#adore writes

requested　﹒　n/a ♡

The knock on the door isn’t polite. It’s a rapid, staccato beat, full of restless energy, the kind of knock that could only belong to one person. You grin, setting your glass of sparkling water on the bathroom counter. The tub is almost full, steam curling in the soft light, the scent of lavender and chamomile filling the air.

“Comin'!” you call out, wrapping a towel around yourself. You pad through your small New York apartment, the floorboards cool under your feet. You swing open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, a chaotic masterpiece of New York night and post-concert adrenaline.

His hair is a mess of curls, still slightly damp from sweat, the matching initial necklaces you shared shining from the light. He’s wearing black jeans, a bit worn at the knees, and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a couple of thin, silver bracelets. His eyes are wide and impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks exhausted, but electric. Alive.

“Hey, girl,” he says, a wide, brilliant grin spreading across his face. It’s the kind of smile that could light up Times Square, a private, unguarded thing he saves only for you.

“Hey, rockstar,” you reply, your smile just as wide. You pull him into a quick, tight hug, smelling sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves. He’s solid and real against you, not a pixelated face on a screen or a staticky voice over the phone. “Long distance no more.”

“For tonight,” he agrees, his voice a low, happy rumble. He pulls back, but his hands stay on your arms, grounding you. “God, it’s good t' see you for real. My face's startin' t' get tired of lookin' inta cameras for pictures.”

“I know the feelin',” you say, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your palm. “You're a mess, y'know that?”

“A happy mess,” he corrects, winking. “Adrenaline's a helluva drug.”

“So I see,” you laugh, gently pushing him inside and closing the door. “I was just about t' get in the bath. You caught me at a good time.”

His eyes flicker towards the bathroom, where the steam is now gently billowing out into the hallway. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. “A bath, huh? Don’t start without me,” he teases, a playful glint in his eyes. You roll your eyes, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Down, boy,” you tease back. “I was gonna invite you t' sit in with me. We can catch up. If you can behave yourself.” “I can behave,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, though the sparkle in his eyes tells a difforent story. “Scout's honor.”

“Good,” you say, nodding towards the living room. “There's clean stuff for you in the top drawer of the dresser. the ones you left last time. Go get changed. I'll grab you a drink.” “You're a saint,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before disappearing into the living room.

You retreat to the kitchen, the cool tile a welcome relief against your bare feet. You pull a carton of orange juice from the fridge, the bright, citrusy scent a stark contrast to the calm lavender of the bath. You pour him a tall glass, the liquid a vibrant, sunny orange. For yourself, you top off your sparkling water, the bubbles fizzing gently against the sides of the glass. You grab both glasses and head back to the bathroom.

Michael’s already there, leaning against the counter, looking domestic and like yours. He’s changed into the gray pajama bottoms you’d gotten him, soft and worn, and a simple white t-shirt that clings to his lean frame. His feet are bare, and he’s fiddled with one of the silver bracelets on his wrist, a nervous, restless energy still radiating from him. He looks up as you enter, a grateful smile on his face. “Thanks for this,” he says, taking the glass from you. He takes a long swallow, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Gosh, that's good. I'm so thirsty.”

“You were probably sweatin' out about ten gallons of water up there,” you say, setting your own glass down. You slip off your towel and slide into the tub, the hot water a blissful embrace. You sink down until the water’s lapping at your chin, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.

“It was somethin' else tonight,” he says, sliding down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the tub. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “the crowd was just... electric. you could feel it all the way up on the stage. Like a livin', breathin' thing.”

“I wish I could've been there,” you say, your voice soft. “T'see it. T'see you.” “You were there,” he says, his eyes meeting yours, a strange intensity in their depths. “I always look for you. Even when I know you ain't there, I still look.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’ve been best friends for so long, your lives intertwined in a way that feels both natural and utterly profound. But there are moments, like this one, where the line between friendship and something more blurs into a beautiful, terrifying, undefined space. “Did you find me tonight?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“Every night,” he says, his gaze never wavering. He takes another sip of his orange juice, the silence stretching between you, comfortable and easy. He’s still buzzing, a live wire, but here, in the steam-filled quiet of your bathroom, he’s starting to unwind. The frantic energy is softening, melting away.

“So,” he says, setting his glass down. “Tell me everythin'. What've I missed in the life of a normal New Yorker? Any good gossip? Any disastrous dates I need t' save you from?”You laugh, a light, bubbly sound that echoes off the tiled walls. “Well, let's see. I discovered a new coffee shop that makes a disgustin'ly good latte, I finished that book you told me t' read, n’ I had a date with a guy who spent theentire night talkin' about his collection of vintage staplers.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up. “Vintage staplers? Seriously? What is wrong with people?” “I ask myself that question every day,” you say, shaking your head. “But it makes for a good story, at least.”

“Definitely,” he agrees, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Though I think you need better standards. I mean, vintage staplers? C'mon. you can do so much better.”

“Like who?” you tease, splashing a little water in his direction. He yelps, ducking away from the spray.

“Hey! Watch it! You'll get my shirt wet,” he protests, but he’s laughing. “That’s the point,” you say, a wicked grin on your face. “you need t' cool down. You're still hummin'.”

“I can't help it,” he says, running a hand through his tangled curls. “It's the best feelin' in the world. Up there, with all those people, singin' along... it's like bein' plugged inta a socket. An' then comin' here, t' you... it's like the whole world just... quiets down.” He says it so casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to say. But it lands with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the bathwater.

You reach for your sparkling water, your fingers brushing against his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, calloused in places from years of playing guitar, a comforting, familiar weight. “Remember that one time,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “we stayed up all night watchin' old movies, an' you fell asleep on my shoulder?”

“I remember,” you say, your voice soft. “My neck was sore for a week.” “Mine, too,” he says, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “But I wouldn't've moved for the world. It was the best night's sleep I'd had in months.”

The air crackles with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed feelings. You’re so close to the edge, so close to saying something, to doing something that would change everything. But you’re both too scared to make the first move, too scared to ruin the perfect, fragile thing you have. “So,” you say, pulling your hand back and clearing your throat. “'Sides the stapler guy, what's new with you? Any groupies I should be jealous of?”

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that breaks the spell. “You know me. I'm a one-woman man. Even if that woman is just my best friend who lives three thousand miles away.”

“Lucky me,” you say, a little too quickly. You dunk your head under the water, rinsing the soap from your hair. When you come up, slicking your hair back from your face, he’s watching you with an unreadable expression. You lean your head back against the cool porcelain of the tub, the water swirling gently around you. “Alright, Mr. World Tour, your turn for gossip. What's happenin' on your block? Or, y'know, your heavily-guarded compound.”

He chuckles, taking another sip of his juice. “Oh, y'know. the usual. Janet dyed her hair again, this color I think she's callin' 'autumn brown.' Mrs. Johnson down the street still thinks my garden gnomes are devil worshippers. An' Bubbles figured out how t' work the VCR, so now I can't find any of my tapes. He's got a thing for The Sound of Music.”

You laugh, picturing it perfectly—the chaos of the Jackson household, a bizarre, beautiful symphony of fame and family. “So, basically, the same as my building, but with more monkeys an' better security. Mrs. Henderson in 3B still thinks I'm runnin' a speakeasy because I have people over past nine p.m. Last week, she left a note on my door about the 'racket' from my 'flapper music.' She thinks I'm a bootlegger.”

“Flapper music?” he grins, a real, unguarded grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “What were you listenin' to?” “Your demo tape. the one you sent me. the one with the piano track that sounds like i’m floatin'.” You say it quietly, and the grin softens into something more tender. “I s'pose she's not entirely wrong. It does make me wanna dance n' drink illegal gin.”

“See? You're a menace t' society,” he teases. “A regular Bonnie Parker.”

“Only if you're my Clyde,” you shoot back, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The flirty banter is a familiar dance, a carefully choreographed routine you both know by heart, but sometimes the steps lead you closer to the fire than usual.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, his eyes dark and serious, and for a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance between you. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, looking down at his empty glass. “We should watch that when you get out. The Sound of Music. See if Bubbles has good taste.”

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Okay, but I'm gettin' all pruney. Time t' evacuate the tub.” You stand up, water sluicing off your body in rivers, and grab your towel from the hook. Michael doesn’t move, just watches you, his expression unreadable. “You're just gonna stand there?” you ask, wrapping the towel securely around yourself. He shrugs, a lazy, comfortable gesture. “I'm comfy.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Michael. Turn around.”

“Seriously?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It's nothin' I haven't seen before, y'know. Remember that time in the hotel pool in Tokyo when your bikini top came off?” “That was different, an' you promised you would never speak of that again,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “Now. Turn.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of theatrical sufforing, but he does as you ask. He turns to face the wall, resting his forehead against it with a dramatic thump. “I'm turnin',” he calls out, his voice muffled. “I'm a perfect gentleman. I'm blind. I see nothin'.”

You laugh, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old, faded t-shirt of his that you’d stolen ages ago. The fabric is soft and worn, and it smells faintly of him—clean laundry and that expensive cologne. “Okay, you can look now.” He turns around, leaning back against the wall. His eyes scan you, a slow, appreciative glance that makes your skin tingle. “Much better,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, tossing your wet towel into the hamper. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Do I wanna hear it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“So, yes. you do.” you say, grinning.

“I'm listenin'.”

“Face masks,” you say, pulling a small jar from the cabinet. “An' then we're gonna raid my freezer for ice cream an' watch The Sound of Music.”

“You had me at face masks,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor. He follows you into your bedroom, sprawling out on your bed like a big, lazy cat, taking up more than his fair share of the space. You climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him. You open the jar, scooping out a dollop of the cool, green goop.

He obeys without question, a look of utter trust on his face. You start to apply the mask, your fingers gently tracing the contours of his face. You smooth the cream over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his high cheekbones. He’s so still, so pliant under your touch, his breathing slow and even. His skin is warm, soft. You find yourself getting lost in the simple act, in the intimacy of it. “You're good at this,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “you shoulda been an aesthetician.”

