, he turned you around, pressing your front against the wall. His body covered yours from behind, lean and hard and trembling. You felt the rigid line of his erection through his trousers, pressed against the curve of your ass. He groaned, a raw, pained sound, and ground himself against you once, twice, a slow, deliberate friction that had you pushing back against him, seeking more.
One of his hands splayed across your stomach, holding you to him. The other went to your hip, his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties. He didn't peel them down. He ripped them.
The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud, and then the scrap of fabric was gone, falling to the floor at your feet. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm cupping you from behind, his fingers sliding through your wetness with a rough, exploring stroke.
"Fuck," he breathed into your ear, his voice shattered. "You're so wet. You're so wet for me. Even after— even after what I said."
You were beyond words. You could only press your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and whimper as his fingers found your clit, circling it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, perfect, maddening. He worked you like that for a minute, his breath coming in harsh gusts against your neck, his body a tense, vibrating line against your back. Then his fingers slid lower, pushing inside you, two of them, curling upward. You cried out, your knees buckling. He held you up easily, his arm like an iron band around your waist.
"I thought about this," he whispered, his lips moving against the shell of your ear. "In the car. I thought about having you like this. Against a wall. On the floor. In my bed. I thought about how you'd feel. How you'd sound."
He added a third finger, stretching you, and you moaned, long and low, the sound torn from somewhere deep in your belly. He fucked you with his hand, his pace relentless. You were climbing fast, too fast, the sensation in your abdomen tightening to a breaking point.
"Not yet," he commanded, his voice rough. He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and gasping. He turned you around again to face him. In the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, you could see his face clearly for the first time.
His eyes were wild, dark pools of hunger and anguish.
His lips were swollen from kissing. Rain and sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He looked at you, his gaze dropping to your bare body, to where his own hand had just been. His expression was one of ravenous, almost frightening need.
"I need to taste you," he said, the words simple and devastating.
He sank to his knees on your hallway floor. You swayed, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders for balance. He didn't give you time to process it. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you toward him, and then his mouth was on you.
The first flat stroke of his tongue made you seethe. How could he have kept this side of himself from you?
It was hot and wet and impossibly intimate. He didn't start slow. He dove in as if he'd been starving for it, his tongue laving broad, firm stripes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had your legs shaking.
His nose bumped against you, his breath hot. One of his hands left your thigh to slide back inside you, his fingers pumping in time with the suck of his mouth.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and bright, ripped through you, building with terrifying speed.
You looked down. In the dim light, you could see the pale, beautiful patterns on his neck and chest, the patches of vitiligo stark against his skin where his shirt had come open — a constellation of light on dark that made him seem otherworldly, a creature of myth on his knees for you.
The sight of it, the sheer vulnerability of him in this position combined with the aggressive, consuming way he was devouring you, sent a fresh, violent wave of heat through your core.
"Michael, I'm— I'm going to—" you choked out.
He hummed against you, the vibration tipping you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed into you, a silent, seizing wave that tore a ragged scream from your throat. You bucked against his mouth, but he held you firm, his tongue working you through the convulsions until you were limp and shuddering, your fingers clenched in his hair.
He didn't stop. As the last pulses faded, he gentled his mouth, licking you softly, cleaning you with a tenderness that was at odds with the frenzy of moments before. Then he rose, his movements fluid. His face was glistening with you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Why the hell did you not do this to me that night in the village?" You asked, completely out of breath.
He was breathing hard. His hands went to his own clothes.
"Honestly, I didn't know if I had it in me or that you were the one for me. Clearly I do and you are" He said darkly. "So I am doing this now, because I know I need you. Be mine. Properly. No more hiding."
He ripped his tie off and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at his words, at the weight of them, at the way he said them like a man who had spent the entire car ride back here deciding.
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and in his impatience, a few popped off, pinging against the floor.
He shoved the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall. Then his belt buckle clanged, his zipper hissed, and he pushed his trousers and boxers down in one rough shove.
You saw his body fully for the first time.
He was wiry, all lean muscle and long lines, just as you'd imagined. His shoulders were narrow but defined, his chest smooth, his stomach flat. A dark trail of hair leading down the way. The vitiligo you had glimpsed earlier extended further than you had realised, sprawling across his ribs and down one hip, the contrast making him look pieced together from moonlight and shadow.
He was painfully erect, his cock standing thick and hard, the tip flushed and wet.
He was the most breathtaking thing you had ever seen.
He closed the distance between you in one stride. "I need to be inside you," he said, the words a raw scrape of sound. "Now. I can't wait. I can't be gentle."
"I don't want gentle," you breathed.
A shudder ran through him. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his hands under your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist.
He carried you like that, through the dark living room, into your bedroom. He didn't lay you on the bed. He laid you on the rug, the same rug you'd been sitting on earlier, the one with the damp patch from your hair. He came down over you, bracing himself on his arms, his body caged between your legs.
He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you, and he paused, his eyes searching yours in the lamplight. For a second, the shy, hesitant man was there, flickering in the depths of his gaze.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, agony in his voice. "If you want me to stop, tell me now." You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb stroking over the patch of pale skin on his cheekbone.
"Don't you dare stop."
He drove into you in one deep, relentless thrust.
The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole your breath. He was big, and he didn't give you time to adjust. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and let out a broken groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul. He held there for a moment, trembling, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Oh, God," he choked. "Oh, God, you feel— I can't—"
He began to move.
There was no rhythm at first, just a frantic, driving pace, as if he was trying to fuse himself to you. Each thrust was deep, punishing, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The rough material of the rug scraped against your back, his body was a heavy, delicious weight on top of you, and the smell of rain and sex and his skin filled the air.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.
You forced your eyes open. His face was above you, strained with pleasure, his lips parted.
"You're not settling," he gritted out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Do you understand me? You are not. Settling."
"I know," you gasped.
“I love you.”
He said it like it hurt.
“I love you so much.”
"Fuck, Michael. I love you too--"
"I can’t do another almost.”
His hand tightened around yours. The thrusts ragged.
“If this is happening, then it has to really happen.”
"I'm yours. I'm yours, Michael —"
He kissed you again, swallowing your cries.
His pace became more controlled, deeper, each stroke a deliberate claiming.
He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, changing the angle. The new position made him go even deeper, the head of his cock rubbing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot with every plunge.
You were coming undone again, a second orgasm building greatly. Your nails scored down his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the smooth expanse of his warm skin. He hissed at the sensation, his movements growing more ragged.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice thick. "I'm not going to last. Come with me. Please. Come with me."
It was the "please" that did it. That same shattered, vulnerable "please" from the alley, but now drenched in desire instead of despair.
Your orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering explosion that clenched around him, milking his length. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove into you one final, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside you in hot, pulsing waves.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the rug, his face buried in your neck. His breaths were great, heaving gasps against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly calming.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city at night.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled off you, taking his weight but keeping an arm around your waist, pulling you with him so you lay on your sides facing each other on the rug. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair a mess. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked.
He reached out a trembling hand and brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His eyes, now soft and exhausted, traced your face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"For which part?"
A faint, shattered smile touched his lips. "The part where I ripped your underwear. And possibly the part where I was… rough."
You shook your head, your own hand coming up to trace the pale pattern on his shoulder. "Don't be sorry for any of it."
He caught your hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to your palm. It was a gesture from another century, infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the animal hunger of minutes before.
"I meant what I said today," he said quietly, his eyes serious. "I am… a lot. It's not going to be easy."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. I believe you now." He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "I think I just needed… proof. Not from you. From me. That I could want something this much and not run from it. And seeing you with another man just wrecked me. I didn't know what to do"
You shifted closer, until your foreheads were touching. "So I'm yours now?" You said.
He was silent for a moment. You felt his breath against your lips. "Mine. Properly. No more hiding."
He caught your mouth in a deep, hard kiss.
Outside, the rain began to fall again, a soft patter against your window. You lay there together on the floor, in the pool of lamplight, skin to skin, his wiry, marked body curled around yours, and for the first time all night, you felt the terrible, hollow ache in your chest begin to mend.
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— SUMMARY: Michael oozes sex appeal without even trying. He’s the world’s biggest sex symbol, he dances like someone that puts women through mattresses, and his songs are filled with longing to make sweet love to women. So, why won’t he fuck you?
— WARNINGS: sub!michael, objectification/perversion, voyeurism, dacryphila, slight somnophilia, inspection kink, accidental edging, overstimulation, pain kink, face sitting, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, aggressive sex, mike is pussy drunk, soft dom!reader, cockwarming, aftercare (finally!), fluff. not proofread (yet)!
— WC: 7k (I really don’t know how to shut up…)
— A/N: Based off a prompt from this poll. Yeah, it’s gon get real nasty in here. Here’s subby bad era mj for the ones that see the vision. Also, imagine the biggest L-shaped couch in existence. It’ll make a lot more sense that way, trust me. Thank you all so much for 300 followers!
It was getting ridiculous. 10 and a half months of tension and torture. You were getting so desperate, you started feeling like a hormone-driven, college-aged man.
Seriously, you were objectifying Michael’s every action like some pervert. The way his tongue swirled around his lips after they’d gotten a little dry. Putting on lipgloss just to ‘share some’ with him. Purposely asking him to play his grand piano so that you could watch his fingers work over every tooth. Even objectifying the soft sighs of content he’d make in his sleep.
Your body was aching for his touch.
It all came to a head after you watched your tape of Michael’s Dirty Diana performance in Wembley. Michael had his team take personal videos for you since you couldn’t make it due to work obligations. He was going over the videos with you in your house’s upstairs loft, excitedly gauging your every reaction to the show he put on.
I imagined you standing right on stage with me in this one, he’d told you, handing you the copy so you could put it into the VCR.
As you watched it, you couldn’t help but focus on every detail. He looked so desperate and sang so sensually. Naturally, it turned you on, especially since you’ve been so hungry for him for so long. You were squirming with every thrust, leaking through every hungry whine that seeped past his lips. After the video stopped, your panties were embarrassingly soaked.
He stared at you expectantly and finally cleared his throat after you sat there eyes wide and silent for 4 whole minutes.
“Michael,” you said evenly, voice coming out smoother than you felt.
“Did you like it?” he asked, aching for your approval.
“Like? Mike my panties are soaked,” you admitted with a longing sigh. You were edging over the precipice of insanity.
“O-oh…?” he responded bashfully, not sure how to insert his commentary into this topic.
Admittedly, Michael was insane about you. He kept up a good front when needed, but there were so many times he almost fully let himself go for you. The time you made brownies together and he purposely swiped his index finger around the remnants inside the mixing bowl, presenting his finger so that he could feel your tongue and cheeks suck around his skin. Or, the time you’d left your shared bathroom door slightly ajar, him eagerly peeking in while he watched you clean your sex precisely, his mouth going dry at the sight of your delicate fingers touching your glistening pussy.
He even got turned on by you crying after the two of you watched a particularly devastating romantic movie. The sight of your eyebrows scrunching together was reminiscent of the few times you’d let your makeout sessions turn into heavy petting and your face would mold into the same look when his hardened length desperately ground against your pajama-clad clit.
Still, your admission left him flustered. You broke the silence.
“Why won’t you fuck me?” you asked him, eyes pleading pathetically for his answer.
“Pardon?” he asked, taken aback by the direct question.
“I said,” you inched closer to him on the couch, hand creeping onto his, “Why don’t you fuck me?”
“I-i want…I will…I think about it?” his confession turning into a question as he started losing himself at the feeling of your fingers atop of his. He composed himself and started over.
“It’s just…I want to learn you. I sing all these songs about sexual pleasure and desire, but I feel like a poser. I wanna learn your body. I want to know what exactly makes you squirm, what touches bring you over the edge. Most importantly, I wanna please you. Before anything, I want your pleasure to be put before mine. I want to give you everything before I let you take all of me. Before I make love to you.”
His words stunned you. Obviously, Michael was the most romantic and compassionate person ever, but an insecure part of your brain had convinced you he just didn’t want it. He didn’t want you in that way.
“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” You were embarrassed now. Your eyes started brimming with tears, embarrassment flooding over you for ruining the moment.
“Hey, what’s the matter, baby? C’mere. Why’d you ask me that?” he asked you, his slender form slinking closer to yours, engulfing you into a tender hug. He ignored the arousal threatening to bubble through his actions at the sight of your tear clad face.
You hurriedly wiped the tears that were desperately inching to slip from your eyes.
“I dunno. I just thought you didn’t want me in that way. You always stop anything before we can let it get too far. You even cover your eyes when I get naked in front of you.” You let out an airy laugh at the thought. He slightly leaned his body away from yours, capturing your face in his gigantic hands.
“Of course I want you in that way. Didn’t you see my performance? I basically begged for your body up there. I guess I just suck at asking for it.” He scratched the back of his neck, the realization of his lack of his direct communication weighing on him.
“Then do it,” you demanded, the need in your voice almost turning it into pleading. “Ask for it. Beg. Show me you want me.”
He expression turned serious, eager to please you.
“I will.” It was a promise, leaving no room for questions or confusion. Immediately, the weight in the air turned from confusion and insecurity to unbridled lust and determination. He was gonna learn you the way he described.
Faster than you could protest- not that you would- he adjusted your positions. He gently leaned your back onto the expensive black couch and positioned both of his legs on either side of your torso.
“I’m gonna kiss you first. But please, tell me everything you like. Tell me what you want. I’m going to give everything to you,” he stated, and he leaned in for the kiss.
It was explorative and wandering, his tongue prodding here and there with unspoken questions of your desires. He’d bite your lip, pocketing away your reaction as if he were studying it for a test. When he started sucking your tongue, a loud grumble settled deeply in your chest, and he responded with a groan, pleased with his findings. You were nasty, like him. He liked that.
His kisses escaped your encapsulating lips and immediately found their way to your ear. This was something he was curious about. He parted his mouth and gave your lobe a curious graze, looking up at you from under his long lashes. Your back arched infinitesimally as you let out the quietest whine known to humanity. He dove back in and bit harsher, and you whimpered desperately.
“Hmm,” he noted to himself.
His lips and tongue explored your neck next, eager to have an excuse to mark you through in his study of your body. He was fully committed to his research, obsessively sucking and biting the supple skin of your neck as he cradled the side of it in a vampire-esque way. The way you gasped and groaned whenever he sucked harsher bruises into your skin was magnetic. His mind was driven to please.
He continued his journey to your tits, the sight of them short circuiting his brain momentarily. He removed his mouth from the swell of them and groped them greedily, his palms pressing deliciously against your braless nipples through the fabric. He wet his lips at the erotic sight of you. You looked up at him, a silent plea in your eyes for more, and he curled his fingers around the neckline of your tank top.
“Do you want-” Michael began.
“Take it off. Want your mouth on my nipples,” you instructed. You sat up as he followed your command instantly, his hands removing your shirt with precision.