“Nah,” you say, your thumb gently stroking his temple. “I'd rather just do this for only you.” He doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him take a sharp, quiet breath. You finish with the mask, sitting back to admire your work. He looks ridiculous, with green goop smeared all over his face, but he’s beautiful. He always is.

“Okay, my turn,” he says, opening his eyes. He sits up, taking the jar from you. He’s clumsy, less gentle than you were, but his touch is careful, deliberate. He scoops out a smaller amount of the mask, his brow furrowed in concentration. He starts to apply it to your face, his fingers tracing your jawline, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His touch is feather-light, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, can see the intense focus in his eyes. You’re so close, closer than you’ve been in months. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. You can feel the current running between you, a silent, electric hum that’s been there for years.

“All done,” he says, his voice a low whisper. He leans back, a small, proud smile on his face. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” you agree, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “We look like a couple of aliens.”

“A couple of very pretty aliens,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. You both dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the small room. It’s easy, comfortable, a familiar rhythm you both know by heart. For a moment, everything is simple. He’s just Michael, your best friend, and you’re just you. There’s no fame, no distance, no unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Just two friends, wearing face masks, about to watch a movie about a singing nun.

“We should let these dry,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “Ten minutes, the lady at the store said.”

“Plenty of time t' pick our poison,” he says, sliding off the bed. “I have cookie dough, I have rocky road, an' I have... somethin' healthy an' green that my mom left here last time she visited. We will not be partakin' in the healthy an' green option.” He follows you into the kitchen, a green-faced specter padding silently behind you. You pull open the freezer door, a gust of cold air washing over you. You grab the cartons of cookie dough and rocky road, setting them on the counter with a thud.

“Alright, let's do this,” you say, grabbing two spoons from the drawer. But Michael has other ideas. He takes both cartons, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pries off the lids, grabbing a big bowl from the cupboard.

“Why choose?” he asks, scooping a hefty portion of rocky road into the bowl. “When you can have the best of both worlds?” He follows it up with an equally large scoop of cookie dough, swirling them together into a chaotic, delicious mess. “Michael Jackson, you are a genius,” you declare, watching him work. “A legend. An ice cream revolutionary.”

“I try,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He grabs two spoons from the drawer, handing one to you. “Now let's go before our faces crack.”

You settle on the couch, the bowl of ice cream resting between you. The opening credits of The Sound of Music start to play, the iconic hills coming to life on your small screen. Michael shifts, moving to sit behind you, his long legs stretched out on either side of you. He leans back against the arm of the couch, pulling you with him until you’re nestled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. It’s a familiar position, one you’ve fallen into a hundred times before. It’s comfortable, safe. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “This is nice,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice a soft sigh. “It is.” He starts to play with your hair, his fingers gently combing through the damp strands. It’s a mindless, soothing gesture, one that never fails to make you feel calm, centered. You can feel the calluses on his fingertips, a rough, comforting texture against your scalp.

The movie plays on, but you’re not really watching. Julie Andrews is singing about her favorite things, but your attention is elsewhere. It’s on the feeling of Michael’s fingers in your hair, on the warmth of his body against yours, on the quiet, domestic perfection of the moment.

“So,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me more 'bout Stapler Guy. Was he at least a good kisser?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy sound. “I wouldn't know. He tried t' kiss me goodnight, an' I told him I had t' go wash my cat. An’ we both know I’m allergic.” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “That's my girl. Always thinkin' on your feet.”

“You're one t' talk,” you retort, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “I've seen you dodge a question from Barbara Walters like it's an Olympic sport.”

“Hey, that's a survival skill,” he says, his fingers still stroking your hair. “you learn quick in my business. How t' say a whole lot of nothin' without ever actually sayin' nothin'.”

“It's an art form,” you agree. “But you can't do that with me. I see right through you.” “Yeah,” he says, his voice a soft, intimate whisper. “you do.”

The air between you shifts, the easy banter giving way to something more fragile, more honest. The spoon in your hand feels suddenly heavy, the melting ice cream forgotten. You can feel his breath on your neck, a warm, steady caress that sends shivers down your spine.” “Michael...” you start, but you don’t know how to finish. What do you say? How do you bridge the gap that’s been widening between you for years?

He doesn’t press you. He just holds you a little tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. On the screen, the von Trapp children are learning to sing, but the only music you can hear is the frantic beating of your own heart. “I miss this,” he says, his voice barely audible above the sound from the TV. “Just... bein' normal. With you.”

“Me, too,” you whisper back. “It's the only place I feel normal anymore.”

You’re both quiet for a long moment, the weight of your shared reality settling over you. His gaze feels too heavy, too real. You feel a prickle of panic, a desperate need to break the tension before it shatters into something irreparable. Without thinking, you twist in his arms, grabbing a spoonful of the half-melted concoction—rocky road and cookie dough swirled together. Before he can react, you shove the spoon directly into his open mouth.

“Stop lookin' at me like that,” you say, your voice a strained mix of command and desperation. “'Fore I do somethin' stupid. Somethin' I won't regret.”

His eyes go wide, comically surprised. A smear of chocolate ice cream is on the corner of his lip. He freezes for a second, processing your words and the sudden intrusion of ice cream. Then, a choked sound escapes him. He starts to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full-bodied, deep, infectious cackle that makes his whole body shake. The sight of him—Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, with a green face mask and chocolate on his chin, laughing so hard he can barely breathe—is too much. The knot in your chest loosens, and you’re gone, dissolving into a fit of helpless laughter right along with him. You collapse back against him, both of you shaking, your gasps for air mingling with the sound of the von Trapps singing “So Long, Farewell.” The ice cream tub tips, spilling a little onto the couch cushion, but neither of you cares. In the midst of the laughter and the mess, the unspoken words are forgotten, for now, drowned out by the familiar, joyful sound of two best friends, two bad kids, sharing a secret in the dark.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow

He places a hand over yours, a swift look over his shoulder towards Yuji and Megumi to ensure their safety while he took a few precious moments to and at least start healing your more severe wounds, he had to if had any hopes to move you without making any internal damage worse. His heart pounds, pulse beating so rapidly his hands tremble as he lays one over your own on top of your side while the other cups your check. You're sweating, teeth gritted and eyes shut tightly to try and drown the pain out but you still try and force a smile for him. "S-" You hiss as his reversed cursed technique kicks in, back arching and doing nothing to help your pain. "Shit!" You grit, fighting back tears as your free hand claws at the loose debris below you. YOu don't feel the way the broken glass cuts your fingertips but Yuta does and he quickly grasps your free hand in his.

Usually your resistance to cursed energy would be a blessing but what healed others painlessly was almost too much to bear, tears streaking down your cheeks as you fight back sobs. Yuta looks up from your torso every so often, a guilty look in his eyes as he comforts you, words  just out of hearing that's been dulled by your pain. "Almost done, promise." He feels sick lying to you but he has to give you something to fight for. He knows how badly it hurts, having copied your technique for training and while irreplaceable because of its usefulness the cost was high. Your hand grasps his, cutting off the blood flow in his fingers but he can't feel it and even if he did he wouldn't say anything. "Almost. Almost." Your not sure who his reassurances are meant for but they only half register before your senses are thrown into overdrive at the sound of panicked shouts.

Yuta's head swivels on a dime as you force yourself up on your elbows to see what's happening. Your stomach drops from nausea and fear as the curse was no longer alone, a small pack of near identical copies melt from it's body to the pavement below. Yuji and Megumi curse off in the distance as the curse continues to multiply. Yuta looks back down at you, a prayer muttered under his breath for everyone's safety until his return. He has to move you and it feels selfish to choose you first but he can't let you die. He just can't. Yuta's arms shift, curling under you as carefully as he can but your cries of pain still grate on his mind. "I know." He whispers as you hide your face in his shoulder. "I know, I know, I know. Just hold on." He continues to channel the reversed energy, wishing that you weren't made to suffer by your own technique. A part of him contemplated using cursed speech once more, if only to render you unconscious so you wouldn't feel so much pain.

God, it feels like he's burning. He's too hot and too cold and his heart is racing louder than he can think and frustration takes root inside his chest followed by anger. You shouldn't be this hurt, shouldn't be hurt at all. His thoughts race of who to shift the blame to as he channels more cursed energy. He needs to be quicker, needs yo get you somewhere safe so he can put an end to all this once and for all because he can feel the way your body begins to go limp, getting heavier and heavier as he goes. "No. C'mon." He urges, jostling you just enough to get you conscious. "Stay with me, okay?" He says, unintentionally sending a wave of reversed cursed energy through you. "I'm sorry!" He can feel himself start to panic as he hushes your bitten back scream of pain. "I know, I'm sorry. You're gonna be okay, promise." Any other possibility has his gut twisting, a storm of emotions building in pressure in his chest.

His heart is racing, blood is boiling. The cursed energy he's been using to boost his body to get you out of harm's way has become hot and suffocating, the sickly red mocks him but he doesn't have the time to fix it. He doesn't have the time to calm down. He has to get you someplace safe so he can heal the worst of your injuries because he is not going home without you. He has to head back to help his underclassmen and save what other unfortunate souls had the bad luck of getting caught up in a mess like this. He gets a little faster in his desperation, the sudden increase in speed waking you further. "Backup?" You wheeze out through blood stained lips, half of your chest feeling clumped and sticky. "On the way, Megumi sent for help as soon as you went down." Your hand grasps at the fabric over his heart as you wince, tugging to try and ground yourself. "This, This is bullshit." You spit out, paling by the minute.

His eyes scan his surroundings rapidly, looking for a safe place to set you down and get you stable. He weaves between upturned cars and various chunks of debris. "Yu..." He can't think. You're bleeding and hurt, and you're dying. Everything he's trained for and learned has gone out the window and he can't get it back. It's terrifying. He knows what he's supposed to be doing but can't focus long enough on anything else but stable foot holds when something curls around his ankle and tugs, the cursed energy ties to registering far too late. "Yuta, Look Out!" Time slows down in the worst of ways, giving him a front row seat to the way you throw yourself forward around him. You force your body to move, lifting your dead weight arms to wrap around his neck tightly. Your body shielding his own as what looks like barbed wire shoots from the ground.

He feels your grip tighten, nails digging into his skin hard enough to break it even through his layered clothing but he barely feels it as your voice cuts off into a wet choke. He feels the wind in his hair and beating against his back before he realizes what's happened, holding you to his chest and tucking his chin over your head as he hits the ground and rolls. He rolls once, twice before you fall from his arms where you remain unresponsive. Yuta coughs as his back hits brick, fighting to get back the air the impact ripped from his lungs. Even with reinforcing his body with cursed energy the quickly growing, sticky feeling pressure in his chest lets him know that something is more than broken. He feels angry and numb, and hateful- and that hate  for everything wrong about the situation only increases once he sees one of the curses leering over your body, multiple eyes blinking rapidly as thin, razor sharp tendrils reach out for its next meal but they never reach their target. The curses head is wiped clean from existence in an instant.

Yuta's body feels heavy but he doesn't feel much other than that anymore. It's still there but muted. Everything feels fuzzy though he's not sure if it's the shock or a concussion. He turns swiftly, cutting another curse down. He's running low on cursed energy, back to back missions and his earlier panic a major hit to his reserves at the worst possible time. He's not sure where his old classmates are but forces himself into resignation of the worst case scenario. If he's struggling this bad then there's a good chance those two are far worse off but he pushes on, fighting with everything he has because he's not going home alone, even if it means dying here because he'd rather die here among those he loves than live on without them, without you.

requested　﹒ anon ! ♡

The last of the California sun bleeds across the horizon, painting the sprawling Encino estate in hues of tangerine and violet. From your bedroom window, it’s a perfect, picturesque end to the day. But downstairs, a different kind of electric light is waiting. The rumble is the first sign, a deep, guttural growl that vibrates up through the soles of your feet even before you see it. Then, it rounds the curved drive, a behemoth of midnight black chrome and tinted windows. The party bus.

It glides to a halt, a long, sleek predator that has somehow invaded the familiar safety of your home. The door sighs open, unfolding into a set of gleaming, hydraulic steps, spilling a cacophony of bass-thumping music and the cheerful, overlapping shouts of your friends onto the quiet lawn.

Michael is already by the door, a beautiful, brilliant smile on his face. He’s dressed in a shimmering, silver-threaded black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the smooth, warm skin of his chest, and a pair of impossibly tight, black denim trousers that cling to him like a second skin. His hair is a cloud of loose, glossy curls, framing a face that is alight with a pure, unadulterated joy that is all for you. “Happy birthday, girl!” a chorus of voices erupts as you descend the stairs.

You’re wearing your favorite dress, a slip of midnight black silk that clings to your curves and stops right under your ass. You feel a million miles away from the girl who woke up this morning, a girl who was merely twenty. Tonight, you are twenty-one. Tonight, you are invincible.

Michael meets you at the bottom of the stairs, his hands finding your waist, pulling you into him for a quick, firm hug. He smells of expensive cologne and something clean. “Y’look… wow,” he breathes, his dark eyes scanning you from head to toe, a look of appreciative, almost possessive admiration on his face. “Jus’… wow.” “Save some o’that f’th’ dance floor, Jackson,” you tease, giving him a playful tap on the chest. “We’ve got a bus t’catch.”

You lead the charge, a stream of your nearest and dearest friends flowing up the steps and into the belly of the beast. The interior is a riot of neon and strobing lights. There’s a long, plush banquette running along one side, facing a bar stocked with every conceivable bottle. The floor is a checkerboard of black and white, and the ceiling is lined with tiny, twinkling fiber optic lights that mimic a starry sky. It’s gaudy, it’s over-the-top, and it’s perfect.

You and Michael slide into a spot near the front, the plush velvet of the seat sighing under your weight. The bus lurches into motion, the music pulsing, a live wire of energy running through the space. Your friend Stacy turns around from the seat in front of you, a wide, tipsy grin on her face.

“Can y’believe this?!” she shouts over the music. “This ‘s th’ best birthday ever!” You laugh, raising the glass of champagne someone has already pressed into your hand. “It’s not bad, right?” You take a sip, the cool, bubbly liquid a pleasant fizz on your tongue. And then, your stomach drops. A jolt of cold, hard panic shoots through you. Your purse. It’s sitting on the couch in the living room. Your ID, your money, your lipstick… everything.

“Shit,” you mutter, the word swallowed by the music. “What?” Michael leans in, his brow furrowed in concern, his lips brushing against your ear. “What’s wrong?” “My purse,” you say, your voice tight with anxiety. “I forgot my purse. It’s on th’ couch.”

“I’ll get it,” he says immediately, starting to rise. “No, no,” you say, pushing him back down gently. “It’s fine. I’ll b’right back. Don’t let ‘em leave without me!”

You give him a quick, reassuring smile, then turn to navigate your way out. The bus is already moving, the floor a shifting, unstable surface. The aisle is narrow, cluttered with people’s legs and abandoned shoes. You get to Michael, who’s still sitting, and you have a choice: try to squeeze past him in the tiny space, or go over. You choose over.

You put a hand on his shoulder for balance, swinging one leg over his lap to straddle him for a brief, awkward moment. It’s a clumsy, undignified maneuver. You can feel the hard, muscular strength of his thighs beneath your own, the warmth of him a sudden, intense shock through the thin silk of your dress. For a fleeting second, your core is pressed directly against his lap, a flash of accidental, electrifying intimacy.

“Sorry,” you mumble, your cheeks flushing with heat as you scramble to disentangle yourself. He doesn't say anything. He just looks up at you, his dark eyes unreadable, but there’s a sudden, intense stillness about him, a focused, almost predatory gleam that you don't have time to decipher before you’re past him and stumbling down the steps.

You race into the house, grabbing the purse from the couch where you left it. As you turn to go back, a thought, sudden and crystal clear, flashes through Michael’s mind. He watches you go, the fleeting sensation of your body against his still echoing. He doesn't think about the party or the club or the friends. All he can think about is the thin layer of silk separating you, the way you smelled, the weight of you on him for that one, perfect second. And a single, overwhelming thought takes root, primal and hungry: he wants to taste you. Right here, right now, on this ridiculous, thumping bus, with all your friends just feet away. He wants to push up that dress and bury his face in you until you forget your own name.

When you get back, the bus has turned a corner, forcing you to grab the doorframe to keep your balance. You make your way back to Michael, bracing for another clumsy climb. But this time, he’s ready. As you swing your leg over, he moves. He doesn’t let you pass. His hands come up, firm and decisive, gripping your waist. He pulls you down, not beside him, but onto his lap, facing him, your knees on either side of his thighs. The maneuver is so fast, so smooth, that you have no time to react. You land with a soft oomph, your body flush against his.

“Whoa,” you laugh, a little breathless. “Eager, are we?”

You start to adjust yourself, to shift into a more casual position, but you stop. You freeze. Because you can feel it. Hard and insistent and unmistakable, pressing up against you through the layers of your dress and his tight denim. He’s hard. Aroused. And it’s all for you.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across your face. You look up at him, and the look in his dark, glittering eyes is anything but innocent. It’s full of heat, of a raw, undisguised hunger that makes your stomach clench. “Oh,” you whisper, the sound a soft, breathy sigh of understanding. “Yeah,” he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly hum that is barely audible over the music. “Oh.”

Just then, Stacy leans over the back of the seat, her face inches from yours. “So, what’s the plan for when we get there? Are we doing VIP or are we just gonna slum it with the commoners?” she asks, completely oblivious. You have to force yourself to focus, to tear your gaze away from Michael’s. Your body, however, has a mind of its own. You shift, a tiny, almost imperceptible rocking motion of your hips. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough. You can feel him jolt, a sharp intake of breath, his hands tightening on your waist like a vise.

You grind against him again, a slow, deliberate circle. It’s a silent, secret conversation happening under the cover of Stacy’s endless chatter about bottle service and guest lists. Michael’s hands guide your hips, encouraging the movement, a subtle, rhythmic pressure that is both a command and a plea.

“I think we should definitely try f’VIP,” you manage to say, your voice sounding surprisingly steady. “But if we can’t, we’ll jus’… make our own party.” You punctuate the last word with a particularly hard grind, and you feel the twitch of his cock in response, a deep, satisfied thrill coursing through you.

You and Michael spend the rest of the ride in this delicious, secret torment. You talk and laugh with your friends, the picture of a normal birthday girl, while beneath the shared blanket you’d thrown over your laps, a slow, sinful dance is taking place. You can feel the heat building between you, a coiling, tightening tension that is a delicious promise of what’s to come. Every bump in the road, every turn the bus takes, is a new, thrilling sensation, a fresh wave of friction that leaves you both breathless and aching.

When the bus finally pulls up to the club, a nondescript building with a velvet rope and a burly bouncer, the collective energy on the bus reaches a fever pitch. Everyone is piling out, a laughing, shouting, tipsy mass of humanity. You start to get up, to slide off Michael’s lap, but he holds you firm. “Wait,” he says, his voice a low, urgent murmur. Your friends are already at the door, their voices fading as they step out into the cool night air. “We’ll see you in there!” Stacy shouts back over her shoulder.

And then, you’re alone. The only light comes from the twinkling fiber optics on the ceiling and the neon glow of the bar. The music is still playing, but it feels distant, muffled, like it’s coming from another world.

“I have t’give y’your gift,” Michael says, his dark eyes fixed on yours, a serious, almost solemn look on his face.

“Michael,” you protest, laughing softly. “You didn’t have t’get me anything. This whole night is enough.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “This is… special. Just f’you.”

And then he’s kissing you. It’s not the quick, playful kisses you’ve shared in front of your friends. This is a deep, demanding, possessive kiss, a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your head spinning. His lips are firm and insistent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before delving inside to tangle with yours. It’s a hungry, desperate kiss, a kiss that says he’s been waiting for this all night, for this exact moment, alone with you.

His hands are no longer on your hips. They are sliding up your back, under the silk of your dress, his fingers tracing the line of your spine, sending shivers of pleasure skittering across your skin. You’re lost in the kiss, lost in the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming, all-consuming presence of him.

His right hand leaves your back and snakes around to your front. It slides down the soft plane of your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your lower belly, until it reaches the hem of your dress. His fingers pause there, a feather-light touch that is a question, a permission. You answer by deepening the kiss, by pressing yourself more firmly against him, a silent, breathy yes.