You didn’t know how much you needed this. The moment his lips met your erect nipples, your brain seized with an electric jolt of pleasure.
“Mmm,” you sighed, basking in the pleasure and heat. He was sucking at your breast like he was thirsty, every twitch from your body giving him encouragement. He tried your other breast and you reacted even more so.
“This one’s more sensitive.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. He was still researching your body.
“Y-yeah- shit,” you let out an expletive at the feeling of his tongue flicking up and down on the sensitive nub, and you could sense a teasing demeanor slip through his ministrations. You grabbed onto his head and aggressively mashed it against the plush area, eliciting a whimper from him. Your dominance turned him on.
He popped off after your grip on his head loosened. His body slithered down your own like a serpent, sliding down in a way so fluid you would’ve applauded if not for the situation you were currently in.
Then, he just stared at you. Your hair was in a disarray and your nipples were wet and hard. You had the evidence of his possessiveness littered all over your neck and collarbones. To top it off, you were whimpering and panting underneath him. He absolutely adored you like this.
He grew a little more confident, testing your limits here. He had a sneaking suspicion you were into something else. Experimenting with this theory, he ran his hands up and down your torso, preparing for his surprise. Then, you felt a hypnotic jolt of pleasured pain shoot up your spine and let out a cry.
He’d pinched both of your nipples. Hard. After seeing your reaction, he did it again, testing how much harder he could go.
You were an absolute mess. You couldn’t even speak, just letting out whines of approval.
Michael just kept watching.
He dragged his nails up and down your body, starting from the dips in your collarbones to the tops of your knees. It was exhilarating. Particularly, his hand being so close to your neck. You grabbed for it a bit when he was dragging his hands down, but he misread that as you wanting him to go lower. You decided you’d bring it up later.
“Can I take your jeans off and you turn around, please?” he questioned you, an idea evident behind his dark eyes.
You obliged suspiciously, throwing your bottoms on the stack of tapes you’d watched earlier.
As soon as you settled comfortably onto your stomach, Michael lowered his body onto your thighs and slapped your ass so hard that you felt stars. You immediately arched up into his touch, the movement causing his crotch to rub against the back of your thighs. You both moaned out- you lewdly, him embarrassed- at the contact. He rubbed the sensitive area pervertedly, gripping onto your cheek in an unintentionally obvious way.
“S-so you like pain.” Again, not a question, but a note he was taking on this crash course of your desires.
“Mm- yeah i love it,“ you revealed in a tone Michael had never heard you use before. He’d already started making you feel so far gone and he hadn’t even traveled to where you wanted him most.
“Oh god,” he whispered to himself. You heard it, though.
“What?” you asked through ragged breathing, craning your neck the best you could to see his face.
“Keep talking like that, please. I’m into it.” He closed his eyes slightly and rocked his hips onto your thighs subconsciously as the tone of your voice echoed in his brain.
“Hit me again, Mikey. I want it.” You sounded like a pornstar. The tone in your voice was stuck between being full on moans and needy whines.
He obeyed without second thought, his eager eyes watching as the skin under his large hand recoiled and got darker.
“F-uck!” you hiccuped out. You felt tears stinging your eyes at the sensation. The pain was so fucking good. You could feel your pussy glue to your panties from all of the arousal drooling from it.
You arched your ass up higher now, your body craving for more of him. You wanted him everywhere.
He let out a little yelp at the sensation, but then his eyes got distracted.
You were wet. Really, really wet.
Without thought, his hand fluttered straight to the spot on your panties, running over it once so he could feel the stickiness on his fingers.
“Can I please take your underwear off? I wanna look at you,” he asked with patheticism in his voice.
You lifted your ass up higher and let out an ‘mhm’ giving him the okay to slide them off for you.
As he dragged them off your feet, he got off of your body and gently pushed you forward a little more.
“Can I have you stay exactly the way you are, but just on your knees?”
You obliged, leaving your head and torso against the couch while your ass went higher into the air, like you were gonna take him from behind. The image made you clench longingly. He caught that movement immediately.
Then, he sat on his knees right behind you, positioning his face right in front of your core. He leaned in and fanned his hot breath over it, watching you flinch and clench again. He took his middle finger and ran it up and down your folds annoyingly slow. His finger went inside of you just barely, testing how tight it was and teasing you by rolling it around slowly. He pulled out and sucked loudly on his finger for you to hear. Your hole leaked a clear, slick liquid.
He moaned at the flavor, tattooing it to his memory, before he took that same finger and rubbed it into your clit with a feather-like touch.
He knew you wanted more, and he wanted to give it to you, but God, the way your pussy reacted to everything was so captivating. He could watch it clench and leak forever. He dragged his finger back toward your entrance and spread you open with it, inspecting every ridge and fold that his eyes could register. His mouth watered.
You let out a soft whimper when his finger probed your hole again, your resolve weakening.
“Michael stop fuckin’ teasin’ me,” you whined.
“I’m sorry baby, you just look so pretty down there,” he responded, slipping his digit inside immediately. The way you clenched around it was like ecstasy.
“Yeah! Mmm, Mike. Go in ‘n out fast ‘n c-curl your finger up when it’s inside. I- ahh- like it rough.”
You liked it rough. Those were a the words that influenced the rest of his actions for the night.
He added his index finger and pistoned them into you harshly, letting your moans fill up his ears and be his driving force.
“Like that, baby! Fuck! F-feels so fucking good,” you mewled.
He leaned down and slightly nipped your ass cheek, eager to see you squirm and feel your hungry pussy suck his fingers deeper inside.
You shrieked and pushed your ass back father, your walls closing in against his digits. It was getting harder and harder to move inside you.
“You have to relax, love,” he coaxed you gently.
“Ngh- j-just feels too good,” you babbled out. Your brain was making it feel like every nerve of your body was receiving a sensual kiss. You could barely think. Then his tongue was on you.
He latched onto your clit with perfect accuracy and started sucking cautiously, knowing the area was particularly sensitive. Your legs spasmed and you got up onto your hands, needing some grounding. You moaned out his name and the sound hit him like a symphony, encouraging him further.
“Mmm, Michael. You’re so good. Perfect, feels perfect.” you praised him, unable to say proper sentences.
He hummed against you, still keeping up that aggressively brutal pace with his fingers, and you started to see white.
“Ohhh my- I’m s-so close!” you called out, feeling the all too familiar whisper of release heightening your senses and settling into your abdomen.
He sat back, his chin covered with your essence, and set his pace with his fingers faster. Then, he stopped and pulled them out hurriedly.
“I wanna see you. Can you look at me while you cum?” he asked as he slid directly under shaking body, your dripping pussy directly above his face. He pulled you strongly by your thighs, settled you onto his mouth, and continued feasting. His eyes trailed from your beautiful breasts right up to your contorted face, and he moaned loudly at the sight.
You sat up, feeling your orgasm approach again, and rode his mouth and nose for dear life, grabbing one of Michael’s hands to play with your nipple. You watched his face as you ground back and forth.
You looked too good to be true. He got lost in the meal and lightly grazed your clit with his teeth, wanting to learn just how rough he was allowed to get.
Your legs suddenly locked up and you buried his nose deep into your pelvis, blocking all of his air. Then, he felt it.
Your eyes rolled up and your hand gripped from his and slotted into his hair and you let out the most broken moan imaginable. Your warm, sticky release soaked the entire bottom half of his face.
“F- OH!” was all you could say as it dawned on you.
Michael couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t want to. He lapped at you through the whole thing, his vision blacking out as he lost air. You leaned forward and collapsed your body right above his head, having enough sense to remember to let him breathe. Again, Michael didn’t want to.
He got a fierce hold on your spent body and sat you right back on top of him, wanting more of your juices. He would happily pass out over and over from you suffocating him with your pussy if it were up to him.
“Not done yet,” he stated as he dove back in, this time groping your ass and pulling you onto him by it. He shoved his nose forward, fiercely taking his air away, while looking up at you like you were treasure.
“Mike! S’ too m-much.” You started sobbing above him, the pleasure overwhelming you. A tear spilled over your cheek and landed on his forehead. Yet, you secretly didn’t want him to stop. The fire in his eyes to please you was intense and infectious.
Michael ignored your words, eyes glazing over at the sight of your pleasure evident tears, as he started losing oxygen again. He moved his nose away and inhaled the air desperately, ready to lose it all again.
Unbeknownst to him, your second orgasm was running toward you at full speed, not giving you enough time to prepare for it. You choked out a glorious sob of his name and jerked your hips up, the tip of his nose sitting proudly under your clit.
Underneath you, he was smiling like a lunatic
You slid down and laid atop of his body, catching your breath for the second time, after not even really catching it the first.
He looked down at you on his chest, worried he’d pushed you too far.
You could feel his loaded gaze on you.
“Not done. Just need to catch my breath,” you said as you looked up and gave him a lazy smile.
It took his breath away. You looked ruined. Your eyes were red and wet with tears, your hair was a mess, the hickeys and scratches on your skin were darker. And you were drooling.
“You’re breathtaking,” he told you with a genuine gasp.
“So are you,” you complimented. He looked just as fucked out as you did, and he wasn’t even getting touched.
“I need you. I want you inside of me, and I want you to fuck me senseless. Give it to me,” you remarked, not caring to catch your breath anymore.
Your hand traveled to his belt and worked it open without waiting for a response. You unzipped his pants, and then looked back up at him.
“Take these off. And your shirt,” you ordered him bluntly. His cock throbbed ravenously at your dominance.
“Yes. O-okay,” he said as he gently slid from beneath you and followed your orders, throwing his clothes right on top of yours.
You licked your lips at the art in front of you, his beauty something you swore was inhuman.
You lips meet his hungrily as you carefully laid back on the couch, mimicking your earlier position. You pulled him between your parted legs and flush against your chest, gently rocking back and forth with his heavy length going between your clit and stomach. You felt his precum dribble right above your pelvis as he let out a broken whine. You broke away from the kiss.
“I need you inside Michael,” you said, dangerously close to begging him.
He sat up and grabbed your face between his large palms, his eyes giving you a serious look.
“I love you so much, my pretty girl. You tell me if it hurts or if you get uncomfortable or wanna stop, okay? And tell me when it feels good, please,” he asked you passionately.
“I will,” you declared, your heart softening at the depth behind his words.
He positioned his leaking length between your folds and grazed his tip against your clit, teasing himself in the process. You bucked your hips up with a huff. Michael grabbed you by them, leaned forward to kiss you, and pushed himself in at the same time.
You both moaned against each other’s mouths, and Michael stopped halfway, resting his forehead against yours. The tightness of your pussy was dangerous. The length and girth of his dick was too.
He was fucking huge. His dick was splitting you open hungrily and you were clenching around him like you craved it all.
“Holy shit, you’re huge. Oh my, fuck. Put it all in,” you demanded and you pulled him forward needily.
You’d never felt so filled in your life. You could see him in your cervix, feel him in your veins, and even taste him on your tongue.
Michael was also absolutely losing it. He never knew sex could feel this good. You guys hadn’t even started properly making love yet, but he felt incredible. Your walls were basically choking his dick. Each clench you gave him was like a vice. His instincts took over and he started thrusting into you hungrily.
The sounds that left your mouth were downright sinful. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were faking your moans. They sounded like cascades of love, and very pornographic.
“Michael, oh my god. Yes!” He found your g-spot. “Right there! Fuck me harder!” you exclaimed. Then, you remembered something. “Ch-choke me. Baby- shit. Choke me Michael.”
“Yes ma- ahh- hmm. Yes, baby.” He was fucking you senseless. He watched as your eyes rolled back and your tongue lolled out of your bruised, plump lips and he went deeper and gripped your neck. You were losing yourself in the pleasure he was giving you, and that’s exactly what he wanted.
“B-baby. Look at me please. Wanna see you,” he said desperately, craving the approval from your eyes. He moved your head by your neck to look at him, and your eyes traveled back his face. Your gummy walls clenched around his engulfing dick at the sight of him. He was fully crying, the tip of his nose turning red.
“Oh, Michael. You’re heavenly,” you praised him causing him to shyly duck his head. You thrusted your hand up and forced his face up by his cheeks, squeezing them ferociously.
“I wanna see your expressions too, angel face. L-look how good you’re fucking me.” You pulled his face down to look at where the two of you became one, and directed his face back to yours, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss.
You were losing yourself in the feeling of it all, already being so overstimulated from earlier, and you felt your third orgasm of the night approach you. You tried pushing away for a second to warn him, but Michael’s lips chased yours instantly. He was completely gone.
You opted for using your free hand to reach down and circle your abused clit to take you over the edge. The doubled friction was so good, it only took a few harsh rubs, and you were gone.
As you came, your body went completely limp under his, your legs flattened on the coach cushions and your hand dropped from his now sore cheeks.
He kept going, even as you came down. This man was completely lost inside of you, and he was moving in a way that suggested he didn’t wanna be found.
“Mikeyyy,” you moaned out at him, the sensitivity numbing your brain too much to finish your thought.
He didn’t listen to your protest, or couldn’t. He just wanted you to keep feeling good, and the way you continuously sucked him in showed him you were still enjoying it. He felt so good, but he didn’t want to let go. He displayed his strongest act of willpower, edging himself over and over with each one of your orgasms. He almost came when he fingered you, when ate you out, hell, even when you told him to take his clothes off.
He slowed down a bit, learning every ridge inside of you and committing it to memory. He savored the slower pace as well, burying himself to the hilt and holding his dick deep in you after each stroke.
You could practically taste heaven on your tongue.
His curly hair was stuck to his forehead and he was giving you the biggest puppy-dog eyes you’d ever seen on a human.
You could feel yet another orgasm coming, this one coming in like a thunderclap before lightning; you could sense it with enough time before it happened to warn him.
“Mik-ey. G’na cum again.” You turned your head and kissed the inside of his wrist next to you.
“Please. Please cum again, pretty. I wanna feel it again,” he pleaded. He leaned down closer to you, his whimpers falling into your ears while he thrust harder and harder, drinking up the bliss painted on your face.
You came around him with a heartbreaking whine, your bottom lip jutting into a full on pout and your chest heaving with sobs. You’ve never felt so good in your life.
He slowed down a bit more, albeit not coming to a full stop, and wiped your tears with one hand.
“P-please one more, doll. Please. I’ll cum with you this time. Jus’ need one more. Need you to cum on- ngh- on me again.
At the realization that yes, he hadn’t cum at all, your pussy throbbed at his act of service. He was physically holding himself back just to ruin you like you told him to. He was such a good listener.
“Oh, my sweet boy,” you cooed at him reaching up to grip your fingers into his hair. “Take another one from m-me. I can handle it,” you stated, determination creeping into your voice.
He let out a beautifully tragic whimper at your demand, and picked up his pace. He lifted himself up and propped one of your legs onto his shoulder, determined to get you there as soon as possible.
It was like a new hunger bubbled up inside of you. Your body was still aching with sensitivity, but it was as if you still hadn’t been touched. The aggression in his moves had you seeing God.