His fingers continue their journey, slipping under the hem of your dress and over the smooth, cool silk of your panties. He explores the shape of you, tracing the delicate line of the fabric, a slow, teasing touch that makes you squirm with impatience. And then, his fingers hook under the fabric, pulling it aside. He slides a finger through your wetness, a slow, exploratory stroke that makes you gasp against his mouth.

“S’wet f’me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. He adds a second finger, starting a slow, deliberate rhythm, a perfect, curling motion that has you seeing stars. You break the kiss, your head falling back, a soft, choked moan escaping your lips. He’s watching you, his dark eyes hungry, fixed on your face as he pleasures you, as he watches you unravel.

He’s halfway down your body now, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck, over your collarbone. He’s shifting, angling his body, clearly intending to fulfill the very thought he’d had earlier, to push up your dress and taste you right here on this ridiculous bus.

Suddenly, the hydraulic door of the bus hisses open, spilling a bright, unwelcome rectangle of light into the dim, intimate space. A figure appears at the top of the steps, a familiar silhouette. “Shit,” Michael breathes, the word a harsh, frustrated curse.

It’s Mark, one of your friends from college, looking panicked and flustered. “Hey, guys!” he says, his voice loud and jarring in the quiet. “Sorry t’interrupt. I think I left my wallet back here. Has anyone seen a brown leather wallet?”

For a split second, you both freeze, a deer-in-the-headlights moment of pure, unadulterated panic. Michael’s body is a tense, coiled spring beneath you, his hands still buried in your panties. But then, that preternatural calm that he possesses in crisis situations takes over. His reaction is lightning-fast, a masterclass in deception.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t flinch. In one fluid, impossibly smooth motion, he shifts. He uses the bulk of his body as a shield, angling his torso to block the view from the door. He curls his fingers, pressing them deep inside you, a possessive, almost punitive gesture that makes you bite back a gasp. His other hand, the one that was tracing a path down your body, moves to the small of your back, holding you in place. To an outside observer, it would look like he’s just holding you, a tender, protective embrace.

But you know better. You can feel the hard, desperate press of his erection against you, the subtle, grinding motion of his hips as he continues the torturous rhythm with his fingers. The danger, the sheer audacity of it all, sends a fresh, dizzying wave of arousal through you. You force a smile onto your face, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “Mark, hey,” you say, your voice sounding breathy and thin to your own ears. “No, I haven’t seen it. Did y’check your pockets?”

“Yeah, checked everywhere,” Mark says, oblivious to the silent, desperate drama unfolding just a few feet away. He starts pacing the narrow aisle, peering under the seats. “It’s got my ID in it and everything. I’m screwed if I can’t find it.”

Michael is relentless. He angles his wrist, a slight, expert adjustment, and the pad of his thumb finds your clit. He starts to rub slow, maddening circles, a direct, intense stimulation that makes your toes curl. You have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying out. You feel a flush creep up your neck and chest, a telling blush that you hope Mark will mistake for the heat of the bus.

“It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Mark mutters, crouching down to look under the banquette opposite you. This is your chance. “Here, let me help y’look,” you say, starting to slide off Michael’s lap.

His grip on you tightens, a silent, steel-like command. Don't you dare. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that is for you alone. “Don’t move. You look s’pretty right now. Let him look.”

His thumb speeds up its rhythm, a relentless, expert pressure that pushes you closer and closer to the edge. You’re trapped, caught between the mundane panic of your searching friend and the exquisite, secret pleasure of the man holding you captive.

“I think I found it!” Mark says, triumphant, emerging from under the seat with a brown leather wallet clutched in his hand. “It must’ve fallen out of my pocket. Y’guys are lifesavers. I’ll see y’inside!”

He gives you a quick wave and disappears down the steps, the door sighing shut behind him, plunging the bus back into its dim, intimate twilight.

The moment he’s gone, the spell is broken. Michael stills his hand, but he doesn’t pull it away. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with a feral, triumphant fire.

“You,” he breathes, his voice a husky, awed whisper. “Y’are… incredible f’me, mama.”

He slowly, deliberately, withdraws his fingers from you. The loss of contact is a sudden, aching void. He brings his hand up, glistening with your wetness in the dim light. You watch, mesmerized, as he brings his fingers to his lips. He closes his eyes, and he sucks them clean, one by one. He savors the taste, a slow, deliberate act that is so intensely erotic it makes your whole body clench.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, a low, contented sound vibrating in his chest. He opens his eyes, and the look in them is pure, unadulterated sin. “Jus’ a lil’ taste f’later.”

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @angelofmikes @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna @luvs4harrington

requested　﹒ n/a ♡

The neon sign of the club slashes a violent, pulsing pink across the grimy Vegas sidewalk. "Gilt & Lace." Inside, the air is a thick, cloying cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the sickly-sweet smell of spilled liquor. The bass from the unseen speakers is a physical presence, a deep, thudding vibration that resonates in your chest cavity, a constant, oppressive reminder of where you are.

And Michael is trapped.

He's sandwiched between Jackie and Jermaine on a plush, red vinyl booth that sticks to the back of his shirt with a slight, unpleasant tackiness. His brothers are a raucous, laughing, slapping chorus of testosterone and bad advice. Marlon is loudly recounting a story from the road, his words slurring slightly, while Tito nurses a whiskey and soda, a small, amused smile on his face. They are all here, for him. A grand, brotherly gesture for his 21st birthday.

"C'mon, Mike!" Jackie slaps him on the back, a hard, stinging blow that makes him flinch. "Loosen up! You're a man now! You're supposed to be enjoying this!"

He tries. He really does. He sips at the Coke the waitress brought him, the ice clinking against the glass, a small, insignificant sound in the deafening roar of the club. He keeps his eyes fixed on the table, on the swirling patterns of condensation on the cheap, plastic coaster. He doesn't want to look up. He doesn't want to see the stage, to see the women, the glitter, the skin. It all feels… wrong. Dirty. A spectacle he wasn't meant to witness.

His brothers, on the other hand, are in their element. They are whooping and hollering, stuffing dollar bills into the G-strings of the women who parade past their table, their faces alight with a kind of feral, joyful abandon. They are celebrating, and he is the reason, and he feels like a fraud. A 21-year-old man in a 12-year-old's body.

And then, you appear.

You don't strut or sway. You simply materialize at the edge of their booth, a sudden, calming presence in the chaotic, overstimulating sea. You're wearing a simple, black lace bralette and a matching thong, your body a constellation of soft curves and toned muscle. Your hair is long and dark, cascading over your shoulders in soft, waves. But it's your eyes that catch his. They are a soft, warm, honey-brown, and they are fixed on him, a quiet, assessing gaze that is both professional and surprisingly gentle.

"Well, well, well," Jermaine drawls, a sleazy, self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Look what we have here. Look at 'em, Mike. She's f'you. Birthday boy's special treat."

Michael's head snaps up, his eyes wide with a sudden, panic-stricken alarm. "No," he says, the word a choked, strangled whisper. "I… I can't."

"Nonsense," Jackie says, waving a dismissive hand. "It's your birthday. Go on. Have some fun."

You ignore them. Your gaze is still fixed on Michael, a soft, understanding smile playing on your lips. You hold out a hand, your movements slow, deliberate.

"Hi," you say, your voice a soft, melodic purr that cuts through the din of the club like a knife. "M'told it's someone's special day."

He looks from your outstretched hand to your face, his dark eyes a chaotic swirl of panic, curiosity, and a terrified, helpless desire. He can feel his brothers' eyes on him, a heavy, expectant weight. He feels cornered, trapped.

He takes your hand. His is small and sweaty, and he holds it like it's a frightened bird he's afraid of crushing. "Michael," he mumbles, his name a barely audible whisper.

"Michael," you repeat, your voice a soft, gentle caress. "A beautiful name. Come with me, Michael."

You lead him away from the booth, away from the hoots and catcalls of his brothers. He follows you like a lost puppy, his movements stiff, awkward, his head down. You lead him to a small, secluded area in the back of the club, sectioned off by a heavy, velvet curtain. There's a single, plush, armchair, its red fabric worn smooth in places. It's a private little world, a pocket of relative quiet in the cacophony of the club.

You gently push him into the chair, and he sinks into it, his body stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looks up at you, his dark eyes wide and vulnerable, like a fawn caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"Relax," you say, your voice a soft, soothing murmur. "It's okay. M'not going t'bite. Unless you want me to."

You add the last part with a playful, teasing wink, and it does the trick. A small, hesitant smile touches his lips, a brief, flicker of amusement in the vast, overwhelming sea of his anxiety.

The music shifts, the hard, driving bass of the main room giving way to a slower, more sensual, soulful rhythm. You start to move, your body a slow, undulating wave. You're not performing for him, not really. It's more like you're inviting him into a shared experience, a private, intimate dance.

You turn, your back to him, and slowly, deliberately, lower yourself onto his lap. You can feel the sharp, sudden intake of his breath, the way his entire body goes rigid. You settle against him, the soft curve of your ass fitting perfectly against the hard, lean muscles of his thighs.

You start to move, a slow, grinding, circular motion. You can feel him, the hard, insistent pressure of his arousal against you, and you have to fight back a small, triumphant smile. He's so responsive, so incredibly, beautifully sensitive.

You reach back, your hands finding his, which are still clenched into tight fists in his lap. You gently pry his fingers open, lacing your own through them.

"It's okay," you whisper, your voice a soft, warm puff of air against his ear. "Y'can touch me. I wan' you t'touch me."

You guide his hands, placing them on your hips. His touch is hesitant, feather-light, a terrified, questioning gesture. You press down, encouraging him, a silent command to hold on, to not let go.

He does. His fingers tighten, a desperate, clinging grip. You can feel the tremor that runs through his hands, the raw, uncontrolled tremor of a man overwhelmed by sensation.

You lean back, your head resting against his shoulder. The scent of him surrounds you, a clean, sweet scent of soap and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, a soft, stuttering rhythm.

"Y'feel s'good," you whisper, your words a low, sultry murmur. "So, s'good."

You continue to move, your body a slow, hypnotic rhythm against his. You can feel his control slipping, the last of his composure crumbling into dust. His hands are no longer just on your hips; they are roaming, exploring, a desperate, seeking touch. They slide up your sides, his thumbs brushing against the soft, sensitive skin under your ribcage. They move around to your stomach, splaying across the soft plane of your belly, a possessive, grounding weight.

You shift, turning in his lap to face him. You straddle him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed together from chest to groin. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, until your foreheads are touching, until you can see nothing but his wide, dark, unfocused eyes.

"Look at me," you whisper, your voice a hypnotic, commanding purr.

He does. His eyes, dark and dazed, lock onto yours. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, a low, guttural sound caught in his throat.

You start to move again, a slow, deliberate rocking motion. You're grinding against him now, a direct, relentless pressure that is designed to push him over the edge. You can feel it building in him, a coiling, tightening tension, a desperate, frantic energy that is humming just beneath the surface of his skin.

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear. "Let go, Michael," you whisper, your voice a soft, seductive command. "'S your birthday. Let it all go."

And he does.

With a choked, ragged gasp, his body goes rigid, a sudden, violent shudder wracking his frame. His hands fly to your waist, a desperate, clinging grip as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You can feel the heat of him, the sudden, damp warmth that spreads through the fabric of his trousers. He's cumming, hard and fast, a silent, convulsive release that is as heartbreaking as it is incredibly hot.

You hold him, your arms wrapped tightly around him, your body a steady, reassuring presence as he rides out the waves of his orgasm. You can feel the frantic, fluttering pulse of his heart against your chest, the desperate, ragged rhythm of his breath against your skin.

When the tremors finally subside, he goes limp, a boneless, dead weight in your arms. You hold him for a long moment, a silent, comforting presence in the small, dark room. You can feel the hot, damp blush of shame that is creeping up his neck, the way he's trying to pull away, to hide.

"Don't," you say, your voice a soft, firm command. "Don't b' embarrassed."

You gently pull back, just enough to look at him. His face is a mess of conflicting emotions: shame, confusion, a dazed, post-orgasmic bliss. His eyes are wet, glistening with unshed tears.

"'S okay," you say, your voice a soft, soothing murmur. You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, your thumb stroking the soft, smooth skin. "'S more than okay. 'S perfect."

You lean in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. It's a chaste, almost maternal gesture, a stark, beautiful contrast to the raw, sexual intimacy you just shared.

He looks at you, his dark eyes wide with a dawning, breathtaking realization. He looks at you not as a stripper, not as a dancer, but as… something else. Something more.

He's quiet for a long moment, the only sound the distant, muffled thump of the bass from the main room. He's just looking at you, a strange, intense, almost worshipful look on his face.

"Can I…?" he starts, his voice a hesitant, breathy whisper. He clears his throat, trying again. "Can I marry you?"

The question hangs in the air, so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that it takes you a moment to process. And then, you laugh.

It's not a cruel, mocking laugh. It's a soft, tinkling, genuinely amused sound, a beautiful, melodic peal of laughter that is full of affection and a deep, abiding fondness. You can see the flicker of hurt in his eyes, the quick, wounded flinch, and you immediately feel a pang of guilt.

"Oh, honey," you say, your voice a soft, affectionate coo. You lean in, pressing another soft, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You're th' sweetest thing I've evah met. But no. Y'can't marry me."

You pull back, a playful, mischievous glint in your eye. "You're a rock star," you say, your tone light, teasing. "You're going t'marry a beautiful movie star or a princess or something. Not a girl from a strip club in Vegas."

You give him a final, warm, reassuring smile. "Now, you go back t'your brothers," you say, your voice a soft, gentle command. "And you enjoy your birthday."

You slide off his lap, your movements a fluid, graceful dance. You grab a small, damp towel from a nearby table and gently, carefully, clean him up, a matter-of-fact, tender gesture that is somehow more intimate than the dance itself. He doesn't protest, just watches you with those wide, dark, trusting eyes, a lost, beautiful boy in a world he doesn't understand.

You pull away, a final, soft smile on your face. You give him a little wink, then turn and disappear behind the velvet curtain, leaving him alone in the quiet, dark room.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna

requested　﹒　@prettyangeliczz (not req! but ib)

You don't realize how exhausted you are until you hear the click of the front door latch behind you. The sound echoes in the quiet entryway, a final, definitive punctuation mark on a day that has felt like an endless, run-on sentence. The drive home had been a blur of taillights and radio static, your mind a jumble of to-do lists and half-finished thoughts. But now, standing in the familiar sanctuary of your own home, the weight of the day crashes down on you all at once. Your shoulders sag, your purse feeling like a leaden anchor in your hand, your feet aching a dull, rhythmic protest against the unforgiving hardness of the hardwood floors.

The world outside the windows of your Encino home has faded to a deep, bruised purple, the last vestiges of sunlight clinging to the horizon. Inside, the house is a warm, welcoming embrace, the air scented with the faint, clean smell of lemon polish and the lingering aroma of the coffee Michael had made that morning. It's quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets. It's the kind of quiet that feels like a balm, a soothing salve on your frayed nerves.

You kick off your shoes, not even bothering to untie the laces, your toes curling into the plush, thick wool of the entryway rug. You leave your purse on the floor, a messy heap of leather and receipts, a testament to the chaos you've just escaped. All you want is a hot shower, the steam clouding the bathroom mirror and seeping into your tired bones. You want clean pajamas, the soft, worn fabric a comforting second skin. You want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and let the darkness swallow you whole before your thoughts have a chance to catch up, to dissect every awkward interaction, every perceived failure, every little thing that went wrong.

You trudge towards the master bedroom, your steps slow and heavy. The hallway is a familiar journey, a path you've walked a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a marathon. Each step is a monumental effort, your body protesting with every movement.

And then you see him.

He's sitting on the edge of your shared bed, a silhouette against the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp. He's still dressed down from the day, a simple, white t-shirt and a pair of faded, worn-in jeans. His feet are bare, his long, elegant toes curled into the plush carpet. He's leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a posture of quiet, patient waiting. He's been waiting for you.

As you get closer, you see the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips, a slow, easy curve that somehow makes everything feel lighter, brighter. It's not the bright, megawatt smile he gives the world, the one that's all teeth and perfect, practiced angles. This one is smaller, more intimate, a private little secret that he saves just for you. It's a smile that says, I'm here. I've been waiting. I'm so glad you're home.

"Hey, you," he says, his voice a low, soft murmur that's like a warm hug. "Hey," you breathe, your own voice a tired, weary thing. You barely have the energy to greet him, to return the warmth of his smile, before the dam breaks. The words come pouring out of you in a frantic, jumbled rush, a verbal avalanche of pent-up frustration and exhaustion.

"You wouldn’t believe the day I've had," you say, dropping your keys and a handful of loose change onto the dresser with a loud, clattering rattle. "First, the bank was a nightmare. I swear, I was in line for an hour, and then they tell me I need some form I don't even have. And then I went to the grocery store, and they were out of everythin’ I needed. I swear, it's like they knew I was comin’."

You don't even wait for a response, turning your back to him as you continue your rant, your movements sharp and jerky with frustration. You start to remove your jewelry, your fingers fumbling with the small, delicate clasp of your necklace. "‘N then the post office was a zoo. I had to send off that package for Mama Kathy, and the line was out the door. And this woman, she was trying t’mail a live chicken, I swear t’God. A live chicken, Mickey! And she couldn't understand why they wouldn't let her."

You finally manage to unclasp the necklace, letting it fall into the small, ceramic dish on the dresser with a soft, metallic clink. You move on to your earrings, your movements still stiff and agitated.

"And then I had to go t’that fabric store, the one you liked, and they didn't have the right shade of blue for th’ curtains. Not even close. And the woman who worked there, she was s’unhelpful. She just looked at me like I was speaking a different language."

You turn and walk into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door open. You can hear him following you, his footsteps soft and silent on the carpet. You lean over the sink, splashing cool water on your face, the shock of it a welcome, grounding sensation.

"And then, on the way home, I got stuck behind th’ slowest driver in th’ history of th’ world. I swear, they were goin’, like, ten miles an hour. And they kept brakin’ for no reason. No reason! I almost lost my mind."

You grab a cotton pad and a bottle of makeup remover, your movements rough and aggressive as you wipe away the foundation and mascara that you'd put on that morning with such hopeful optimism. You're scrubbing at your face, trying to wash away the day, but it feels like the stress is seeped too deep, a permanent stain on your soul.

You can feel his eyes on you, a steady, calming presence. He hasn't said a word. He's just standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of amusement and deep, unwavering affection.

You finish removing your makeup, your face feeling raw and clean. You pick up your toothbrush, squeezing a blob of minty toothpaste onto the bristles.

"And then I get home, and I realize I forgot t’buy milk. Milk! And now I can't even have a cup of tea because there's no milk. And I really, really wanted a cup of tea." You start to brush your teeth, the rhythmic, brushing motion a small, mindless comfort. You're still ranting, your words a muffled, garbled mess around the toothbrush. "I'm just so… so… over it. I'm over everything. I'm over banks and grocery stores and post offices and slow drivers and fabric stores that don't have the right shade of blue. I'm over it all."

You spit, a loud, forceful sound, and rinse your mouth with a swig of water. You look up, catching your reflection in the mirror. Your face is pale, your eyes wide and tired. You look like you've been through a war. He's still there, watching you with that same, steady gaze. He's a silent, reassuring presence, a rock in the storm of your own making.

You walk back into the bedroom, pulling one of his oversized t-shirts over your head. The fabric is soft and worn, smelling faintly of him—a clean, familiar scent that is more comforting than any hug. It's a white v-neck, the one he'd worn to the studio yesterday, and it hangs on you like a short, loose dress. The sleeves are too long, the hem falling to mid-thigh.

You finally finish your story, the last of your frustrated energy spent. The room goes quiet, the only sound the soft, distant hum of the air conditioner. You're standing in the middle of the room, feeling small and lost and utterly drained.

And then he moves.