“I wanna get on top,” you let out before you could even think. Your lips were moving faster than your brain had time to filter your thoughts.
“God damn,” he responded at your declaration. He flipped your bodies over expertly and held your waist in anticipation. You looked him in the eyes and placed your hand into his neck to steady yourself.
He let out a choked moan at the contact looking up at you in shock.
“Can you squeeze my neck, please? Please choke me,” he begged, his mouth parted desperately.
You gave it a rough squeeze and you took his ginormous dick inside of you. The dual pleasure was pushing him to the edge. He rolled his eyes back and smiled like he was on psychedelics, the lack of air making everything feel like ecstasy.
You released his neck slightly, giving him room to breathe, as you started bouncing up and down, your tits bobbing seductively above his face as you did so. You dragged your free hand up to your tits, holding them under your arm to stop the harsh drag of them. That only made it worse for him. The roundness of them became more prominent with the strain of your arm.
You looked back down at him with your eyebrows knitted and your eyes lowered with lust. You reached back down and kissed him intimately, squeezing his neck tightly and opening your eyes to take in his expression. He looked like lust personified. Then, you felt it coming and you broke the kiss. You removed your hand from his neck and lightly smacked his cheek, signaling him to look at you.
“G’na cream that big dick of yours M-Mikey. You gotta cum with me. ‘M so…I’m g…I- FUCK!”
This orgasm tore through you like a tsunami, crashing over and over in brutal waves.
Michael came as soon as the first clench came from your pussy. He cried out the prettiest moan you’d ever heard, the sound rivaling his singing vocals.
“Please, please, please, thank you. Y-yes! GOD, oh, thank you, I love you,” was all he could say between sobs.
You collapsed on top of him and caught your breath, letting his dick soften up inside you. After a moment, you pulled him out of you and felt both of your releases spill onto the couch. Michael could feel some of it slide down his own dick and he whined at the feeling. He was that sensitive.
“My god Michael, you’re insane,” you said, breaking the silence.
He let out a breathy laugh.
“Only for you,” he responded, looking at you with lazy eyes.
“Yeah, you better,” you said only half joking, your hand coming up to his face to squeeze his cheeks together again.
The two of you got up and stretched, joints aching with the activities of the night.
“Let me run us a bath, pretty girl. I’ll be right back,” Michael stated, still so eager to service you. He gave you a kiss, took your scattered clothes, and disappeared into your room’s shared bathroom, turning on the faucet of the huge bathtub and pouring in bubble soap and bath salts. He dimmed the lights and turned on the mini radio that sat atop the spacious counter, humming along to the jazzy instrumental crackling from its speakers. He left the bathroom, leaving the bath to run, and walked into your shared walk-in closet.
He picked out simple pajamas for the two of you. He got a plain white tee and tartan pajama pants for himself, and a pair of boyshorts and one of his comically oversized graphic tees for you, knowing you liked wearing it as a nightgown sometimes. He smiled to himself as he folded the clothing and placed them on top of the bed, awaiting your arrival.
You’d walked into the room shortly after, having tidied up the living room and cleaning up the cum from the couch. Your legs were aching from the sex and walking up the steps. You opened the door with a creak, legs almost giving out.
He turned around to face you, having just completed his task of putting both of your soiled clothes in your shared laundry basket. He grabbed your hand as he went to turn off the faucet in the bathtub, followed by sounds of you complaining. He didn’t want to walk away from you while you just came in, but your legs felt like you were moving in quicksand. He dipped his hand inside, testing the water and motioned for you to check for yourself. You gave him a thumbs up.
“You actually ruined me, Mike,” you complained dramatically as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“That’s exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, at that! Can’t go back on your word now, silly girl.” He chuckled softly and booped your nose before stepping into tub, grabbing onto your hand to help you in like a gentleman.
“I’m not, I just wasn’t expecting…all that. It was like you were a different person. Very sexy of you, by the way.” You settled in front of him and he grabbed your loofah, doused it with soap, and started washing your back for you like it was something he was used to. He scrubbed you like you were the most delicate thing in the universe.
“I dunno what came over me either, honestly. I really was jus’ cravin’ you that much. I didn’t even know needin’ you more than I usually do was possible.” He paused, his usual shyness creeping back in. “And, uh, you were very sexy as well. Better than I ever imagined you’d be,” he tacked on, flustered.
“Thank you, angel.” You leaned your head back and gave him an upside-down kiss on the lips, feeling a shy smile creep into his lips. You picked your head back up and twisted your upper body around to face him.
“Aww, my baby,” you cooed at him.
“Y’know that nickname makes me shy,” he says, referring to ‘angel’ and all variations of it. He lifted your arms and scrubbed your sides and your stomach, traveling his way to your breasts as you responded.
“How can I not when you have such an angel face? You’re so precious, c’mon,” you fake pouted at him. Sweet vanilla and warm cinnamon filled your nostrils. Your favorite body wash. “See? You even act like an angel. You replaced my favorite body soap for me ‘cause it ran out.”
“That’s nothin’. I’d buy you a castle-” he paused, seeing the incredulous look on your face, realizing he was somehow helping your point. “Okay, okay whatever. You’re the one sent from heaven, though. Here, gimmie your leg ‘n hold onto my shoulder.”
Your face warmed up at the sincerity in his tone and the gentleness he used with you. As he continued his work, you watched him, filled with gratitude. He was so happy taking care of you like this, and you wondered how such a sweet person could truly exist.
As he finished you up he started washing himself up as you watched in adoration. You took his loofah and scooted to switch sides with him, washing his back as he did yours. He hummed along to the instrumental from the little radio, sounding identical to the saxophone singing from it. So beautiful.
The two of you dried your feet on the plush carpet beside the tub and stepped into the shower directly next to it to wash your hair and rinse off.
He washed his own hair as you rinsed off and cleaned your legs once more, both of you clingily standing under the huge showerhead that was big enough for more space between the two of you. You were just craving each other more than usual after crossing that final line.
You stood behind him as he wrung his hair, in no rush to free your eyes from the sight of his sleek, yet toned back in front of you. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder and ran your hands up and down his waist once. Lurching forward, you grabbed your shampoo, and Michael took it from you unexpectedly.
“Wet your hair for me?” he asked, squeezing a glob into his hand and lathering it up.
You did just that and he turned you away from him, massaging the shampoo into your scalp as he combed your hair simultaneously. The domestic action made you want to drop to your knee and propose to him right there.
You reached your hand back and rubbed it up and down his arm in a silent ‘thank you’, too content to break the silence.
He grabbed it and gave it a romantic peck, rinsing the shampoo off and gently placing it back to your side. After he finishing working in and rinsing the conditioner, he stepped out of the steamy shower, leaving the water running for you. He grabbed your towel and beckoned you out, wanting to make sure you stayed warm the whole time.
He stepped back in and turned off the faucet and you wrapped yourself up, and then unraveled your towel and dried you off. He patted your hair dry and wrapped it up, as you made your way to the sink counter to get your blow dryer. You turned it on its second coolest setting and blew the water out of your hair, not focus on getting it to look a certain way.
He drained the tub, rinsed it out, and then dried off as you finished with your hair. He handed you your bathrobe.
“Here sit down,” he motioned to the plush ottoman sitting in there for whenever you moisturized your body. He grabbed your lotion and kneeled down, lathering it into your neck and shoulders, then down the front and back of your torso, lifted you up so he could get your ass, rubbed into your thighs and legs, and finally massaged your feet.
“Baby, you don’t have to do all this,” you protested, feeling bad that he was spending more time on your showing process than his own.
“I want to. I told you, I wanted our first time together to be perfect. That includes aftercare, baby. Besides, this is bare minimum.” He scoffed at your protest, offended. He placed your foot down and looked up at you, eyebrow raised.
You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He lotioned himself with his own scent with super speed, and out in his own bathrobe, then reached for the blow dryer. While he dried his own hair, you washed your face and moisturized it, letting the cool products seep into your skin. You picked up both of your towels and put them into your bathroom hamper as he quickly washed his own face. You slinked out of your bathrobe, hanging it up on the rack, and he followed behind you, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.
You saw the clothes folded up on the foot of the bed and smiled at him lovingly.
“You are so cute, did y’know that?” you asked him as you took in the setup before you.
“Enough of that,” Michael said, feigning annoyance. He was really just flustered. “Here, step in.” You pulled your boyshorts up your legs and over your naked sex and bottom. He ignored the way they fit on you and then stood up and pulled his t-shirt over your head. He hurried into his clothes and lifted the blanket on your side of the bed, leaned you into it.
“Gonna turn off the light,” he said as he ran to the wall and back to the bed, not really giving you time to notice he was leaving.
As the mattress slightly does on his side, you reached out for him and laid your head onto his chest, smelling the scent of your body wash and his own lotion on him. You softly sighed.
“Thank you for being so good to me,” you said tiredly.
“No, thank you. I’m so happy I made you my girl, ‘n I’m so grateful I got to express my love for you physically today.” He gave you a kiss on your forehead and pressed your body closer to his. “Can I have a kiss?” he asked you shyly.
“You don’t have to ask, y’know,” you said with a chuckle as your lips met his. You deepened it slightly, suddenly getting another flood of arousal at the feel of his body through his thin clothing. He did too, and you could feel it.
“I’m for sure too tired for a round three of a sixth orgasm, but we can try something,” you mused.
“Yeah, ‘n what’s that?” he asked with a smirk.
You pulled down his pants just enough to free his hardened sex, and pulled your own undies to the side. You gave him one more kiss and turned around, pushing it into you with a soft whine leaving both of your lips.
The stretch did just enough, as did your tightness around him. He slightly throb inside of you, the feeling of your cunt around him acting as a sensual hug. He adjusted just slightly, subconsciously aching for the friction he felt earlier. You both lazily met the other’s slow grinds, too tired to chase release, but still desperate for just a little bit more. It felt magical and poetic. You eventually stopped moving, too tired to take anything more from each other.
“Goodnight, my darling girl. Thank you for accepting the raw, unfiltered version of me. I’ve never been this vulnerable with anyone, n’ I’m so grateful that it was with you. I can’t wait to learn you more. I love you so very much,” he declared.
“I love you too, baby,” you said, exhaustion lacing your voice. “You’re perfect, all of you. Thank you for being comfortable for sharing it all with me. ‘N thank you for wanting to meant me. You make me feel so appreciated and adored. Sleep well, my love.”
You both felt eternally close to each other now, physically and emotionally. The activities of today blanketed your figures in a heavy gratefulness.
He pulled you back, wanting to be even closer to you somehow, and pressed kisses up and down your neck and the side of your face. He hummed a soft tune and stroked your hair softly as the two of you drifted off to sleep.
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism (additional tags on individual chapters)
CHAPTER ONE : like machines do : spencer and our leading lady find themselves in a tricky situation
CHAPTER TWO : you know you're better than this : things start to heat up between our stars.
CHAPTER THREE : too late to stop : our pairs on screen chemistry is tested.
CHAPTER FOUR : and you look half dead half the time
synopsis: michael wakes you up in the best way imaginable.
warnings: oral (f!recieving.)
a/n: this is ass but i wanted to post for yall.
the morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains of the master bedroom, casting soft golden streaks across the bed. michael stirred, his body coiled in the sheet, already painfully hard—his cock pressing insistently against the silk of his boxers.
michael’s hand slid down his body instinctively, gripping his hard length through the thin fabric as he blinked awake. he remembered last night—your body pressed against his, your moans, whimpering his name, the look on your face as your orgasm hit you hard. his breath hitched as he remembered the feeling.
he carefully lifted the covers, his eyes fixed on your sleeping form beside him. you were sprawled out peacefully, one arm flung above your head, lips parted slightly as you dreamed. michael’s pulse quickened as he moved down the bed until he was inbetween your thighs.
he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs slowly to avoid waking you too abruptly. once they were discarded, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your thigh. you stirred in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.
michael’s warm breath fanned across your sensitive skin as he nudged your thighs apart gently. his tongue traced a slow, teasing path up your inner thigh, closer to where he wanted to be. when he finally reached your core, he inhaled deeply before pressing his mouth against you, sliding his tongue between your folds.
a soft, unconscious whimper escaped your throat as your back arched instinctively off the mattress. michael wasted no time, flattening his tongue to drag it slowly upward through your wetness, gathering your arousal on his taste buds. he hummed against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core as your fingers tangled loosely in the sheets, your breathing hitching in your sleep.
he found your clit and wrapped his lips around it, sucking gently. one hand reached up to spread your folds apart, giving him better access. his other hand moved lower, one finger slowly pressing into your entrance as he began to suck and lick increasing intensity. your hips started to move in your sleep, pressing against his mouth unconsciously.
your eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, taking a moment to register that your man was between your legs with his face buried in your pussy. “m-michael…” you breathed, your thighs instinctively tightening around his head.
he didn’t stop.
instead, he doubled his efforts, curling his finger inside you to stroke that sensitive spot while his tongue worked rapid circles against your clit. you gasped, your fingers flying down to tangle in his thick curls, grounding yourself as the pleasure overwhelmed your senses. he looked up at you from under his lashes, his dark eyes locked onto yours,watching every expression that crossed your face.
your legs trembled, shoving your hips forward as his tongue plunged deeper. “baby, i—“ the words died in your throat as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. michael pulled back just enough to murmur against your slick heat. “shh, let me make you feel good first.” before you could respond, he buried himself back between your thighs, his finger pumping faster.
your head fell back against the pillows, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as your orgasm built rapidly in your lower belly. the combination of his curling finger and the relentless suction of his mouth was devastating. he added a second finger, stretching you, scissoring them inside you while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your swollen clit. “michael…oh god…” you whimpered.
his fingers curled deeper, finding that spot that made your toes curl as he pressed harder against it. your walls clamped down around his intrusion, your climax rushing through you in violent waves. michael groaned against your core, drinking in your release as your thighs trembled against his cheeks. he didn’t pull away—instead, he continued lapping at you slowly, savouring every drop.
as your breathing slowly returned to normal, michael finally lifted his head, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your glistening folds. he swiped his tongue across your clit one last time before crawling up your body, hovering over you with heavy lids and a satisfied smile.
“morning, baby,” he murmured, his voice husky as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
you stared up at him, chest heaving and eyes wide, unable to process that you had just been woken up by a screaming orgasm. your brain felt scrambled, lips parted in genuine disbelief as you watched him hovering over you with a that smug, satisfied expression. “did…did that actually just happen?”
michael chuckled softly, nuzzling his nose against yours. “yeah, it definitely happened. you came all over my face like five seconds after opening your eyes.” he grinned, clearly proud of himself for reducing you to a boneless mess so quickly.
you swatted at his chest weakly. “you couldn’t have just…i don’t know…kissed me awake or something normal people do?”
“normal people?” he raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with playful offence. “baby, i’m michael jackson. normal was never part of the equation.” he winked, his hands already wandering back down your sides.
you laughed, pushing against his chest. “you’re insane, you know that?” he retreated with his hands up, grinning as he settled beside you instead, pulling you against his chest. you fit perfectly against his side, your head on his shoulder.
“insane for you,” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
you snuggled closer, tracing lazy patterns on his bare chest. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” you teased, nipping at his collarbone. he feigned hurt, clutching his chest dramatically. “cute? just cute? after i gave you the best wake up call of your life?”
michael laughed deeply, his chest rumbling against you as he tightened his arms around your waist. “same time tomorrow then? i can make it a morning routine.” he smirked. you giggled, shaking your head against his chest.
This is part 3 of Dial Tone -- Read first part here and 2nd part here
Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!reader
Summary: When Michael Jackson shows up at your Hollywood apartment unannounced after 9 months of you ignoring him, with a hungry look in his eyes, you open the damn door.
Or you and Michael break up due to your differences, and his looming tour world tour with his brothers. he ends up trying to reach you via phone call in each city of his tour. You are stubborn as hell, and he has prayer and willpower on his side.
happy bday to @ningizuo :)
Playlist: you can listen to some of the vibes here
Tags: Thriller! Michael (thriller/Victory Tour era) first time, michael loses his virginity, smut, break up, angst, time jump, sub! michael (sort of idk anymore guys), unresolved sexual tension, mutual pining, struggle with religion and sex, michael shows up like an animal in the end, looking for sumn sexy lol
Word Count: 9896
Author’s Note: this was quite literally requested by about 30 people so here you all go! i wanted michael to go away and sort of grow up on the victory tour, which i think ... he really came into himself during this time. i hope its ok for y'all. i can't wait to get back to writing standalone fics lmao
pls let me know if u enjoyed
18+ minors dnu!!
You and Michael had been seeing each other religiously for the last six months. Secret meetings at Hayvenhurst, late night drives in your old Mustang, sneaking into the movie theatre really late at night to see films he recommended. It was some of the best times you'd had in your adult life.
You were totally entranced by his childlike energy, his ability to find the best elements in the precarious situation fame had handed him, and the fact that underneath all of it he was still just a very good person.
He shared with you in private moments the work he did with children's hospitals, the fans he'd stay up late chatting to on his landline. This was no normal celebrity.
Michael wasn't even like any other young man in his early twenties. He was totally fascinated by learning, the human psyche, studying the greats so he could be better himself. He truly was one of a kind, who just so happened to have an absolutely angelic voice and an ability within music that you couldn't fully articulate even after spending weeks inside his world.
Even when he wasn't around, you felt your thoughts drifting to him. What he was doing, what he was wearing, what he was thinking about. His way of life was so engaging you could listen to him talk about it for hours.
Michael was a creature of insane habit. He liked to do things in routine, so usually you'd meet him at his family home. This became cumbersome because Michael was intensely shy and wasn't ready to let his family see the true nature of what was between you. This hadn't bothered you at first, when you realised the chemistry you shared was fundamental and whole. He had not labelled your relationship despite being a hopeless romantic — he'd written you songs, used your giggle in a demo he was working on in the studio with Quincy. He told you he had blushed furiously when he played it for the entirety of the executive suite at Epic Records. Including your dad.
.✦ ݁˖
It was a Saturday mid morning in October, the sun streaming in through the windows, illuminating the dust particles in the air. It looked like glitter. A dream world you were living in. A perfect domestic reality you didn't even know could exist.
Michael was over in your apartment for the first time. You were pleased Dana wasn't home so that he didn't get spooked. He seemed oddly comfortable in your space for someone who liked being home so much, with his gadgets and his animals.
You heard him go quiet behind you where you were sitting in the living room. It meant Michael had found something that had totally entranced him, and when you glanced back from the couch he was crouched in front of your shelves with a stillness he normally didn't have. Michael was someone who could not simply sit still. He'd be drumming his fingers on surfaces, playing with the hem of his shirt sleeves, fixing his hat or his hair. He also had a constant stream of vocal stims that would play on a loop out of his mouth. It was the most endearing feature about him.
His fingers moved carefully along the spines of your extensive vinyl collection with the same devout attention he gave to everything in his life.
"You have the first Queen LP," he said, without looking up.
"Mmm, I do? I'm not sure what I have anymore, there are so many."
"And Earth, Wind and Fire's new album." He pulled it out, turned it over, put it back. "How did you get this?"
"Dana and I queued at four in the morning at the local record store. There's a leaflet in there that they signed."
He made a delighted sound, despite knowing those guys personally, he still found it cool. He kept moving along the shelf.
You padded through to the kitchen to make some late breakfast. You had been up late studying for your final nursing examination.
The kitchen was small enough that you could have the whole apartment in your peripheral vision, which meant you could track him without watching him — the way he moved from the records to your bookshelf, his head tilting at the nursing textbooks stacked sideways on top of the other books because you'd run out of vertical space, the way he picked one up and looked at it with the expression of someone confronting a language they couldn't read.
"How are the exams going so far?" he asked, his voice airy and contented.
"Horrifying, if I'm honest." You laughed, pouring pancake mix onto the pan.
"You'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He put the textbook back carefully, in the exact position he'd found it. "You'll be fine, smartie pants."
Outside the weather was perfect. Still sort of warm for LA in the fall, the October light doing that thing it does in the late morning, golden and unhurried. You'd had the window cracked and the radio on low when he arrived, Prince's Around The World In A Day playing itself out to the empty room.
Michael had once told you that a day was never a day of purpose when music wasn't played freely in every room he walked into. It quieted his mind, he said, and you had minded this for his arrival.
"Do you like the new Prince song?" you asked.
He considered this with a seriousness that made his brow furrow slightly. "I think he's doing the most interesting thing on the radio right now." A pause. "Don't tell anyone I said that."
"Who am I going to tell?"
"My brothers. Jermaine already thinks I have an inferiority complex."
"Do you?"
"No." He came and leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching you work the pan. "I just have a very accurate understanding of what everyone else is doing and how I am going to compete."
You turned the pancake. It came out perfectly, which felt like a minor miracle given that you'd been making them with one eye on him for the last while.
"Stevie Wonder's new stuff," you said. "What do you think?"
He came off the doorframe immediately, animated in the way he only got about music and a handful of other things. "In Square Circle is — yes. Everything about it. The production, the way he's layering the synths underneath—" He stopped himself, looked at you, and started again with slightly less velocity. "It's generous music. It sounds like someone who wants the listener to feel something specific and has thought very carefully about how to get them there."
"That's a really nice way to put it."
"It's a true way to put it. Stevie is a great musician. One of a kind, and actually a very close personal friend." He came and stood beside you at the stove, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He looked at the pancakes with focused optimism. "Are those nearly done?"
"Not yet. I have three more left to make. Stop pressuring me, you doofus."
"It's fine. You look sweet enough to eat as a starter anyway." He giggled, then stood behind you, pulled your hair to the side away from your neck and peppered light kisses there.
You kept your eyes on the pan, trying to concentrate. His touch was always so delicate with you in this way.
The radio had moved on to Sade now, The Sweetest Taboo unspooling through the apartment, making this tiny moment between you both in your small WeHo apartment feel like it should be in a film.
You thought about how strange it was to be here with Michael standing at your elbow waiting for pancakes, and how completely normal it had started to feel. Like every day was a certainty. Like he'd always be there. It had started to feel domestic, which was its own kind of strangeness, considering he still had not put a label on what you were.
This upset you, if you were being honest with yourself. But you were taking anything you could get, as you knew this was not bound to last. You didn’t want to get married young, and Michael seemed the type to want this before anything intimate could be pursued. You truly didn’t think this was the path you wanted to follow down.
You shook the thought from your head, willing to let it go for now; as this moment was too perfect and because you were kind of, sort of, unofficially, absolutely smitten with this graceful boy, despite all of the challenges.
.✦ ݁˖
You ate at the kitchen table, which was really a desk you'd pushed against the wall and given a second purpose, Michael with his knees at an angle because the chairs were slightly too low for him. He looked like an adult sitting at a kids school desk. It made you feel warm inside, at how sweet he was.
He ate like he'd never eaten food in his life. He really loved sweet things. You had struggled to make him eat anything savoury you’d made before. He'd always say he didn't really like food much.
You'd made them with blueberries because you'd quite literally only had blueberries, milk and a few eggs in the fridge. Dana was bound to bring groceries back on her way home.
He'd looked at the plate when you set it down with genuine gratitude that you were almost certain was partly because it was a safe food for him. No questions asked, and you had known to make it for him.
"Marvin Gaye," you said, picking up the earlier conversation.
"What about him?"
"It's a shame he died. What did you think of his music? I know you were around him during the Motown days."
Michael was quiet for a moment, taking the question seriously rather than reaching for an easy and shallow answer.
"He understood that the body and the spirit are not opposites," he said finally. "Most people treat them like opposing arguments. He treated them like the same conversation."
You looked at him across the table, not fully following his fleshed out thought.
"That's a very specific thing to understand about the way someone makes music," you said.
"I've thought about it a lot." He cut a piece of pancake. "I think about it in the context of my own work." He looked faintly embarrassed calling it work, as he always went on about how much fun it was and how it truly wasn't something you could call a job in the traditional sense.
"How to make something that operates on both levels at once. Lovely and melodic and good for your being, but also something that hot wires your brain into making you want to feel the rhythm and start to move. A song is powerful if it can do both to you all by itself."
"Mmm."
He looked up. "I think Thriller does that as a record. It comes closer to that concept than anything I've done before." He paused. "You were there when I found the first physicality piece."
"Thriller's syncopated beats definitely made me want to dance when I heard it, but also scream, run away and completely lose myself in the instrumental at the same time."
"It's different," he said, "having someone in the room to bounce ideas off. You hear things differently from me and that's what I seek out, to see if you are feeling and doing the things I thought might happen in the songs conception."
The radio had moved on to Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie. The apartment was very quiet apart from that.
Your pancakes had gone slightly cold. You didn't particularly care.
"Michael," you said.
"Mmhm."
"What's happening in December? With the tour?" It had gone unspoken before and you really didn’t want to end this lovely moment; but you couldn’t go on wondering where you stood.
He put his fork down. Picked it back up. Put it down again. "It starts in Kansas City. December thirtieth."
"How long for?" You tried to keep the sadness from bleeding into your tone.
"Through September. Maybe longer depending on—" He stopped. "A long time, basically."
You nodded. You'd known this. Your father had mentioned it in passing three weeks ago the way he mentioned most things about Michael, with the causality of someone who worked famous people and creatives to the bone.
The Victory Tour's going to be enormous, he'd said over Sunday dinner, and you'd said good and passed the bread and thought about how this could make or break the undefined thing you had with his client.
That had been before the last time you had been intimate with Michael. He was very held back and reserved when it came to talking about it afterward. Entranced by physical acts but simultaneously repulsed by what they meant in the context of his faith. It was a conundrum. You knew men around his age who were engaging in these acts and still attending church without placing as much emotional strain on their relationship to religion. His music was so sensual in its translation, both in melody and in lyric. Michael was a walking equation you couldn't fully solve.
"I want to talk to you about something," Michael said, abruptly.
You looked up at him. His hands were flat on the table, on either side of his plate, and he was looking at them with the expression he wore when he was about to say something he'd been composing in his head for a while.
"Okay," you said.
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He said it all carefully. With grace. That was the thing you'd remember forever, the care of it, the way each word arrived with gentleness, like he'd rehearsed not the lines themselves but the intention behind them.
He said he wanted to be with you.
Not like how it usually was. The sultry flirty phone calls and the sneaking around being silly and occasionally dirty. He was finally putting a label on the careful unnamed thing that had transpired between you. He wanted you to be his and he wanted to be wholly yours in every way he could show up for, and he understood, he said, what he was asking of you, what it meant, what it would require of him in terms of fame, in terms of what people would say, in terms of what he could and couldn't offer physically because of his faith.
He stressed it all, almost pleading, he wanted the midnight phone calls. He wanted the domestic pleasure. He wanted to introduce you properly, the way he hadn't been able to at home because of his shyness and the public eye. He wanted the real version of a relationship, not some thwarted version fame had handed him.
He looked up.
"I want to stop being scared of what it costs," he said. "Of what people will say. I want to try with you, if you'd allow yourself to be in the spotlight with me."
The apartment was very quiet. Out of Touch by Daryl Hall and John Oates simmered in the background.
You looked at him across the table, at his hands flat on the surface, at his face doing that completely unguarded innocent contortion where his eyebrows were raised high and his lip pulled between his perfect white teeth. you felt the full weight of what he was offering and what he was asking and how genuinely, entirely he meant both. The song playing in the background was building the tension higher.
"Michael," you said, and your voice came out harsher than you intended.
"I know it's not — I know it isn't what most people—" he stuttered.
"Can I just have a moment to explain something?" You replied, trying to soften your tone.
He stopped. Nodded politely.
You chose your words the same way he had, carefully, because he deserved that.
"I think you are one of the most emotionally intelligent people I have ever known," you said. "I mean that without reservation. The way you understand people, the way you listen." You paused. "And I think your faith is beautiful, and it is… yours. It's not something I would ever want you to compromise or feel ashamed of. I want you to be exactly who you are."
He was watching you very closely.
"But," you said.
He'd known there was a but. You could see it in the stillness that came over him, the bracing that wasn't quite a flinch.
"Sexuality isn't separate from who I am," you said. "It's not a feature I can turn off while everything else runs. It's part of how I connect with people. It's part of how I understand whether two people make sense together." You looked at your hands, then back at him. "I can't go blindly into something without knowing if we're compatible in that way. Not because I'm not willing to be patient, or because I don't care about you deeply, but because it matters to me. It's really important to understand. About who two people are to each other."
Michael was quiet for a long time. His brown eyes shone in the low afternoon light, the sunbeams brightening the warm chocolate brown of his irises.
"I don't understand that," he said finally. It wasn’t entirely defensively., but you could tell he was slightly agitated. Trying to find the right thing to say to you but just couldn’t .
Michael had the lost look of someone confronting a framework they'd never been given the tools to think about.
"For me it's the other parts that are the real parts. The way two people talk to each other. The way they—" He stopped. "I thought those were the things that told you if you were meant for each other."
"They are things that tell you," you said. "They're not the only things."
He looked at the table. At his plate, the pancakes mostly eaten, the blueberries gone. His jaw moved slightly, he was processing something he hadn't expected to have to process in an otherwise perfect day.
"I don't know how to—" He stopped. "I don't know how to want something the way you're describing."
"I know." You reached across the table and put your hand over his, briefly. "That's not a criticism. It's just true."
He turned his hand under yours and held it for a moment, then let go, and sat back, and looked out the window at the Hollywood afternoon going gold outside.