He reaches out, his hands finding your waist, and he pulls you towards him. He guides you between his knees, settling you on the edge of the bed, a soft, warm weight that grounds you. He looks up at you, his dark eyes soft and full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but of comfort, of reassurance. It's a kiss that says, I'm here. I hear you. I've got you.

His lips are soft and warm, a gentle, soothing pressure that melts away the last of your tension. You can feel the stress, the frustration, the anger, all of it, dissolving under the gentle, insistent pressure of his mouth. You sigh, a soft, contented sound, your body relaxing against his, your arms wrapping around his neck. He pulls back, just enough to look at you, a small, sad smile on his face. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, a soft, comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry you had such a bad day, angel," he says, his voice a low, gentle murmur. "I wish I could’ve been there to fix it all fer you."

"You're here now," you whisper, your forehead resting against his. "That's all that matters."

He leans in again, kissing you once more, a soft, sweet press of lips that's full of unspoken promises. He kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, a series of soft, gentle touches that are a balm to your soul.

"Come on," he says, his voice a soft, gentle command. "Let's get you t’bed."

He stands up, pulling you with him. He lifts the covers, the crisp, cool sheets a welcome invitation. You slide into bed, the soft, plush mattress a welcome embrace. He climbs in beside you, the bed dipping under his weight. You immediately curl against his chest, your head finding its home in the crook of his shoulder. His arm wraps around you, a warm, heavy weight that is both comforting and protective. His other hand comes up to rest on your hip, a slow, steady rhythm that is more calming than any lullaby.

You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear, a slow, reassuring rhythm that lulls you into a state of sleepy contentment. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, a familiar, comforting aroma that is more intoxicating than any perfume. This is it. This is the thing that makes it all worth it. The long days, the frustrating errands, the endless, demanding world. It all fades away in the face of this simple, profound truth: you are home. You are safe. You are loved.

Some days don't need grand gestures. Sometimes, coming home to the person who loves you is enough to make even the longest day feel worth it. "Better?" he asks, his voice a low, soft whisper against your hair. "Mmm," you hum, a contented, sleepy sound. "Much better."

"Good," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Get some sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up." You close your eyes, a feeling of deep, abiding peace washing over you. The events of the day, the frustrations, the annoyances, they all seem distant, unimportant. All that matters is this. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet, profound comfort of being held by the man you love.

The world outside can wait. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, everything is finally, perfectly, right.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @neverstreett @camillemonroe

requested　﹒ @3leni (not req, but inspired by) ♡

The world outside the windows of your apartment had faded to a dull, distant hum. Inside, the only sounds were the frantic, synthesized score from the television and the wet, soft sounds of your mouths meeting, parting, and meeting again. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre played on, forgotten, its screams and buzzing chainsaws a bizarre, irrelevant soundtrack to the kiss that was slowly consuming you.

Michael’s hand was warm on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin. He tasted of peppermint tea and the faint, lingering sweetness of the chocolate he’d been nibbling on earlier. His other arm was wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, a tangled mess of limbs and shared body heat on the plush, cream-colored couch.

“You’re not watching the movie, angel,” he murmured against your lips, a low, happy rumble that vibrated through your entire body.

“I’m watching something much more interesting,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “Is that so?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes soft in the flickering light of the television. They were filled with a warmth, a gentle affection that made your heart ache. He was so beautiful like this—unburdened, relaxed, with the faint shadow of a day’s exhaustion beginning to soften the sharp angles of his face. The hard, public mask of Michael, the superstar, had melted away, leaving only Mikey. Your Mikey.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Much, much more interesting.” He smiled, a genuine, easy curve of his lips that was reserved only for you. He shifted, his movements fluid and deliberate, disentangling himself just enough to turn off the television with a click of the remote. The room plunged into a sudden, intimate silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows. “Good,” he whispered, his gaze heavy on yours. “I’ve had enough of everyone else for one day.”

And then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. It was deeper, slower, a deliberate exploration. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, branding you, staking a possession that was as comforting as it was thrilling. His tongue swept against yours, a soft, insistent pressure that made a soft moan escape your lips. He swallowed the sound, a low growl of approval rumbling in his chest.

His hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. His touch was a slow, deliberate fire, searing through the thin cotton of your t-shirt and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “You feel so good, my love,” he murmured, his lips trailing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone, a sharp, pleasurable sting that made you gasp. “S’perfect.”

Your head fell back, giving him better access, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Mikey…” you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips. “Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “Just let me take care of you.”

He shifted again, his movements strong and sure, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. He settled you back against the couch cushions, positioning himself over you, his knees bracketing your hips. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence. “You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “All mine.”

And then he was pulling your t-shirt over your head, the cool air of the room a shock against your heated skin. His eyes roamed over you, a slow, appreciative gaze that made you feel more beautiful, more desired, than you had ever felt in your entire life.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your throat, then another to the swell of your breast. His hands were on you again, tracing the lacy edge of your bra, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core. “Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, arching your back, a silent plea for more.

“What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “Tell me.”

“You,” you gasped. “I want t’feel you.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “You already can, my love. All of me.” And with that, he unhooked your bra, his fingers deft and sure. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as they took in the sight of you, naked from the waist up. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to flick against one pebbled nipple. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you, and you cried out, your hips bucking involuntarily.

He did it again, this time taking the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. His other hand came up to cup your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the nipple between them, mirroring the rhythm of his mouth. You were a mess of sensation, a symphony of pleasure that was building to a crescendo. Your hands were everywhere, tangling in his hair, gripping his shoulders, digging your nails into his back. You were lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, and he was your only anchor.

He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You like that?” he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.

You could only nod, your breath caught in your throat. “Good,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “Because I’m not even close to being done with you.” He began to kiss his way down your body, a slow, deliberate path of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel, the soft swell of your belly. His hands followed, stroking, caressing, learning every inch of you.

He reached the waistband of your pajama pants, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He paused, looking up at you, a question in his eyes. “May I?” he asked, his voice a soft, respectful whisper. “Yes,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes, Mickey, please.”

He slowly, tantalizingly, pulled down your pants and your panties, baring you to his gaze. He tossed them aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, completely and utterly vulnerable before him. He settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart. He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence.

“You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And you’re all mine.” And then he lowered his head, and the world fell away. The first touch of his tongue against your core was a shock, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that stole your breath. He was hesitant at first, exploring, learning. But then he grew bolder, his tongue moving with a confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying.

He found your bud, that sensitive bundle of nerves, and began to circle it with the tip of his tongue. A soft moan escaped your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound, and then he took the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. He growled, a low, approving sound, and began to suck in earnest, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm.

He released your button with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You taste s’good, angel,” he said, his voice a low, husky rumble. “S’sweet.”

He then brought one of his hands up, his long, elegant fingers tracing a path up your inner thigh. You shivered in anticipation, your breath catching in your throat. He paused, his fingers hovering over your entrance, a silent question in his eyes. “Please,” you whimpered, your hips arching off the couch. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “Patience, my love. Good things come t’those who wait.”

He slowly, deliberately, slid one finger inside you. A low groan escaped your lips as your body stretched to accommodate him. He was so long, so slender, and he felt impossibly good. “You’re s’tight for me,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “S’precious.”

He began to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core.

He added a second finger, the stretch a delicious, ache that made you gasp. He curled his fingers, finding that sensitive spot deep inside you, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you. “Mikey…” you gasped, your back arching off the couch. “Oh, God, Mikey…” “Right there, my love?” he asked, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “Right there,” you panted, your hips bucking against his hand.

He added a third finger, the stretch a sharp, pleasurable burn that made you cry out. You were so full, so stretched, and it felt so good. He was a master, a virtuoso, and you were his instrument, and he was playing you with a skill that was both humbling and awe-inspiring. “You’re taking me s’well, angel,” he praised, his voice a low, husky rumble. “You’re such a good girl.”

His words were a potent aphrodisiac, a balm to your soul and a spark to your desire. You felt a surge of confidence, of power, and you began to move your hips, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. He growled, a low, approving sound, and then he added a fourth finger. The stretch was intense, a sharp, stinging burn that teetered on the edge of pain. You cried out, your hands gripping the cushions of the couch, your knuckles white.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Just relax. Breathe for me. Y’can take it. I know you can.” His voice was a calming balm, a hypnotic anchor in the storm of sensation. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax, to trust him. He was patient, giving you a moment to adjust before he began to move again.

He started with a slow, gentle rhythm, a slow, in-and-out motion that was both maddening and exquisite. He was stretching you, opening you, claiming you in the most intimate way possible. The sounds were wet, slick, a obscene, beautiful symphony of your shared desire. “Look at you,” he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on the place where his body disappeared into yours. “So beautiful. So perfect. All mine.”

His praise was a powerful drug, and you were addicted. You felt a surge of pride, of a deep, primal satisfaction at being able to please him, at being able to take all of him. He began to move faster, his thrusts becoming deeper, more demanding. The pleasure was building, a slow, burning wave that was threatening to crash over you. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot that was waiting to be released.

“Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand. “Please…” “What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “You gotta tell me you want.”

“To come,” you gasped. “I want you t’make me come.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “As you wish, my love.” He lowered his head, his tongue finding your clit again. He began to suck, a hard, demanding rhythm that matched the thrusts of his fingers. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a sensory overload that sent you hurtling towards the edge.

The wave crested, a tsunami of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over you, stealing your breath and shattering your world. You cried out his name, a raw, primal scream that was torn from the depths of your soul. Your body convulsed, your back arching off the couch, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms.

He rode you through it, his mouth and fingers never ceasing their relentless assault. He was drawing out your orgasm, prolonging the pleasure, pushing you to the brink of overstimulation.

Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he slowed his movements, his touch becoming softer, gentler. He lapped at you, a slow, tender rhythm that was as comforting as it was erotic. He was cleaning you, worshipping you, a silent, reverent tribute to your shared pleasure.

Finally, he pulled away, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that left you feeling empty and aching. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. His chin was glistening with your essence, a messy, beautiful testament to your desire.

He crawled up your body, his movements fluid and graceful. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a slow, deep kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, musky flavor that was both foreign and familiar. It was a primal, intimate act, a sharing of the most fundamental parts of yourselves.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you, angel,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you, too, Michael,” you breathed, your heart swelling with a love so intense it was almost painful.