"I've really—" He stopped. Started again. "Over the last month and a half. I've really fallen—" He pressed his lips together. "You're the most peculiar and beautiful person I've ever known. I want you to know I mean that. Whatever happens. I will think about you every day when I leave."
"I know you mean it."
"And I—" His voice was very quiet now, quieter than the radio, quieter than the street outside. "I love God. I love my faith. I don't know how to be someone who puts that aside yet and I don't think that right now, I should have to push it or force it. But I also don't—" He exhaled. "I don't want to ask you to be someone who puts aside the things that matter to you. That wouldn't be right. Maybe this just won’t work as much as I want it too. I need time. A lot of it."
You looked at him. At the deep blue of his plaid shirt, the same one he'd worn to a secret movie date. You hated that it was coming to this, but it was unfortunately something you'd known was going to happen since the night you picked up your phone and dialled him. You knew how he was, his image, and now his personal inner workings. Your heartbreak in this one was all your own fault.
"You should go on tour, Michael," you said. "And be faithful to what you believe. And be extraordinary, because you will be, because you can't help it." You paused. "And I know you'll fall in love with someone amazing and have a fulfilled life. You are a deeply thoughtful person and I just know that is in your future."
He looked at you for a long time, with a slight panic but a strange calmness underneath it.
Then he stood up, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, came around the table and stood in front of you and bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, very gently, the way you might kiss something you were afraid of breaking.
It killed you that he never said goodbye out loud so you could too and try get some form of physical closure.
You sat at the kitchen table for a while after the door closed, your hand where his had been, Every Breath You Take by The Police on the radio, the afternoon going quietly dark outside the window.
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The tour started in Kansas City on the thirtieth of December and by the second week of January it had become clear that the world had decided the Victory Tour was going to be the an event that stopped traffic in every city it touched. It was remarkably successful and despite your happiness for Michael and his brothers, it did become tiresome seeing it advertised; a reminder of Michael leaving your life.
Your father called you from his office the morning after the first show, not to talk about Michael specifically but about the production, the staging, the scale of it, how he was a force of nature. You sat on your bed in your nursing scrubs, the phone off the wall and wires all through the house, and listened to him describe it and thought about how that unbelievable force of nature had sat with you eating blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table. He may as well have been a figment of your imagination at this point, you were starting to forget what it felt like to be in his light everyday. be in his gravitational pull .
You'd had to let him go completely. Left with the bones of him, his music playing in shops you walked into, a gigantic billboard of him on Sunset Boulevard, his eyes on you every time you drove past it.
You tried not to think about him constantly. That felt important to establish, if only to yourself, that you were trying. You had your exams. You had your hospital shifts, your exhausted brain after twelve hours on a ward that left no room in your head for anything that wasn't immediately in front of you. You had Dana, who had the gift of making any room she was in feel like the most exciting place to be, and who had sadly watched you eat cereal for dinner for a week running in January and said nothing about it.
She eventually picked you up out of your slump and your normalcy resumed. Parties in West Hollywood, dancing till four in the morning, working hard and taking in your youth.
You were fine. Genuinely, completely fine. You kept telling yourself you made the right decision to let him go. To not just suck it up and wait for him like he’d basically asked you to.
It was just that sometimes Every Breath You Take came on the radio and you had to turn it off, for fear that the memory of his longing eyes would burn into your psyche.
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The first call came on a Tuesday in February.
Dana picked up. You were in the bathroom with your hair wrapped in a towel, halfway through the post-night-shift routine that required approximately forty minutes, lots of curl cream and a level of concentration that left no room for phone calls.
You and Dana had such a close relationship that you trusted her to chat briefly with your other friends or family on the phone and let them know you were busy.
You heard her voice in the hallway go through its usual casual greeting and then go very silent.
She appeared in the bathroom doorway after a moment. Her expression was doing several things at once, excitement held back, and a forlorn stare.
"It's Michael Jackson," she said, in a tone that was working very hard to be normal. "On the phone. For you."
You looked at yourself in the mirror. Towel on your head. Dark circles from the night shift. Toothbrush in your hand.
"Tell him I'm not home," you said with finality.
Dana looked at you for a moment but didn't argue, knowing the aftermath of having to let him go. Then she went back to the phone.
You stood at the bathroom mirror and listened to the muffled sound of her relaying this information and then the click of the receiver and then Dana reappearing in the doorway.
"He sounded—" She stopped dead, seeing your sullen face. "Are you okay?"
"Completely fine," you said, and went back to brushing your teeth.
The thing was, you knew you had to have made the right decision. You were only twenty-two. You didn't know if you could be a wife, if you'd ever want to commit to something without understanding whether there was real potential there. He had to just be the one that got away. You'd have more experiences that would be electric, involved and formative. Someone else could give you the excitement and level of connection that Michael did.
Right?
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He called again on a Thursday in early March. You were studying, genuinely too engrossed to even hear the phone over The Human League blasting through your bedroom speakers.
Dana took the message. She wrote on a sticky note and stuck it on the wall:
he says he'll try again. he says he hopes the exams are going well.
You looked at it for just a moment before your brain could start processing and then went back to your textbook and read the same paragraph four times without retaining any of it.
On Friday. You were working, actually on shift.
Saturday. You were sleeping, genuinely, after a double shift. Dana told him this and you didn't feel as guilty this time. She wasn't lying to him.
The calls kept coming with a patient regularity. Michael clearly wasn't giving up on being a constant in your life. You didn't know whether to cry or laugh.
Dana started keeping a tally on the notepad on the kitchen table without comment, adding a mark each time, and by the end of April there were nine marks in a column and the notepad had been moved to the table underneath where the phone hung, where you had to look at it every time you wanted to make a call.
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It was a Wednesday evening in early May when Dana came and sat across from you at the kitchen table while you were going through anatomy notes and said, without preamble: "He's in Las Vegas this week."
You looked up.
"The tour," she said. "I looked it up. He's at the Thomas and Mack Center. Four nights." She folded her hands on the table. "He called again today while you were at the hospital."
"Shocker."
"Y/N, this can't keep going on. You need to put this man out of his misery. He sounds so deflated when I give him an excuse."
"I know, Dana. But I can't entertain a friendship with someone like that. He might wantme but not all of me, and I am not getting wrapped up in all of that fame either without knowing everything I need to know."
She was quiet for a moment. Outside the spring in LA had produced a weird, smirry drizzle, not quite committing to rain.
"I heard something on the radio today," she said. "Coming back from the grocery store. Some late night show. They had a guest on, some comedian, one of those Vegas residency guys, talking about the tour." She paused. "He said he went to the show on Saturday. He said—" She looked at you. "He said before the show started he saw Michael Jackson standing in the wings watching the crowd come in. And as part of the interview that was being conducted, he overheard someone ask him what he was looking at and he said he was looking for someone."
The rain outside made its decision and started pouring properly.
"Dana, enough, he knows I’m not gonna show up. It’s miles away" you said.
"I'm just saying, if it was me, I would give it a shot and just hope that he isn't terrible in bed." She held her hands up a bemused smile playing on her lips.
“There's a show tomorrow night. Thursday. And he's going to call again at some point and I'm going to have to give him another excuse." She looked at you directly. "Maybe instead I tell him you can come watch the show and you can rethink things together?"
You looked at your anatomy notes to distract yourself from her valid point. Your eyes burned into the diagrams, the labeled structures, the clean logic of a body explained to itself.
It was no use though, like a movie montage you thought about the sheer delight you felt when you were around him. The cackle he'd let out when you told him a lame joke. The way he'd be so enamoured by cartoons on the television late at night, his hand stuck in a bowl of popcorn. The way he could braid your hair and sing to you before you fell asleep on him in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst. The gentle voice he had with you on the phone. The gossip he'd tattle on about into the receiver. The way he moaned in the studio when you pleasured him. The lingering touches on your waist.
"He's on tour for like six more months," you said. "I am not waiting on someone like that. It's not my kind of life. I have my job." You tried to make yourself sound sure of what you were saying. It just came out flat.
"I s'pose. But what if he is your actual person? You are astrologically compatible."
"Nothing has changed. And fuck astrology, Dana. Seriously." You started to get more and more irate, the thoughts becoming too much. You had let him slip your mind and now he was waltzing straight back in.
"You know what? You've been such a bitch for months. Tell him yourself to stop calling. This is ridiculous." Dana stood up and pushed her chair in. "Make the call. Put him out of his misery and stop being such a fucking mope." She said it with pure conviction. "He actually deserves better than you."
She went to her room. The rain came down hard outside your window and you sat at the kitchen table in stunned silence.
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You didn't take the next call. Or the one after. But you had a feeling he wasn't going to stop. He always said that seeing is believing, and maybe he believed in the two of you in a way you hadn't allowed yourself to. You didn't understand why he even wanted you. He could have someone famous and beautiful and entirely at peace with the no sex before marriage thing.
Your exams arrived in a concentrated block in the second week of June and consumed everything in your life. three days of white-noise terror, sitting in a room full of people who all know the same information you know and hoping yours is the right arrangement of it.
Dana brought you coffee at six in the morning without being asked, as you'd silently made up. She said she understood your predicament.
You slept for eleven hours after the last exam and woke up not knowing what day it was, which felt appropriate and actually nice considering who’s memory was swirling around your head when you were awake.
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You passed with flying colours. Your father called before you'd even seen the results yourself, which meant they'd been sent to your childhood home in the mail.
Dana took you out. A bar in Silver Lake she liked, dark and warm with good music, the kind of place where the DJ could read the minds of the people on the dancefloor.
She bought you a drink and you talked about everything except Michael, and for the first time in months you felt free, happy, and excited about the next chapter.
Your eyes landed on a man at the bar. Dark-haired, light eyes. Dana ended up making out with some ugly old guy, so you decided to distract yourself with the mysteriously good looking man looking back at you.
You talked to him for an hour. His name was Paul. When he asked you to go home with him and show him what you could do with your mouth, you apologised and said you weren't interested. The entire evening had been fine until that moment. It totally disgusted you. You didn't have it in you to entertain something like that. There honestly was only one thing you truly wanted.
That was the first time you let yourself admit in months that maybe you'd made a mistake with Michael. That really, he was one of a kind and understood you and made you happy and was just good. It was a strange gift, realising it through the filter of someone who was so entirely the opposite.
You thought about him the whole cab ride home. Wondering where he was, whether he had met prettier women, with better bandwith and patience. Whether he had stopped thinking about you.
He hadn't called for a few weeks now. He'd clearly grown tired of being lied to. A single tear rolled down your glittery face as you rode home with Dana, the bright lights of Hollywood making you feel lovesick.
Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds played softly in the cab.
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The next few months were agony. You picked up extra shifts. You reorganised your vinyl collection not because it needed reorganising but because you needed something to do with your hands on a Sunday afternoon, when all your mind could go to was the feeling of Michael's hands on your waist as you danced around the studio listening to Baby Be Mine before Thriller came out.
August came in warm and certain. Los Angeles was in full summer mode, parties in the hills, the Walk of Fame crowded and alive. You felt for the first time as an adult in the exciting world you had created for yourself that you were no longer having fun.
You had a week off between rotations and didn't know what to do with the unstructured time. Dana dragged you to a farmer's market in Silverlake. You bought oranges and a plant you weren't sure you could keep alive.
You were watering the plant on the third Saturday of August when Dana knocked on your bedroom doorframe.
"He's here," she said.
You turned around.
Her expression was the one she'd had the morning she'd told you about the Vegas show, trying very hard not to push anything in a particular direction. "At the door. Downstairs. He buzzed. I saw him out of the living room window when I peeped down. I just couldn't believe it."
You put the watering can down on the windowsill.
"He looks—" Dana stopped, flustered. "He's been on tour for months," she said. "He looks like he just got off a plane and drove straight here."
You stood there with your jaw on the floor, in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas, your room a complete mess. The bag of oranges you'd bought days ago had spilled out across the floor. Your diary was open on your desk, your most inner thoughts on full display, a whole passage about how it felt to have his hand on the top of your head in the studio, the hot feel of his mouth on yours, and the abrupt coldness you felt when he left in the winter. In your own cursive, describing how you'd really fallen. And totally ruined it.
"Shit," you said.
There was a knock at the door.
Dana started jumping up and down and you just stayed there, totally transfixed by the situation.
What was he doing here? Was he here to tell you he was angry you never spoke to him? To have you sign an NDA because he'd become even more famous on this tour? Or was he here to confess his undying love again? Was this the second chance you were hoping for?
You hoped for it. You started quickly clearing the space, throwing your diary closed on the bed.
Dana ran to open the door for him. You sat on the bed, your heart doing something dramatic in your chest.
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You heard his voice in the hallway, that airy cadence, quieter than you remembered, saying something to Dana you couldn't make out. Then footsteps. Then he was in your doorway.
He had a fedora tipped low. A crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Leather jacket open over it. He looked older than the boy who had eaten blueberry pancakes at your kitchen table ten months ago. A bit tired. But his eyes when they found yours across the room were the same warm chocolate brown, holding months of something unresolved.
You didn't say anything. Neither did he, for a moment.
He stepped into the room. Kicked the door shut behind him. Crossed to where you were sitting on the edge of the bed and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cologne and the travel on him, and looked down at you with an expression that had stopped holding things back a long time ago.
Vulnerable, honest and almost imposing in the way he was standing in front of you, bearing himself to you.
"You ignored every single one of my calls," he said. His voice was low, not accusing. Just stating a fact he'd been living with for months.
"I needed some time, Michael."
He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.
“It was lonely, I just wanted to… talk to you. I thought we would still be friends; that our connection was deeper than just— what it was I guess.” He said, his eyes never leaving yours. A new found confidence in his delivery. He really had grown up.
“I wanted to, I just — I was so hurt that I let myself do that to you I—“ you felt tears stinging at your eyes, and he noticed.
Instead of replying, he looked at your hand resting on the bed beside you, and when you noticed this, you just wordlessly reached out and let your fingers brush against his,
a question.
He answered it immediately, his fingers folding through yours, his grip tight in the way of someone who had been rehearsing letting go and decided against it.
"I can't believe you came here," you said.
He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
"I've been thinking," he said. "About us. About everything. For months." He paused. His thumb moved once across your knuckles. "The most powerful thing in life is the human mind. Your belief in yourself and prayer." He reached up with his free hand and took his fedora off, setting it on the desk behind him, and looked at you with those eyes that had been the derailment of you since the first afternoon at Hayvenhurst.
"I prayed on this for months, Y/N, and I need to be with you. I need to have you. It's what is right. It's what my heart wants."
The apartment was completely silent.
You could hear your own pulse.
You couldn't believe that after everything, after the way you'd turned him away, after months of your radio silence, he had still come back like this. Vulnerable, honest.
He’s come back to you, standing in your Mickey Mouse pyjamas and your disaster of a bedroom, bearing himself to you completely.
“Tell me," you said quietly. "tell me what you want."
A slow, grateful smile spread across his face. He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.
"I just want you, all of you.” he said, with intent behind the use of “all”. This was a massive turnaround.
“I want to touch you, taste you, caress you. I want to make you mine. I know now that it's what needs to happen."
You leaned into his hand. Your eyes closed for just a moment.
“I have to understand that the fiction I write about in my songs, the unfiltered attraction, the love; the sex — if it is really that addictive and can move you the way a song can”
When you opened your eyes again he was watching your face with the same attention he'd given you always: unyielding and intense.
"Then do it," you said. “Do all of the things you want to do to me”
He didn't need anything more than that. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers gentle in your hair, and he kissed you — it was so far from the precious tentative, careful exploratory kisses of before, but now it was something decided, something that had been waiting a long time to happen and he knew it.
You kissed him back, your hands finding the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he followed you down onto the bed with the urgency of someone who had thought about this for a very long time and wanted to get it right.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath unsteady.
"Tell me what you want," he said. "Tell me how to make you feel good."
You looked up at him. At the sincerity in it, the genuine desire to learn you. "Take your time," you said. "Be patient. Do whatever feels right to you."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands already moving, his fingers tracing the neckline of your pyjama top, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips.
You took his hand, guiding it to your breast, showing him how to cup the weight of it, how to brush your nipple with his thumb, how to make you gasp with pleasure.
He was a quick learner, his touch tentative at first, then more confident, more sure, his eyes watching your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.
You guided his hand lower, to the hem of your bottoms, showing him to push them down, how to reveal the smooth skin of your thighs, the damp heat between your legs.
He groaned, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties, feeling the dampness there, the evidence of your desire. He looked up at you, his eyes questioning, and you nodded, giving him the permission he needed.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. You lifted your hips, helping him, your breath coming in short gasps, your body already pulsating with need.
He tossed the panties aside, his hands moving back to your thighs, pushing them apart, making room for himself.
He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire and sheer longing.
"Guide me” He simply said.
You reached down, guiding his hand to the heat of you, showing him how to stroke you, how to circle your clit, how to slide your fingers inside you, making you gasp with pleasure.
He was a quick study, his touch tentative at first, then he understood, as his eyes watched your face, gauging your reactions, his body tense with anticipation.
You could feel the pleasure building inside you, your body arching up to meet his touch, your breath a staccato melody in the otherwise quiet apartment.
You could feel the tension in your muscles, the need in your belly, the heat of your skin.
He was making you feel so good.
He groaned at your reactions, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb circling your clit, his body tense with anticipation.
You could feel the pleasure building inside you, you were close, so close, and you could see the determination in his eyes, the raw, primal need to make you come, to give you pleasure. But you didn’t want to come yet.
You pushed him back gently, and gave him a shy smile.
He understood completely in that moment, what you wanted from him, and it seemed after all of that deliberation over the last few months he was ready to oblige. He shrugged off the leather jacket, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean, thin frame. His skin was smooth, his ab muscles poking through now - he’d filled out more since you last seen him. Your eyes lowered to the dark trail of coily hair that led into his dark jeans.
He stood up and kicked his shoes off, and then pulled his jeans off quickly, to jump back into bed with you.
You just lay there in awe, at the sight of him, his hard cock now on full show; precum leaking from the tip. You wanted so desperately to take him in your mouth; but this moment was so important. It needed to be exactly right.
He sat back on his heels, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire to rush, to finally take what he wanted, and his need to savor this moment, to make it last, to make it special.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast, the line of your jaw.
His touch was gentle, reverent, like he was worshipping you, like he’d replaced his God.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes locked with yours. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, a soft, sweet kiss that promised a lifetime of love, of learning, of pleasure. You could taste the salt of his skin, the faint tang of sweat, the underlying sweetness that was purely him. You kissed him back, your hands tangling in his hair, your body pressing against his, feeling the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his desire.
He pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his expression serious, intense. "I want you," he said, his voice low, determined. "I want to be inside you, to feel you come around me, to make you mine.”
“Are you sure you want this, Michael? Is it truly right for you in this moment?” You asked shyly, feeling really exposed literally and figuratively in this moment.
"I'm sure," He whispered, his voice firm. "I'm ready now. I want this, I want you. I want to be yours, completely, utterly, irrevocably."
He let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a moment, his body relaxing, bracing himself for this moment. The tension eased from his shoulders.
When he opened his eyes again, you could see the the desire, the love he had for you. The same look he gave you in the kitchen after that sordid conversation.
He reached for you, his hands cupping your hips, lifting you, positioning you.
You could feel the head of him pressing against you, could feel the heat of him, the hardness, the promise of pleasure.
You looked up at him, your eyes locked with his, your heart pounding in your chest.
He used his hand to guide the tip of his cock up and down your folds, and he let out a small choked sound of pleasure. The heat of him and the pressure was driving you insane.
He looked at you, so intensely and then he pushed forward gently.
He groaned, his hips moving forward, sliding inside you, filling you, stretching you. You gasped, your body arching up to meet his because you couldn’t help it, your fingers digged into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his. You always needed this, from the moment you laid eyes on him.
You could see the wonder in his eyes, the gratitude was radiating from him.
You could feel the tension in his body, the struggle to hold back, to go slow, to make this last.
"You feel... incredible," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're so tight, so hot, so perfect. I never... I never knew it could feel like this."
You let him feel out his rhythm, every time he pushed into you, he would hit your soft centre, sending the craziest signals of pleasure straight to your brain. It was like a drug - you wanted to feel him deeper, and wanted him closer. He was concentrating on your face, occasionally whining with how good you felt.
You pushed gently at his chest, encouraging him to roll onto his back.
He complied, his eyes curious and eager, his body still trembling with nerves and what seemed like excitement.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned, even as his body betrayed his eagerness for more.
You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his abs, his hips. "I'm more than okay," you replied.
"I want to show you a different position, if you're up for it."
He grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement and anticipation. "Show me," he said, his voice low and hungry.
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your eyes never leaving his. You could feel the hard length of him slide up against your ass. He was so big. You’d thought it before, that it was definitely in proportion to his dominant, and large hands. You had always admired them when he spoke with them. Your mind always found its way to imagining what was in his pants. Now you didn’t have to think of what it felt like. You were getting to know how it made you feel.
He was already eager for more. You reached down, guiding him inside you, your body adjusting to his size, your muscles clenching around him. He groaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his fingers digging into your thighs.
"God," he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and pleasure. "That feels... that feels incredible."
You smiled, your hands moving to his chest, your fingers tracing circles on his skin. "It's about to feel even better," you promised, your voice low and sultry. "Just relax and let me do the work."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his body tense with anticipation. His curly hair was fanned out on the pillow, and even though this was the most compromised you’d seen him; he was still startling beautiful and quite innocent looking.
You started to move, your hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm, your body sliding up and down his length, your muscles clenching around him tightly.
You could feel the pleasure building inside you as he filled you up, each time you bounced up and down on him.
Your body was selfishly aching for release, but you were determined to make this about him, to show him what he could feel, what you could do to him.
You leaned forward, your hands braced on his chest, your body changing the angle of penetration. You could feel him deeper inside you now, his head rubbing against that sweet spot with each movement.
He groaned, now starting to push himself up into you; erratic and desperate to be deeper inside of you. To be closer.
"That's it, baby," you whispered, your voice low and encouraging. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
"Y-yes — fu—ck," he gasped, his eyes wide with pleasure and surprise. "Don’t stop. Don’t sto– oh my god I think I am going to come."
You smiled, your body moving faster now, your hips rolling in a steady rhythm, your muscles clenching around him, drawing him deeper, milking him, showing him what he could feel, what you could do to him.
You could see the pleasure building in his eyes, the tension in his body increasing, the raw, primal need to come, to release, to find his pleasure.
"Come for me, Michael," you whispered, your voice low, your eyes locked with his.
"Come for me, and show me what I do to you."
His body responded to your command, his hips slamming up to meet yours, his body tensed completely, and then started to convulse. You could feel the heat of him inside you, the hard length of him, his body finally finding its release.
his eyes had never left yours, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. He didn’t even make noise, his orgasm was so powerful. So all encompassing.
Seeing this made you follow him over the edge, as you ground against him, his cock still deep inside of you
"God, baby," he gasped, finally, clearly getting the air back in his lungs again. “The way you… move…Have mercy on me.” He laughed, breathlessly.
His body collapsed back onto the bed, less tensed. His chest heaved as he came down from the high he was feeling in the moment, his eyes still filled with amazement. This was a moment you’d quite literally never forget, ever.
Your body collapsed onto his, your chest heaving too, your body still trembling with the remnants of your own orgasm.
After a while of just laying there in each other's arms, finally after months of god awful separation; you thought of what you went through to get here. Denial, guilt and anger, when you should have been more graceful with him. You vowed to be that way going forward.
It was almost silent in the apartment, bar your breathing. but you could hear the radio that was always on in the kitchen; Dana must have forgot to switch it off earlier in the evening.
Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen was playing, filling the apartment with a driving synth.
You felt Michael shift below you, distracting you from listening intently to the song. It felt oddly fitting.
“Sooo…. Again?” Was all he said.
You cackled into his shoulder and he hugged you tighter.
Summary: The night after losing his virginity, Michael Jackson finds he can't control his body or his obsession. What begins as a tense ride home from the AMAs erupts into a raw, relentless claiming in the one place he was always meant to be innocent: his childhood bedroom. (established relationship)
Word Count: 4530
Tags: off the wall era, smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving), prone bone, sexual awakening, sort of romantic smut?, michael is pussy drunk y'all, slight praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, creampie (oop) overstimulation,
Authors Note: this was a request. people want more otw mike! and another anon requested pussy drunk michael otw era as well, so NATURALLY this was born. im so sorry if this is not what either of you had in mind lmao. rarely see smut or much at all in this era tbh (ITS HIS BEST??? ARGUE W THE (off the) WALL -- hAH get it?)
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18+ minors dnu!!!
The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.
Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety.
He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.
And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.
You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself.
You’d borne witness to it all.
The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.
It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.
Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”
He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”
It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.
You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.
The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.
“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.
Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.
He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.
The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.
His childhood bedroom.
It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter.
Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.
You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.
He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.
The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache.
In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.
You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.
“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.
His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”
“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”
A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”
“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”
He turned then.
His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.
“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”
You closed the final distance.
You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.
He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.
“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.
His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.
A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”
“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”
He was shaking now.
You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.
He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.
He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.
“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.
“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”
He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.
“Mmmhh—!”
The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot.
He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.
“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”
He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.”
He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.
“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”
He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.
The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.
He didn’t ask before diving in at you.
He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.
He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.
“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary.
“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”
He pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.
“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.
“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”
But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful.
He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”
He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.
He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.
“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths.
“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”
His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being.
He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale.
You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.
He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter.
His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours.
You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.
“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”
You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.
“Ah—ah—!”
“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure.
“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.
His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.
Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.
You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably.
A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”
you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.
He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.
“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”
But he didn’t stop after your come down.
He couldn’t.
The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger.
His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.
“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”
He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments.
His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.
“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.
He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.
“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”
His own end took him by storm.
His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.
You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.
He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.
When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.
“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”
"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"
He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.
He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade.
The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys.
Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks.
Then, a shift in the energy beside you.
He lowered his arm.
In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.
"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing.
He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush.
"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"
The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.
You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."
He turned his head too.
His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity.
"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."
He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality.
The decision was made.
He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.
He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.
He began to part you.
It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”
He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.
"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.
“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.
"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"
He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes.
The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.
You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"
He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."
It was a desperate, worshipful plea.
He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.
Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.
His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place.
There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.
He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.
You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.
You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.
His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender.
Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button.
The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.
The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.
You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.
"Wha—?"
You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…
You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed.
You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.
A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.
For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected.
You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.
Then you began to move.
You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length.
His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips.
"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"
But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.
The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.
His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.
"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual.
He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath.
" harder. Take what you want. Use me."
He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.
"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure.
"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"
His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse.
You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.
He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.
With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.
"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips.
His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices.
He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.
"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs.
"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"
His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible.
He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.
His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.
“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”
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virgin!spencer who's nervous about touching fem!reader for the first time, so he's asked her if he can watch her touch herself
18+ smut
wc: 1,530
spencer pulls up a chair to sit at the foot of the bed, watching intently as she opens her legs for him and props them up.
he’s still dressed in his work clothes while she’s completely naked.
studying her like a textbook, his eyes dart all over her exposed body.
she's entirely bare in his bed, on his sheets, and the actual sight of her like this is better than any fantasy he's ever conjured.
he watches as she squeezes her own breasts, gently pinching her own nipples, his gaze sporadically flickers up to her face to observe her expressions.
he watches as she slowly moves a hand down her torso, fingertips lightly grazing against her ribs, stomach, pelvis, and hips.
“do you want me to explain what i’m doing, spence?”
“you’re preparing your mind and body for arousal. doing so increases your natural lubrication, resulting in increased pleasure. this triggers the release of dopamine and oxytocin… i’ve read about the importance of foreplay and the various types.”
“good boy. you’ve studied everything, haven’t you?” she tells him as she dips her fingers into her wetness.
he’s too enthralled by the vision of her to tell her yes, of course i have. i want to be ready for you. i want to properly pleasure you.
she’s caressing her slit, circling the edge of her clit, and just barely pressing her fingertip inside her hole.
he’s biting his lip and has leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, with his fingers delicately placed over his mouth.
his mouth opens as she pushes her middle finger inside her hole, eyes flicking back and forth between her cunt and her face. he notes the way she rolls her nipple between her fingers as she touches herself.
once she’s gathered her slick, she moves her finger back up to her clit, rubbing softly on the nub.
she lets out a sigh of relief and lets her legs fall completely open.
“you know what this is, right?” she teases him, slightly breathless.
“yes, you’re touching your clitoris. women consistently report that their male sexual partners struggle to locate it.”
“mhm, that’s true, but you already knew exactly where it is, didn’t you?”
“yes, of course. i’ve referenced many diagrams to ensure i could locate it on each one. i don’t understand why men can’t find it, it’s very easy to identify.” spencer knows the exact number of vaginal anatomical diagrams that he’s referenced, but he doesn’t think he should tell her how many he’s seen. besides, she’s moving her fingers back down to her hole now, and he’s completely awestruck by the sight of her.
his eyes are glistening and are slightly glazed over. he's mesmerized by how ethereal she looks.
he glances back up at her face and sees that her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back, and her lips are slightly parted. her other hand gently squeezes at her breast every now and then.
“you’re so beautiful.” he tells her and she lightly smiles.
“thank you, spence. you’re so sweet.”
she inserts her middle and ring fingers inside of herself. he sees her curling her fingers upwards as she gingerly pumps them.
he wants to impress her, so he says, “i think you’re stimulating the gräfenburg-spot, or g-spot, now.” spencer thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous and abhorrent that part of the female body is named after a man.