He settled back against the couch cushions, pulling you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a slow, reassuring rhythm against your ear. He picked up the remote, turning the television back on. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre flickered to life, its screams and buzzing chainsaws once again filling the room.

You watched the movie for a few minutes, but your mind was elsewhere. You could still feel the ghost of his touch, the lingering ache of your pleasure. You wanted more. You wanted all of him. You shifted, your thigh brushing against the hard, insistent length of his arousal. He was still fully clothed, the rough denim of his jeans a stark contrast to your naked skin. “Michael,” you whispered, your voice a soft, pleading murmur. “Hmm?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on the television. “You’re… you’re still…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “I know.”

You shifted again, a deliberate, inviting pressure against his hardness. “Don’t you want to…?” you asked, your voice a hopeful, breathy thing. He finally looked down at you, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. His eyes were dark, but they were filled with a warm, tender affection, not the raw desire from before. “Not now, my love,” he said, his voice a soft, gentle command. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

“But…”

“No buts,” he said, a firm but playful tone in his voice. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I just spent the last hour giving you exactly what you needed. Now it’s my turn to just hold you.” He laughed, a light, airy sound that was full of genuine amusement. “We’ll get there.” You pouted, a childish, petulant gesture that you knew would make him laugh. He did, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your entire body.

“Don’t you give me that look, angel,” he said, a mock-stern expression on his face. “You know it doesn’t work on me.” “It works a little,” you mumbled, a sullen pout still on your face. He laughed again, a full, rich sound that was like music to your ears. “Oh, angel,” he said, his voice soft and full of affection. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could do a lot of things,” you said, a suggestive glint in your eye. He shook his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Nope,” he said, a smug little smile on his face. “We’re watching the movie. And you’re going to like it.” You settled back against his chest, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips. You knew he was right. This was what you needed, too. Not the frantic, desperate passion, but the quiet, settled intimacy. The simple, profound comfort of being held by the man you loved.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett

requested　﹒　n/a ♡

Wine buzzes lazy through your veins, a warm river pooling in your stomach as you lean against the doorframe of your shared closet. Michael sits on the edge of your king-sized bed, the wine glass held loose in one elegant hand, the other resting on his thigh. He’s already changed from his day clothes into a loose, black silk shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and a pair of matching pajama pants. The soft light of the bedside lamp catches the silver initial bracelet around his wrist, the one you bought him last anniversary.

“Reaady?” you call out, your voice a little husky from the wine and the thrill of what you’re about to do. Michael takes a slow sip of his wine, his dark eyes never leaving yours. A small, knowing smile plays on his lips. “Born ready, angel.”

You giggle, a light, bubbly sound that feels foreign to your ears. With a deep breath, you push off the doorframe and reach for the first outfit. A classic sailor uniform. The fabric is a crisp, navy blue, the collar starched stiff and trimmed with white. The skirt is scandalously short, ending mid-thigh, and the little white sailor hat perched on your head feels ridiculously small. You turn to face the full-length mirror, adjusting the hat at a jaunty angle. You look like you’re about to star in an old-fashioned musical, one with lots of tap dancing and wholesome, patriotic fervor.

“Ahoy there, handsome,” you say, trying to deepen your voice into a more authoritative tone. “'Mission t'come aboard?” Michael’s eyes widen, a flicker of amusement and something darker in their depths. He sets his wine glass down on the nightstand with a soft click. “Well, well, well…” he drawls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards. “Looks like m'in fer a treat t'night.” He pats the space on the bed next to him. “Why don’t you come on over here an' let th' captain inspect his new recruit?”

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you cross the room, the short skirt swishing around your thighs. You stop in front of him, standing at attention. “Recruit reportin' for duty, sir.” “Good girl,” he says, his hand coming up to rest on your hip. His thumb traces circles over the fabric, sending shivers down your spine. “Very good. But I think you’re wearin' a li'l too much for this inspection.” His fingers dip beneath the hem of the skirt, teasing the skin of your thigh. “Why don'cha show me whatcha got under this uniform?”

You bite your lip, a blush creeping up your neck. With a shaky breath, you reach back to unzip the skirt. It pools at your feet, leaving you in just the sailor top, a pair of plain white panties, and the ridiculous hat. Michael’s gaze is hot, heavy, as it roams over your body. He hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties, tugging you closer. “Much better,” he murmurs. “Now, 'bout that inspection…”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his lips are on yours, a hungry, demanding kiss that tastes of wine and desire. His tongue slides into your mouth, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. His hands are everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning the curves of your body as if for the first time. You moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in the soft strands of his hair. You’re breathless when he finally pulls away, a smirk on his face. “I think this sailor's had 'nough' of th' high seas,” he says, his voice thick with desire. “Wha's next on th' agenda?”

You take a moment to catch your breath, your body still humming from his touch. With a final, lingering glance at Michael, you retreat back into the closet, shedding the rest of the sailor uniform as you go. The next outfit is a classic chef’s coat, a crisp, white double-breasted jacket that’s way too big for you. You roll up the sleeves, a simple white apron tied loosely around your waist. You grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen on your way back, holding it like a weapon. “Bon appétit, monsieur,” you say, your best French accent sounding more like a mangled New Yorker. Michael chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. ““Ooh, I do love a woman who can han’le herself in th’ kitchen.” He leans back on his elbows, legs sprawled out in front of him. “What’s on th’ menu t’night, chef?”

You stride over to the bed, the wooden spoon held aloft. “You are,” you say, your voice low and seductive. “I’m th’ main course, an’ you’re the dessert.” You tap the spoon against his chest, right over his heart. “But first, ya gotta earn your meal.” He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. “Oh? An’ how do I do that?” “By tellin’ me what you want,” you say, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his. “Tell me how you wan’ me. Tell me all your dirty little secrets.”

He groans, a raw, primal sound that goes straight to your core. “I wan’ you,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I wan’ t’taste every inch of you, t’feel you writhing beneath me. I wan’ t’hear you scream my name as I take you, hard n’ fast, until you can’t remember your own.” You pull back, a triumphant smile on your face. “Good answer,” you say, before you're once again retreating to the closet.

The flapper dress is a slinky, silver number that shimmers under the soft glow of the lamp. It’s a straight-cut, dropped-waist style that hangs loose on your frame, the fringe dancing around your knees. A pearl necklace completes the look, the cool beads a stark contrast against your heated skin. You pin your hair up in a loose, faux bob, smudging a little dark eyeliner on for good measure. You glide back into the room, your hips swaying to a silent jazz tune. “Well, hello there, daddy-o,” you purr, your voice a smoky, seductive whisper. “Buy a girl a drink?” Michael’s eyes are dark, almost black, with desire. He sits up, the silk shirt falling open to reveal the smooth, muscular planes of his chest. “I’ll buy y’the whole damn bar,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “C’mere, you li’l minx.”

You sashay over to him, the fringe of your dress swirling around your legs. You straddle his lap, your arms looping around his neck. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a lil’ attention around here?” you murmur, your lips tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re already gettin’ it, mama,” he says, his hands coming to rest on your hips, holding you in place. “More than y’know.” He rolls his hips up against yours, the hard line of his erection pressing against your core. You gasp, your head falling back as a wave of pleasure washes over you.

“Michael…” you breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, his lips finding that sensitive spot behind your ear. “Tell me what y’want.” “I want…” you trail off, your mind going blank as he continues to assault your senses with his touch. “I want you t’dance with me.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Dance?” he asks, his hands sliding up your back, under the cool fabric of the dress. “Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” You laugh, a breathy, desperate sound. “Dance with me,” you repeat, your voice a little stronger this time. “Right here, right now.”

With a groan, he stands, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing. He sets you down on your feet, his hands still on your hips. The music is silent, but in your head, a lively jazz tune is playing, a fast-paced, frenetic melody that matches the rhythm of your heart. Michael’s hands are firm on your waist as he guides you, his body moving against yours in a way that’s both elegant and utterly sinful. The flapper dress is a blur of silver fringe, a whirlwind of motion as you spin and dip, your bodies pressed close together. The room feels hot, the air thick with the scent of wine and desire. When the music in your head finally fades, you’re both breathless, your bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and desperation.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. “So are you,” you whisper back, before you’re pulling away, the promise of more hanging in the air between you. You give him one last, lingering look over your shoulder before you disappear back into the closet, the flapper dress a pool of silver at your feet.

The cowgirl costume is all denim and lace. A pair of tiny denim shorts, a fringed leather vest worn over nothing but skin, and a pair of cowboy boots that you’re not entirely sure you can walk in. You place a Stetson hat on your head, the brim casting a shadow over your eyes. You look at yourself in the mirror, a wild, untamed look in your eyes. You look like you could ride a bull and win. You stomp back into the room, the heels of the boots clicking against the hardwood floor. “Howdy, partner,” you say, your voice a low, husky drawl. “You lookin’ for a good time?”

Michael’s eyes are wide, a flicker of surprise and something darker in their depths. He lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello there, cowgirl,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.” He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you come over here n’ take a ride?” You saunter over to him, the boots making you feel powerful, invincible. You stop in front of him, your hands on your hips. “This ain’t my first rodeo, handsome,” you say, your voice a low purr. “You sure y’can handle me?”

“I’m willin’ to risk it,” he says, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. “I’ve always been a fan of a good ride.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Why don’t y’show me what you’ve got?” You don’t need to be told twice. You straddle his lap, your knees on either side of his hips. You can feel the hard length of him against you, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. You start to move, a slow, deliberate rocking motion that has you both gasping for air in a matter of moments. His hands are on your ass, guiding your movements, his hips rising to meet yours with every downward thrust. The fringe on your vest sways with your movements, a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of skin against silk.

“Michael,” you gasp, your head falling back as a wave of pleasure washes over you. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, his hands tightening on your hips. “Ride me. Jus’ like that.” You’re lost in a haze of pleasure, your body moving on instinct, your mind a blank slate of sensation. You can feel the pressure building inside you, a tight coil of need that’s about to snap. You’re so close, so damn close, and then—

You pull away, a wicked smile on your face. “Not s’fast, cowboy,” you say, your voice a low purr. “Best things in life are worth waitin’ for.” He lets out a frustrated groan, but there’s a smile in his eyes. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman,” he says, his voice thick with desire. You just wink, before you’re once again retreating to the closet, the cowboy boots kicked off with a sigh of relief.