“yes, spencer, good job.” her praises send a jolt through his body. it reminds him of how he felt receiving perfect grades on his school assignments. he hopes he gets to study his favorite subject, her, for the rest of his life.
her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now and she’s rutting her hips up against her hand. he realizes that she can stimulate her clit against the heel of her palm this way.
she does this for a while and he thinks that she might be close to reaching her orgasm, but she removes her fingers from inside herself and shifts them back to her clit.
he can see that her fingers are thoroughly lubricated with her slick. a low whine escapes his parted lips.
“this is something else i like to do.” she tells him with a rough and strained voice, and he realizes that she’s still focused on teaching him even when she’s this deep in pleasure.
she’s rubbing her clit slightly rougher now than she was before, and she moves her hand that’s just been resting on her breast down to her lower stomach.
“i’m not sure why this works, but if you press down right here, it feels even better.” while looking at him, she presses down on her lower stomach with a flat palm.
“if i kind of, like, pull upwards when i do it then i can expose my clit a little more too.”
“you’re likely stimulating the g-spot externally.” he barely has any air in his lungs, he doesn’t know how he manages to tell her that.
she just moans in response to him. her head moves back and forth across the pillow, and her back is slightly arched. her breasts jiggle as her ministrations grow more and more desperate.
“it also feels good if i squeeze my hole, probably does more g-spot stim-…stimulation.” her faltering speech makes him realize that’s exactly what she’s doing as she’s speaking to him.
she’s not even talking dirty to him. she’s just explaining what she’s doing, almost in a clinical way. however the way she’s describing everything to him has him palming himself through his pants. he doesn’t dare to touch himself properly; he wants to keep his full attention on her. he presses on himself just enough to relieve some of the pressure.
it relieves him slightly to hear that she doesn’t even know the technical reasons that her actions bring her pleasure; she’s likely just learned what she likes and what works over time.
he's eager to do the same with her. watching her do this has made him realize that he's more prepared to please her than he thought.
her hips jerk upwards slightly, and her breathing has increased, “i’m getting close, spence.”
“are you gonna cum for me?” he tries to say seductively, but it somehow comes out as both a whisper and a squeak.
"mhm" she whimpers.
her thighs and stomach are trembling and she’s letting out the softest whines. he hopes that he can make her sound like that, and more, whenever he touches her.
he realizes that she's biting on her lower lip, suppressing her sounds, "let me hear you, baby."
she retracts her teeth, and he watches as her head tilts even further back. her back is arching and her hips are traversing across the sheets. she maintains eye contact with him for as long as she can, but eventually she can't help but close her eyes. it seems like she has no control over her body, other than the ministrations of her fingers. his mouth falls open as he watches her climax.
she continues touching herself as the waves of her orgasm roll through her until her legs seem to be closing on their own accord.
she’s still breathing heavily as she removes her fingers from herself. her wrist falls limply onto the sheets next to her.
the shine of her slick on her fingers is being illuminated by the moonlight tapering in through the curtains.
“can i taste you?” he barely has the confidence to ask.
“really? yeah, um, just give me a minute. still a bit sensitive, you know?”
he’s blushing as he says, “i mean on your fingers.”
"oh," she giggles, she's still in a haze from her orgasm. "absolutely, baby."
she sits up on the bed and holds her hand out toward him. he tenderly wraps his fingers around her wrist as he takes in the sight of her glistening fingers up-close.
and then, spencer ‘it’s actually safer to kiss than shake hands’ reid sensually sucks her fingers into his mouth to taste her juices on them.
she simultaneously tastes so sweet and so tangy, he can't help but close his eyes as he runs his tongue over and around both digits.
“well? what did you think? learn anything new?” she smiles as she raises her eyebrows in question.
“i learned that i really really can’t wait to touch you.” his lips purse and his cheeks get impossibly redder.
“can i watch you before you do?” she asks him, eyes flitting down at the bulge in his pants.
he thinks she’s kidding, so he chuckles until she starts fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt with her lower lip between her teeth.
"please?"
it’s only fair that they swap positions: she takes his place in the chair as he gradually lies on his back on the bed.
he's completely naked in front of her, and he's flushed from his hairline to his chest.
she's slipped on his button-down, but left the buttons open. her hair is tousled from rolling her head on the pillow. the sight of her wearing it alongside his new memories of seeing her please herself has him cumming embarrassingly quickly.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI
Summary: A shared motel room, two bored agents, and a bar of chocolate—what could go wrong? Everything, when the chocolates turn out to be fast acting aphrodisiacs. Or it all goes right; it’s simply a matter of perspective. Part 2 of In the Secrecy of his Room.
Content: 5k words, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, dom and sub dynamics, accidental consumption of aphrodisiacs, probably inaccurate depiction of aphrodisiacs, nipple play, unprotected p in v, dumbification of reader, size kink if u squint, use of good girl and sir, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting.
a/n: I listened to ben platt’s version of diet pepsi on loop while writing the last 2k words lol. Also, I’ve been seeing sentiments against writing early seasons Spencer as a dom so uh click here if you prefer him whiney and inexperienced. Or just scroll away! It’s all free! If u stay, i hope you enjoy! Requested by the lovely @misserabella. First half was proofread by @cherrypickinns and then it's all my deranged writings once they begin kissing. Gif is by the bestest @reidgif
It isn’t that the case is harder than usual, but there’s something about this small town in Nebraska that makes everything seem like it’s moving through water. Warped and just on the side of sluggish. The team had come at an unfortunate time, because there’s a harsh thunderstorm outside. So strong the authorities made necessary suspensions, and now everyone is stuck indoors.
On top of that, you’re sharing a room with Spencer. Of course, the universe is cruel enough to work like this. To his credit, he’s the picture of professionalism. He had assured you secrecy and it’s a promise he’s been upholding consistently. No teasing, nothing to give away the activities you’ve engaged with each other, no references to how he’d given you pleasure. For this, you are grateful. Small miracles and whatnot.
Tonight is no different; stranded together on a work trip, he’s politely ignoring you by poring over the case files, as if his single minded focus would be enough to solve it.
It would be easy to coax him out of this, but you don’t want to make anything awkward. Besides, you’d both set strict rules—those activities, your roles, all must be contained within his bedroom. The moment you’re out of it, you’re simply two coworkers again, barely friends, and yet…
You drag your eyes away from him, away from those fingers tracing over words on a page as the very sight triggers some treacherous part of your brain and goosebumps break across your inner thighs where he’d drawn invisible patterns with the very same fingertips and littered deep purple blossoms from his mouth.
Okay, stop.
“Ughhhh,” you roll over until you’re first into the pillows, muffling the last bits of your very articulate sound of complaint.
His snort catches you by surprise though it doesn’t quite ring as annoyance. More like amusement.
“What?” you lift yourself on your elbow, pouting.
“I thought being difficult was just something you play up… you know, when we’re having our sessions.” He murmurs from his seat, a slight hesitance tugging at his voice; this is the first time either of you acknowledged that outside of their designated weekends. Outside his room. He continues, musing, “But it seems like you’re simply a brat in real life too.”
His form remains focused on the case files at the desk. Still reading, as if you aren’t important enough to warrant his full attention.
You aren’t sure if he’s doing it deliberately, but, well, it’s making you want to act up and get his attention.
You don’t fall for it, though. Mostly. “Well, sorry if I’m bored.”
“You have a case file sitting in your bag, and it’s not going to read and solve itself.”
“We’re off the clock. Everything’s suspended until tomorrow because of the storm, Spencer. Besides,” you roll over onto your back with a groan, “I’ve no interest reading it again—I’d read it cover to cover multiple times already. It won’t get solved if we’re stuck in here with incomplete puzzle pieces. Like Hotch said, we need to search the woods and cross examine some witnesses, but that’s not happening in this weather.”
“I, for one, would appreciate some silence,” he replies quietly. He turns the page. You pout at his back, unsure of what you want and infinitely restless.
Finally, you sit up and rifle through your bag, huffing with annoyance. If he hears, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. You almost want to scream. The rummaging noises you’re making are so obviously calculated. It’s just a passive aggressive attempt to get his attention; you don’t even know what you’re looking for, this is simply done for the sake of doing something.
Spencer still doesn’t dignify you with a response. However, your fingers curl over something smooth and unfamiliar. A smile splits across your face when you pull it out, relief and elation replacing the initial curiosity.
A bar of chocolate. This had been from Penelope, something she slipped to you with a beaming face the morning before you left. You had stuffed it into your go bag when Hotch said you’re leaving, and thank heavens for that. At least now you have a sweet treat.
You push off the wrapper, eager for some sugar. The wrinkling sounds make Spencer turn in his seat, brows raised in question. “Have you finally decided to review the—what is that?”
“Oh, Pen gave me some chocolates.” you reply, peeling off the carefully packaged wrapping paper—Penelope loves elaborately wrapped gifts, even gifts as simple as these. A glance back at Spencer shows that he’s looking at the bar with some form of longing, “Want some?”
He shrugs, “If you don’t mind.”
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Dr. Reid.” With a grin, you hold the chocolate from both ends and bend. It’s gotten softer from being in your bag, and you’re able to halve the bar easily.
“How fortunate, indeed. You know, some studies have linked chocolates to heightened focus.” he says as he accepts his share. His fingers brush against yours briefly, just the tips, but it’s once again enough to trigger memories of how those fingers feel running across hidden crevices in your body. Slow, teasing. You clear your throat and retreat immediately once the chocolate is in his possession.
No room for lewd thoughts tonight. Absolutely none. Not when you’re on a work trip. And sharing a room on top of that.
Nope. You cram chocolate into your mouth quickly. Too much. So much that your cheeks bulge at the sides and it’s difficult to chew through. It’s good old milk chocolate, sweet but decadent, and thankfully, it melts easily in your mouth.
You take another bite, not trusting yourself to speak to him. There’s a slight aftertaste to the chocolate, but you figure it’s probably just an unfamiliar flavor. Penelope enjoys experimenting with her desserts, after all. It’s good, regardless, and you’re not going to complain about free chocolates.
Unsurprisingly, the chocolate is consumed quickly.
“Is that enough chocolate to help your brain focus better, Dr. Reid?” you ask him teasingly.
“I didn’t have an issue focusing in the first place, in fact, I think you would benefit from it more.” the words would cut if it came from someone else, but it’s Spencer and he’s grinning back at you like you’re worth something, and finally, you feel satisfaction bloom in your chest.
And then with a quick thanks, his attention dissipates and he ducks back to the case file and the satisfaction wilts like a neglected houseplant.
With a groan, you give up trying to pull him away from his reading and pick up your own case file. Maybe he’s right and the chocolate would help you focus.
It creeps up on you, the uncomfortable heat. Nearly imperceptible at first, and quickly eased by turning on the small fan provided by the motel. It’s weird, though, because the storm pelting outside has made the place considerably cooler. Still, the heat creeps with such subtlety that you don’t dwell upon it. Maybe your body heat’s fluctuating. Maybe you need a shower.
After a little while, Spencer speaks up too, brows knit in annoyance.
“Do you mind sharing the fan, it’s too hot.” he says, glancing at your figure. Prone on your bed, legs up in the air like you’re reading some issue of Cosmopolitan rather than your work folder, and hair rustling from the fan pointed directly at you.
You glance up fast enough to catch his eyes on your ass.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” With an exaggerated groan, you heave yourself up and move to press the button on the fan. It oscillates, and you huff annoyed sentiments about the lack of air conditioning. It’s unique to the room you two are sharing; Gideon and the others had managed to claim first dibs on the rooms with functional air conditioning systems. You suspect it’s more that you two are the youngest, and there’s still some playful hierarchy going on within the team. After all, everyone else got their own solo rooms as well—you and Spencer had been the only ones sharing a space.
But the heat only seems to thicken as time passes by, and you shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Something in you curls, heavy and slow and burning like molten honey.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, sitting up.
From the desk, Spencer whirls to face you, “Do you mind? It’s already difficult to focus with this heat.”
Your eyes land on his forehead, noting how the strands of his hair have tumbled down and are now plastered to his skin, moist. A bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and your eyes trace its movements. Somehow your gaze lands on his mouth, the tops of his lips also gathering moisture.
What would he taste, all hot and worked up like this?
You blink. Glance away. But he seems to catch something in your expression, because suddenly he’s on his feet and walking to your bed.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“What?”
“There’s something wrong with both of us—we’re exhibiting similar symptoms of discomfort, increased body heat, and—” his voice drifts lower, frustrated, “What was in the chocolate? We shared one bar and approximately six minutes and forty seven seconds later, I began feeling hot.”
You blink up at him, watching as his hand swipes over his forehead. His eyes are trained at your neck, where a couple of droplets are racing down your throat. His eyes considerably darken. Your thighs clench.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“I don’t know,” your voice sounds higher, squeakier, as you begin to panic very slightly. Tearing your gaze away from his accusatory expression, you rummage through your bag for the wrinkled wrapper, “Penelope gave it to me, I doubt she’d try to poison us.”
“This doesn’t feel like poison, this—”
“Oh my god, no!”
“What?”
If possible, you feel even hotter as you read through the little pink post-it note from Penelope. It had been stuck on the wrapper and in your boredom and haste to eat, you had simply missed its existence.
This is the aphrodisiac I told you about, my beautiful cupcake. Consume moderately and enjoy!
Aphrodisiacs. Yes. A vague memory pops into your head, giggles and secrets shared in Penelope’s technology cave—one you treasured since not a lot of agents are allowed access into her sacred office. Chocolates loaded with aphrodisiacs. Her promise to get you some.
And she pulled through—of course she did, she’s Penelope fucking Garcia—and gave it to you the morning you left.
Oh, you could pass out. This is mortifying.
“What? What is it?” When you don’t answer, Spencer grabs the wrapper with an impatience he doesn’t usually exhibit. He first scans Penelope’s note, then pieces the slightly torn and creased wrapper together to go through the list of ingredients, before speaking in a tone at least two octaves higher than normal. “An aphrodisiac chocolate!?”
“Is it bad?” you mumble, running your hands through your hair.
“Chocolate by itself already contains phenethylamine, which controls our so-called ‘love chemicals’ but the addition of these ingredients means that these will work at a faster pace. Mixed together, they’re optimal—”
Normally, you listen to his tangents with more patience than the other members of the team, but right now, you’re grappling with so many feelings it’s difficult to process his high falutin explanations. He’s rattling off words that mean nothing to you. In fact, they make everything sound so clinical. So much worse.
Your anxiety manifests by way of frustration. “Okay, genius, now translate that to English.” you interrupt, which makes him pause. Immediately, your tone softens, “Sorry, this is already freaking me out, and all that science wasn’t helping.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, more moisture congregating at the hollow of his throat now. Distracting—sinfully so. You want to tongue that spot until the taste of his sweat is somehow absorbed into your bloodstream.
“We’ve essentially just consumed an entire bar of sex drugs.”
“Oh,” your eyes squeeze shut when he confirms your suspicions. That conclusion didn’t require his level of genius, although you had been hoping it hadn’t been the case. That his explanation would somehow point to the opposite—hey we’re actually just really hot because there’s some type of pepper in the chocolate that enhances body heat or something to that effect. Not a confirmation. You groan, “Well yeah, I figured that much. That explains the, um… heat.”
The bed dips beside you as he eases onto it, “Yes, all the symptoms aren’t from poison or disease, it’s—”
“We’re horned up.”
“There’s less crude ways to put it,” he laughs and tosses the crumpled wrapper back into your bag, “But yes. We are, as you very eloquently said, horned up.”
You peek up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to make yourself smaller in the midst of this mortification. “What’s the statistical probability of us being able to wait it out like adults with incredible self control?”
“Factoring in our—”
“Reid, that was rhetorical,” you attempt to conjure enough energy for a glare, but it simply comes across petulant. His smile twists, and something flashes in his expression. Something you recognize. You’re sure you’re looking at him the exact same way—desire reflected back at you from clear amber eyes.
“Is it?” his voice drops and you feel the weight of his gaze prickling your overheated skin, “Forgive me, I quite enjoyed figuring out the math of the age old question: how long will it take for you to initiate something between us.”
This time, you glower. And the bastard laughs, which only serves to heighten your annoyance. “I’m not initiating anything with you.”
“No? But you’re so skilled at it.”
Memories of your previous trysts flood your mind. His room, the list of rules and your punishment, the way you came apart on his lap. A meeting that you had, indeed, initiated.
You huff like a brat, and look away.
“It’s only 22.45%,” he says when the silence stretches long enough to grow uncomfortable and swells until it threatens to suffocate, “If my math is correct.”
Admittedly, the low chances make you curious. You shift slightly to glance at him, “22.45% chances of me initiating? Why is it so low?” In your mind, you’d give it 90% and that’s being modest. You’re barely controlling yourself right now. No way it would be so slim; the number is actually a little insulting to you and how much you want him to jump your bones.
“Well,” he leans in, breath ghosting over your face, close enough you smell the hints of chocolate and coffee and cologne. And yet, still not close enough, “Factoring in the probability of where we are, there’s a 4.94% chance we get called by the team, and 3.88% to us actually being good—that is, not succumbing to these hormonal cocktails in our brains.”
“That doesn’t make sense, those are even lower numbers.”
“Mhm. Because based on my calculations, there’s a 68.73% chance that I initiate something.”
Your breath catches. Math and numbers have never sounded so fucking hot until this moment.
“What are you waiting for?” your voice catches in your throat and comes out a fluttery sigh.
“Your consent.”
A smile splits across your face, and you decide that tonight, your 22% chances trump his 68%.
Your soft lips press upon him, eager, open, and tasting faintly of chocolate. Spencer has never been more happy to be proven wrong.
He has always kissed with intention—slow, deep, as though he's trying to meld himself with the velvety warmth of your mouth. But this kiss is different. This kiss has edge. Teeth. The same unhurried pace but marked by a molten need that makes your toes curl and your thighs clench. He leans forward and you follow like you're wired for submission. Like laying down beneath him is simply part of the natural order, the same way planets orbit around the sun.
Sweaty palms find their way beneath your shirt, pressing into equally slick skin, the surface of which immediately breaks out in goosebumps.
"Spencer," You groan into the kiss, hands wandering up his shoulders, "Should we be doing this?"
"That sounds like another one of your rhetoricals."
You laugh, breathless, muffled, "I suppose it is."
"Then there’s no point in answering," He dips his head, lips latching on your neck and, because he’s Spencer Reid, he offers some form of answer anyway, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a question of should.”
"We're debating semantics now?"
"No." A bite. Hands squeezing around your waist before they traverse the softness of your breasts. "The point is we're not debating anything. We both know this is happening regardless of whether or not we should."
He punctuates the statement with a decisive snap that unhooks your bra. "Arms up." Spencer whispers.
You do as he says without another second thought. He tosses your sweaty clothes to the ground. It’s careful. Your bottoms ease off next, and then it’s his turn, stripping down to his boxers with shaky hands. As more clothes join the floor, the room spins and the heat swells.
You’ve both figured there’s no running from it, so instead, you hurtle headfirst and off balance, hands squeezing and tongues dragging across sweat-sodden skin. Spencer settles between your legs with ease, his body slotting with a familiarity that should unsettle you. He moves like he belongs there, and you’re afraid that you want this to be true.
“Fuck—so hot.” he groans against your chest, lips closing around a nipple.
Your back arches, urging him deeper, “Thanks.” You giggle, taking credit for an adjective you’re not even sure is intended for you.
“I—you know what, yeah,” he rasps, lifting himself up on his elbows. The loss of his lips on your chest is alleviated by the look in his eyes. Intense, pupils blown wide as they survey the sight of you beneath him. Glistening and heaving, eyes already out of focus as if a few simple kisses from him is enough to throw you completely off your equilibrium. It’s a sight he’ll keep for as long as he’s alive, no eidetic memory needed. “Yeah, you are. Hot. So hot, so beautiful.” his mouth captures yours again, and you swear you’re melting straight into the sheets.
Your hands fumble uselessly at the waistband of his boxers, pushing the fabric as he attempts to shimmy out of them on top of you. Unfortunately, that simply drives his obvious bulge against your already needy core. With a whine, a prayer, and enough determination to possibly put you through law school, his boxers finally drag down his thighs, just enough for him to kick them off.
Spencer pauses then, looking down at you with gooey brown eyes, every bit of his attention now on you and the sensation burns deep in your gut, a soft kind of heat, one you wish to kindle.
His voice is soft when he asks, “You remember your safe word?”
“Yes—Jupiter,” the next teasing word - nerd - is immediately swallowed by a kiss. You moan, the burning in your belly spreading white hot just beneath your skin, tinging at every point of contact.
“And you remember what instances to use it?”
Leave it to him to still be concerned about his rules while you're both nearly consumed by such a ruinous chemical reaction. Still, this attentiveness makes something curl in your chest, and you find yourself breathless for an entirely different reason.
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah? Tell me.” His teeth sink into the softness of your shoulder, hips grinding down onto your core, both of which effectively eliminates any and all ability to form coherent thought, let alone his goddamned rules.
“Uh - it's - I -”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he pulls back to look down at you, voice raspy but tinged with amusement. Smugness glimmers beneath the desire in his amber irises, “Have you already lost your ability to speak? Do I need to remind you?”
“Y-yes.” you gasp, not really sure what you're replying to.
“Yes what?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl. God, you’re so wet for me.” He takes your lower lip between his teeth, sucks until it's tender and numb, before letting go. You feel his tongue push past your teeth, and once again, pure jelly replaces your gray matter. Nothing is real except for him and all the sensations he's giving you. Your hips cant up for any relief. “Be patient,” he cooes, “You need to remember the rules. Safe word if it gets too much, yes? Even if you just want me to slow down. Do you remember now?”
“Yes sir.” you're nodding desperately, and the moment the words leave your lips, you feel the stretch at your core, “Oh god!” You tense around his girth, the broad tip spreading you open. There’s a slight sting, as there always is when he first breaches your entrance with his large cock. It’s familiar. It’s welcome—it means he’s here, he’s with you.
“Angel, you gotta relax,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths shallow as he pauses, “You're—ugh—too tight like this.”
The most pathetic whine trembles from your lips. He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours, “Relax, or we'll be stuck like this all night.” He says it like that's somehow a threat, as if you wouldn't be content having him buried inside you. “I don't want to hurt you.”
Against all odds, you manage to relax, walls fluttering delicately as he slides his hard length deeper. Excruciatingly slow. Part of you wonders if it's still because he doesn't want to hurt you, or if he's deliberately torturing you by inching his way in like this. You'd think that after the broadest part of his head pushes past your entrance, it would be an easier fit, but you still find yourself gasping as the rest of his cock slides in and you're still being stretched taut.
“Fuck!”
“I know, I know, god, you're so tight. Should’ve stretched you out with my fingers first, baby, I’m sorry.”
You laugh, “Don’t apologize, I’ll live.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Just a little bit,” you whisper, “Trust me, it’s fine. Please move or I’ll combust.”
Spencer laughs, his forehead pressed to yours. “Okay. You’re lucky I can’t help myself right now, otherwise that would count as an infraction.”
“Not fair, I said please.” you’re pouting as you say it, but the expression immediately dissolves into a slack jawed, glazed over scream of silence as he drags his length nearly all the way out and thrusts back in. Holy fuck.
“Too much?” he pauses, fingers pushing back the strands of your hair that cling at your forehead.
“No, god no, that was perfect.”
“Yeah?” he grins. Does it again. Slow, deep thrusts that make your spine arch in a way you weren’t even aware you could do. Every time he sheathes himself in your warmth, he deliberately grinds his pelvis into yours, the wiry hairs giving your sensitive folds just the right amount of friction. Drag out. Thrust in. Grind, repeat.
Whatever aphrodisiacs were in those chocolate must be working overtime, because everything feels sensitive. You could feel every ridge of his cock as he drags it in and out of your sodden cunt. By some miracle, you’re wetter than normal, slickness dripping around your thighs, into your ass, soaking into the sheets.
Your hands curl into his biceps, fingers clawing his flesh, as gasps are torn from your throat. He’s building up a rhythm now. Black dots dapple your vision, “Oh, god, yes! Just like that!”
“Mhm, you feel so good,” he groans, one hand finding your chest, “So soft and hot for me.” His thumb circles your nipple, then pinches it right as he buries himself balls-deep.
You’re undone within moments. Teeth clamping around the soft part of his shoulder until the skin blooms berry red and are marred by indentations of your teeth.
“Already?” he tuts, letting go of your nipple to grip your waist with both hands, “I didn’t even give you permission yet.”
You sob, “Too good. Please, again.”
“Think you can handle more?” he asks, as if he’s not continuously rutting into you with scientific precision.
“Mhm, please, sir.”
That word seems to make him lose any modicum of restraint and he slams into you so roughly your body rocks forward. Again and again, only his hold on your waist grows more firm, keeping you in place to take this rougher pace. Your skin is prickling with goosebumps and tacky with sweat, and, when he takes one of your legs and hooks it up over his shoulder, you scream.
“Angel!” he halts in an instant, brown eyes wide with concern.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I’ve been so good, I can take it.”
His skin flushes as the realization dawns upon him. It wasn’t from pain; no, the complete opposite. Spencer slams his hips into you again, eliciting a more subdued response—a low, keening whimper. The new angle allows him to burrow deeper, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix, but every time he does, your walls clench tighter, an indication that tells him you’re enjoying it.
Now certain that you can, indeed, take it, he resumes his steady pace, all while nibbling at the leg slung over his shoulder.
“You’re so pretty like this, but you gotta be quiet.” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into your flesh and sucking.
“Or what?” you groan, somehow still managing to find a sliver of insolence even while he’s balls deep in your cunt. “You’ll stop?”
He can’t. You both know that. Not while those aphrodisiacs are still coursing through your systems.
A dangerous glimmer passes through his eyes. “No,” his free hand finds your clit and soothes quick halos over the slick bud, “I’ll be even louder. Let everyone know exactly what we’re doing.”
From those words, your eyes snap to focus.
He’s grinning and something in his expression reminds you of a triumphant and mocking devil. “Is that what you want? For everyone to know how good you are for me? Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep it between ourselves, angel, but if that’s what you want, then—”
“No, no, no,” you’re mortified at the very idea, something resembling shame curling in your chest. You push it away; this shouldn’t be shameful, you do not want your memories with Spencer to be tinged with something so negative. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I swear.”
Your clit throbs between his index finger and thumb as he pinches it lightly, “You promise?”
“Yes sir.” you whine.
He nods, though there’s no relief for your poor clit. He keeps it pressed between his fingers, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the exposed top, and you begin to seriously consider if there’s a limit to how much pleasure a body can feel before it spontaneously combusts. If there is, you’re dangerously close to that point.
You’d gladly face it, if that’s the case. What did the French call it—la petite mort? You’re not sure. Right now all you can feel is an all consuming, syrupy sort of bliss. Besides, whatever you can muster of your brain power goes directly to making sure you don’t make a sound. His threat might seem extreme, but Spencer rarely bluffs with his punishments. Either way, you have no intention of finding out.
When it all gets too overwhelming—the fullness that settles in your fluttering channel, the consistent pressure on your clit—you decide this isn’t such a bad way to go.
Only, the pleasure simply splits the world, and suddenly you’re gushing around his cock, and the meeting of your flesh is chased by soft, squelchy sounds.
“My god,” Spencer groans, slowing his pace to marvel at the massive wet spot beneath your bodies, “Did you just?”
“Mhm,” your head tilts in a barely perceptible nod, too exhausted and cock-drunk to reply with words. Never mind that the word in question contains only a syllable—yes. Yes, you just squirted around him.
The world whirls into smudges and colors as he continues fucking into you, his soft grunts echoing in your mind like a favorite song you refuse to unlearn. He finds your hand, cradles it to his chest and, despite everything, you manage to smile up at him. He returns it, a gentleness to the feral creatures that seem to have taken over the two of you.
“God, you’re so lovely. My good girl. Do you need a break?” he cooes, slowly bringing your leg down so that it rests on the bed. You’re limp as a ragdoll beneath him, eyes fluttering and barely kept open, but your walls are squeezing around him so tightly.
“No,” you shake your head.
“Are you sure? You look out of it.” he says, attempting to pull out.
You whine and squeeze your walls to keep him inside.
Spencer laughs, “Let’s turn you over, huh? So your back isn’t all bent all night.” he says, gently pulling out of your heat.
You’re dead weight as he rolls you over, unable to do anything but follow his gentle manhandling. A pillow slides under your hips, elevating the area for easier access. And he’s right, the position does take pressure off your back, but you’re sure that’s temporary, since his entire body weight is going to be above you at any moment.
Palms squeeze and spread your ass playfully, “So pretty. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss at the small of your back.
Your answer comes in the form of a low, needy moan. Spencer chuckles, his tip nudging at your entrance once again.
“You know your safe word, right?”
“Jupiter.” the answer slips from your mouth on instinct.
“Good girl. Remember it, because otherwise, I don’t think I'll stop any time soon.”
He shouldn’t. He should stay buried in you forever, or until the aphrodisiacs wear off, or until you die. Whichever of the three comes first.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing the safe word.” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.
Spencer laughs and slides in, deep and gentle, and doesn’t stop until the clock reads 3am, and neither of you have any energy to do anything but sleep in each other’s arms.
i feel insane. more early season dom content here. thank you for reading! tagging ppl who specifically asked for part two @cherrycemeterry @ana-stasssiaaa @spencerreidwannabe @appledressing @rafayelsheart @aliteralsemicolon
botticelli’s painting @simp4eshal - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