The cat costume is simple, but effective. A black, form-fitting bodysuit, a pair of fuzzy cat ears on a headband, and a long, black tail attached to the back. You draw on some whiskers with an eyeliner pencil, completing the look. You feel sleek, powerful, predatory. You crawl back into the room on your hands and knees, your movements fluid and graceful. You rub up against his leg, purring, a low, rumbling sound in your chest. “Meow,” you say, your voice a soft, seductive whisper.

Michael’s breath hitches, a strangled sound. He reaches down, his fingers tangling in your hair, stroking your head like you’re a real cat. “Well, hello there, kitty,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You look like you’re lookin’ for a li’l trouble.” You lean into his touch, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Maybe,” you purr, your tail swishing back and forth. “What’re you gonna d’about it?”

“M’gonna give you exactly what you want,” he says, his hand moving from your head to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “What d’you want, kitty? You want me to pet you? To stroke you ‘til you’re purrin’ my name?”

“Yesss,” you hiss, your eyes fluttering closed. “Please, Michael. Touch me.” He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pulls you onto the bed, your body molding against his. His hands are everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning the curves of your body as if for the first time. He finds a sensitive spot behind your ear, and you arch into his touch, a loud purr rumbling in your chest. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, before his lips are on yours, a hungry, demanding kiss that tastes of wine and desire.

This one is harder to pull away from. His touch is electric, a current that runs through your veins, setting your nerve endings on fire. But you manage it, untangling yourself from his arms with a soft sigh. You give him one last, lingering look over your shoulder, your eyes promising more, before you disappear back into the closet, the cat costume a puddle of black on the floor.

The last costume is, by far, your favorite. A simple, white, floor-length nightgown, a pair of feathered wings strapped to your back, and a cheap, plastic halo perched on your head. You feel ethereal, otherworldly. You look at yourself in the mirror, a soft, serene smile on your face. You look like you’ve just descended from heaven.

You glide back into the room, your movements slow and deliberate. You stop at the foot of the bed, your hands clasped in front of you. “Are you Michael?” you ask, your voice a soft, melodious whisper.

Michael’s eyes are wide, a flicker of awe and something darker in their depths. He sits up, the silk shirt falling open to reveal the smooth, muscular planes of his chest. “I am,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “And who might you be?”

“M’your guardian angel,” you say, your voice a soft, seductive purr. “I’ve been sent t’watch over you. T’protect you. To… guide you.” “Guide me?” he asks, a challenge in his eyes. “And how d’you plan on doin’ that?”

“By showin’ you the way t’heaven,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. You move towards the bed, the white nightgown flowing around you like a cloud. You stop in front of him, your wings fluttering gently. “Show me,” he whispers, his eyes dark with desire. “Show me the way.”

You lean in, your lips hovering just above his. “Close your eyes,” you whisper. He obeys, and you take a step back. With a deep breath, you reach up and unstrap the wings, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud. Then, you reach for the hem of the nightgown, pulling it over your head in one smooth, fluid motion. You stand before him, completely and utterly bare. The soft light of the lamp kisses your skin, casting you in a warm, golden glow. You are vulnerable, exposed, but you have never felt more powerful.

He opens his eyes, and a gasp escapes his lips. His gaze roams over your body, hot and heavy, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. He looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, a work of art he can’t quite believe is real. “Who are you dressed as?” he asks, his voice a husky whisper, full of awe and wonder.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you. You cup his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking his smooth cheeks. You lean in, your lips brushing against his, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down both your spines.

“Yours,” you whisper.

And with that, the game is over. The pretense is gone. There’s no sailor, no chef, no flapper, no cowgirl, no cat, no angel. There’s only you, and there’s only him. A growl rumbles in his chest, a raw, primal sound that goes straight to your core. In one swift, fluid motion, he surges to his feet, scooping you into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, as he carries you the few steps to the bed. He lays you down gently, almost reverently, as if you’re something precious, something to be cherished.

He stands over you for a long moment, just looking. His eyes are dark, almost black, with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. He shrugs out of his silk shirt, letting it fall to the floor, revealing the expanse of his chest, lean and muscled. Your gaze follows the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, and your body tightens with anticipation.

He kneels on the bed, his knees on either side of your hips. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, caging you in. His hair falls around his face, a soft curtain that blocks out the rest of the world. It’s just you and him in this bubble of light and desire. “You have no idea what you do t’me,” he murmurs, his lips a breath away from yours. “Show me,” you whisper back.

And he does.

His kiss is slow, deep, a thorough exploration that leaves you breathless and wanting. It’s not a kiss of frantic hunger, but of deep, abiding tenderness, a kiss that says more than words ever could. His hands trace the lines of your body, a slow, deliberate path that sets your skin on fire. He learns the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the swell of your hips, as if committing them to memory. His lips leave yours, trailing a path of fire down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He takes his time, worshiping your body with a devotion that brings tears to your eyes. He’s not just touching you; he’s cherishing you. Adoring you.

His hands find your breasts, cupping their weight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble into tight, aching points. He lowers his head, taking one into his mouth, and a sharp, indrawn breath is your only warning before a bolt of pure pleasure shoots through you. He lavishes attention on one, then the other, his tongue and teeth working in tandem until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.

“Michael…” you breathe, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Please…”

“Please what, baby?” he murmurs against your skin. “Tell me what y’want.”

“I want… I want you,” you gasp, arching into his touch. “All of you. Now.” He lifts his head, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “Patience, angel,” he says, his voice a low, husky purr. “We’re jus’ gettin’ started.”

His journey continues, a slow, torturous descent down your body. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you gasp. His hands are on your thighs, stroking, caressing, coaxing them apart. You yield to him without hesitation, opening yourself to him completely. He settles between your thighs, his breath warm against your sensitive sex. You can feel the heat of his gaze, and it’s almost too much to bear. You’re exposed, vulnerable, but the look on his face is one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

“You’re s’beautiful,” he whispers, his fingers tracing the folds of your flesh, exploring you with a gentle curiosity. “S’wet for me.” He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It’s a slow, deliberate swipe that sends a jolt of electricity through you. He’s not in a hurry. He takes his time, tasting, exploring, learning every secret part of you. He finds the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, and circles it with his tongue, slow, lazy circles that build a fire in your core.

Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his soft hair, holding him to you. You can feel the pressure building, a tight coil of need that’s about to snap. Your hips move of their own accord, a slow, undulating rhythm that matches the movements of his tongue.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumble against your clit. “Let go. Come for me.” His words are your undoing. The coil inside you snaps, and pleasure, sharp and blinding, crashes over you. You cry out his name, your body arching off the bed as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re a spent, trembling mess, your body boneless with satisfaction.

He kisses his way back up your body, a slow, languid journey. He covers you with his body, his skin warm against yours. You can feel the hard length of him against your thigh, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. He’s still wearing his pajama pants, and the thin fabric is a frustrating barrier between you. “Michael,” you whisper, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. “Take these off.”

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Eager, are we?” “You have no idea,” you say, your fingers nimbly untying the drawstring. He lifts his hips, and you tug the pants down, freeing him. He kicks them off, and then he’s naked against you, all warm skin and hard muscle. He pauses, his elbows braced on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

“I love you,” he says, his voice a raw, vulnerable whisper. “More than words can say.” Your heart swells, a feeling so overwhelming it almost hurts. “I love you, too,” you whisper back, your hands coming up to cup his face. “S’much.” He leans in, and this kiss is different from the others. It’s slow, deep, and full of a love so profound it leaves you speechless. 

He shifts his hips, and you feel the blunt head of him at your entrance. He pauses, giving you one last chance to change your mind, to stop this. But you don’t. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, a silent invitation. He enters you with a slow, deliberate thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the sheer size of him, the feeling of being so full, so complete. He stills, giving you a moment to adjust, to get used to the feel of him inside you.

“Y’okay?” he asks, his voice a low, concerned murmur. You nod, unable to speak. You move your hips, a silent plea for more. He gets the message. He starts to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds a fire in your core. Every thrust is a declaration of love, every stroke a promise of forever. He’s watching you, his eyes dark with an emotion so intense it makes your heart ache. He’s not just taking you; he’s worshiping you. Adoring you.

Your hands roam over his back, feeling the play of muscles under his skin. You dig your nails into his shoulders, holding on as the pleasure builds to an unbearable pitch. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking, the slap of skin against skin, your soft whimpers, his low groans. “You feel s’good,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “S’damn good, baby.”

“You, too,” you gasp, your hips rising to meet his. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.” “Never,” he whispers, his lips finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss.

The pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. You’re both teetering on the edge, so close to falling into the abyss of pleasure. He reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and that’s all it takes. The world shatters. A scream is torn from your throat as pleasure, sharp and blinding, crashes over you. Your body convulses, your back arching off the bed as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. He follows you over the edge a moment later, your name a hoarse cry on his lips as he finds his own release.

He collapses on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight. You hold him close, your arms wrapped around his waist, your legs still tangled with his. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, a steady, reassuring rhythm that grounds you. For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts. The wine has worn off, leaving a warm, pleasant buzz in its place. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, the discarded costumes a silent testament to the game you played.

He finally stirs, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “Hi,” he says, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Hi,” you whisper back, a slow smile spreading across your face. He leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your lips. “That was… somethin’ else,” he says, a little breathless. “I think we found a winner for this month’s new thing.”

You laugh, a soft, breathy sound. “I think we might’ve,” you agree. “Though I was partial to the cowgirl myself.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, I liked the cowgirl,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But I think my favorite was t’very last one. The one with no costume at all.” “Mine, too,” you whisper, your heart swelling with a love so profound it almost hurts.

He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, your arm draped over his waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting, soothing sound that lulls you into a state of sleepy contentment. “I love you,” he murmurs, his lips pressed against your hair. “I love y’too,” you whisper back, your eyes drifting closed.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila