#michael+jackson

In the comfort of your bedroom, the sounds of skin meeting skin penetrated your ears. Along with the slow record of Marvin Gaye playing on the vinyl while your moans meshed with the track. Your skin spilled through the gaps of Michael’s fingers as he gripped onto your hips tightly.

“Just like that, pretty girl.” He groaned, watching you take him fully. Your palms pressed against his firm abdomen, feeling his skin while you bounced in his lap.

His eyes followed the motion of your breasts as it rippled with every movement. This is the moments he lived for, pleasing his angel. Always putting your pleasure above everything else.

No matter what, you never went without an orgasm with Michael. Once you first got together, the man didn’t have a clue in the world what to do with you. Clumsily licking at your clit, slow and hesitant strokes as if he was scared to break you, and stuttering with every sentence he tried to say.

It was trial and error but you always ended up pleased in a way until one day he came in with a determined seriousness. He listened and studied your reactions as if he was preparing for an exam.

That night he brought you to a smooth five orgasms, swiftly finding every spot that had you shivering. After that he became insatiable, taking any opportunity to please you and feel you shudder around him.

His dick—his fingers—his tongue, he doesn’t care. As long as you cum.

Hours before you called, he was stressed from brainstorming song ideas and all he wanted to do was smell your natural scent, feel your plush thighs and plump breasts in his hands, and your pretty brown lips on his.

Hearing your voice brought him immediate comfort, and even better, your moans.

Which is why you’re in this position, on top of Michael, gliding up and down his length while he stared at you. His usual doe eyes were now half-lidded, dark and filled with a lustful gaze.

“You’re takin’ me so well, baby.” He encouraged, a soft smack on your ass. God, he loved to feel you in his lap. The weight of your ass could have him swiping his card for a new house if you wanted it.

“M-Mikey, you’re so big.” You cried out, gently scraping your nails up his chest till your hands cupped his face. You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his.

Forgetting you had lipgloss on, the sweet cherry flavored coated his tongue as he swiped against it. He didn’t mind it at all, as long as it was yours, he’ll have it a million times again.

During the intimate, passionate, long overdue—according to you—love making, a blaring ring sounded out. Your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled away to see the interrupting criminal.

Michael could’ve whined his damn self when you disconnected your lips. Your bouncing came to a halt, now sitting stationary in his lap. “Ignore it, mama.” He said, using his hands to try and make you start bouncing again.

A soft pout formed on your face and he doesn’t know whether to groan from your cute puffy cheeks or because he knows you’re not moving till he listens. It kills him how empathetic you are. You would feel bad for an ant if you saw it struggling to carry food.

“Just answer, Mikey. It shouldn’t take long.” You told him. As much as you were enjoying riding your boyfriend, duty called, and you would hate if he missed something because of you.

He sighed before answering the phone. “Michael, speaking.” His professional voice took a quick appearance, a work habit he always had. His eyebrows moved to a drop recognizing the voice. It’s just Marlon.

Little did you know, he could barely focus on the blabbering over the phone. The warm feeling of your warmth squeezing him was too overwhelming. He watched your eyebrows lift as his dick involuntarily twitched inside of you.

“Yea, we’re going to the party.” Michael said, eyes staring at the plump surface of your pussy. An evil grin formed on his face as he distanced the phone away from his ear.

His large hand covered the speaker, “Keep going, baby.” He whispered to you. You knew Michael was a bit of a private freak but this wasn’t an idea you thought would cross his mind.

In his defense, it didn’t until he felt the softness of your walls hugging him and the plump view of your pussy. Watching you hesitate, his fingers lightly pinched your thick thigh and you got to work.

Lifting a bit before dropping, slowly and carefully, avoiding the slap of your skin meeting his. Your lips folded inward feeling the pressure in your stomach. Going slow may have just been worse than going fast, being able to feel every inch of him.

“Mhm.” Michael lazily agreed to his blabber mouth of a brother. He was itching to hang up, focus on his pretty girl that writhed in his lap. The way his eyes remained on you while on the phone was seducing.

His free hand reached out to grasp your hip, just barely assisting you. “Faster.” He mouthed. You braced yourself before picking up your pace, eyes rolling back at the feeling.

Every nerve lit up, and the thick vein that ran across his length rubbed against your walls. Your palms reached to cover your mouth, holding back the filthy sounds of pleasure. Michael couldn’t take his eyes off of you, almost completely zoning out the man over the phone.

You couldn’t help but start panting, you weren’t sure if it was the risk of being caught or the way his hands splayed against your skin, but your orgasm was knocking.

You tried to slow down just to keep the last bit of your sanity but the quick swat on your ass straightened you up quickly. The knot in your stomach was unraveling by the second which he could tell by the rhythmic pulse from your pussy.

“I’m close.” You whispered, biting your bottom lip. Instead of being nice and slowing down, or helping you be quiet, he simply planted his feet on the bed. The lift from his knees sent you falling onto his chest, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

Way too close to the phone.

He held you against him as he thrusted into you, tip grazing against your most sensitive spots. You fought to keep your moans at bay, fingers gripping his shirt with the life of them. The top needed a good iron after this session.

As if completely unfazed, he just continued speaking with Marlon. The hand on your back trailed to your ass, spreading you open for him to dig deeper.

And that did it for you.

You tried to moan into the skin of his neck but that failed drastically, still managing to slip past the attempted muffle. Body shaking against his while your orgasm cracked over you with the quickness.

You whimpered, not noticing his thrusts began to slow down.

“Michael…what are you doing?” Marlon asked through the receiver. Michael blinked, too stunned that you both were caught. “Nothing...it was the t.v.”

Getting a hint of his words, you lifted your head to watch his expression. Eyebrows lifted in amusement, and corners of his lips slightly lifted. Out of shame or pride? You can’t tell.

“I’m not dumb man, you could’ve told me you were busy.”

Michael smacked his teeth, “Your mouth was runnin’ a mile a minute. I ain’t get a chance.” Finally understanding what was happening, you covered your face out of sheer embarrassment.

“I'mma let you get to it, bro. Next time…please cut me off.” Marlon groaned before hanging up. Michael shook his head, setting the phone back on the hook.

“You okay, baby?” His hand rubbed your back in an attempt to comfort the nerves that were radiating off of you.

A groan left your mouth, “I’m embarrassed.”

“It’s just Marlon.” Michael’s hand settled on the crown of your head.

“We walked in on him with that one girl, remember?” He chuckled. He saw it as karma. What goes around comes around.

“Ew don’t remind me.” You giggled. The sight of Marlon’s ass is not something that should be thought about.

“How about I take your mind off of it, hm?” Michael shifted you to lay on your back. Once your head met the pillows, his soft lips peppered kisses around your neck.

And in the matter of a few minutes, the phone call was long forgotten.

Neverland lay in a vast land that was once covered in black. The only thing that seemed to be in color was the rose garden that grew back. You stood against the large window that shone against the darkness. Your lips turned slightly as you looked at the newly grown roses; what an eyesore it was to look at. You turned slightly as you just put Bigi to sleep, hoping he wouldn't wake again.

And what reason for him to wake up? Your two other children were absolutely not being quiet. You don't know what is going on between the two of them, as they've been having this 'war' for two weeks non-stop. You closed your eyes tightly as you felt a loud bang shake the walls. You only peeked to make sure your baby didn't wake. But Bigi was still sound asleep.

You couldn't be bothered to get involved in Paris and Prince's affairs, as Michael considered it normal, but they just had him wrapped around their fingers. So you let him sort them out when he wanted to. You moved out of the room, closing the door lightly as you went to find your husband.

You found Michael sitting on the couch with his legs spread as he read the newspaper. His hair was pushed back as his glasses sat on top of his head. Only he could make such a mundane thing look so beautiful. He only looked up when he saw you stroll in slowly with a neutral expression.

"Darling." You called out as you walked through the dark house.

"Yes, my love." Michael grabbed your hand as you got closer. He pulled you down to his lap, the newspaper disregarded.

"The most terrible thing happened to me today."

Michael hummed as he listened. "Go on."

"I had-"

"I'm going to kill you!"

Your daughter's voice was loud throughout the house as you and Michael watched Prince run right past you.

"What is going on?" You questioned.

Paris stepped in fast with fury as she clenched her clothes in her hand. "He bleached my clothes!"

Paris held up the ruined garment. "I'm going to string him."

"Nothing that black dye can help?" Michael suggested.

"My darling." You hummed. "I'm sure it was an accident."

"I meant it," Prince said behind you.

You turned as he had another piece of Paris's clothes. He had a pair of scissors and cut through the fabric.

"This is for releasing my rats!" Prince said.

"I'm going to gouge your eyeballs for this." Paris retorted.

"I'm releasing the spiders next," Paris added.

"Don't you dare!"

Michael sighed next to you as you lifted your lips in a small quirk. "Children."

Both of them stopped at your voice. "If you're going to kill each other, do it outside, please."

"I just cleaned." You sighed.

Paris grinned at Prince while he dropped the dress he was holding. "You have five seconds to run."

You and Michael watched as Paris chased Prince outside. You turned towards him. "I hope our baby boy is calmer."

"My love, when is the Jackson household ever quiet?" He looked at you.

Can I ask you something, beautiful?"

"Sure, Michael."

"What was it you were going to tell me?"

"Yes, my rose garden is ruined." You moved your body in his lap, crossing your legs gracefully.

"Why?" Michael said, his hands landing on top of your thighs.

"They grew back." You laid your hand on your forehead. "All that hard work cutting them off."

"That's terrible." Michael kissed your hand. "Want me to help you?"

"No, I just need to tell somebody."

You looked at Michael as he stared at you. "What is it?"

"You're so beautiful." Michael's eyes burned with love for you, so intense.

"Stop it." You tilted your head back as Michael buried his head in your neck.

Michael breathed you in before he placed small kisses on your neck. You smiled and closed your eyes as Michael poured his love into you.

"Never." His deep voice sounded against your neck, making goosebumps appear on your skin.

You pulled back to grab his face with both of your hands. "My darling husband, what has gotten into you today?"

"Nothing."

You brought his face closer to kiss his lips in quick pecks. Only for Michael to pull back with a slight smirk.

"That was too quick for me; I want more." Michael pulled you closer to him as he slotted his lips against yours. His kiss was slower but deeper.

You pulled back, wrapping your arms around his neck as you dropped your head into his neck. His hands came up your back to rub circles on it. The moment of peace only lasted so long as Prince busted through the back door covered in mud.

You frowned as you watched him stomp past you and Michael, not even making eye contact and opting to go upstairs in a quiet fury. You held your breath as mud splattered against the hardwood floors. Paris strolled in soon after, also covered in mud, but a small smirk was on her face.

"What did you do?" Michael asked as he watched Paris pause in front of you two.

"He won't be touching my clothes again." That was all Paris said before she strolled up the stairs.

You looked back at Michael. "You deal with that."

Michael sighed. "Why me?"

"You created that."

"What?"

"You spoil them too much, love."

Michael let out a laugh. "Like you don't either."

"My love is more of necessity." You countered.

"When Prince got sick, who was at his beck and call?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

You faltered at his words. "Why would you bring that up?"

"You can try to act indifferent, but I know what your love looks like." Michael rubbed your back again.

You looked away as Michael drew you closer. "Is my darling shy now?"

"You can clean up these floors." You breezed right past what he said.

"Anything for you."

You looked back at him as he smiled at you, and you smiled slightly. You pushed the glasses that sat on his head to the bridge of his nose.

"What's the point of the glasses if you never wear them?"

"I swear my sight is worse with them on."

"Michael, it doesn't work like that."

"In my world, it does."

You raised an eyebrow at him before you decided you wanted to get up. You started to push off his lap. Michael made a slight protest as he pulled you back into his lap.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm making sure our children don't kill each other."

"I'm sure they solved whatever they had," Michael said.

"It's quiet up there; that's unusual," You pointed out.

"Why are you trying to leave?"

"Michael."

"Stay longer." Michael hummed for me. "For me?"

You stared as Michael moved his hands to your hips, gripping them lightly. "Fine."

"Thank you, love." Michael hummed deeply.

His large hand went under your chin, bringing your head closer to his for a kiss. You closed your eyes from the sensation of his warm hand.

"You don't know how much I adore you," Michael said against your lips. "What I would do."

You pulled back as you looked at him. "I love you."

“Michael.” You whisper, and open your legs just a little more for him, the back of your right thigh feeling how hard he is. That alone should’ve made you get away from him, but again, he’s here to comfort you, to protect you. Give you all the things your ex barely could perform well in, after all, Michael is your best friend. Best friends help each other, always.

He hums, “I know, mama, he got you all confused?” Michael rasps and brings his hand over to the top of your shorts, you scoot closer to his hand and nod. “Yeah, yes.” You struggle, Michael nods with you and pushes your shorts and panties forward, letting his fingers slip in. Michael’s middle finger, cold and gentle, lightly taps on your clit, feeling you jerk a little. Michael smirks and kisses your neck. “S’okay, Michael’s got you. I got you.” He mumbles, his accent strong as he slips his ring finger between your folds and he rubs up and down.

“Who’s got you, baby?” He asks and curls his fingers, teasing the entrance of your hole. You whimper and push your face against your pillow, the embarrassment rushing through. “You.” You muffled out. Michael smirks and chuckles, “Yeah. Me. Not your ass of an ex, can’t please this pretty pussy like me. What a joke.” He mocks, stretching your hole with his fingers, you nod and whimper as your hand grips the side of your pillow. “Fuck, Michael, right there.” You beg, your hips thrusting up, and Michael mimics your thrust, forcing you to feel his boner. He’s so hard and so big, his jeans straining his thick thighs and anything else with them.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl, there she is.” Michael encourages you, his fingers soaked from you as you give up on the effort of hiding your moans, you lean your head back a little and shut your eyes. Allowing yourself to fully enjoy what he’s giving you.

After all, he’s your man.

The truck rumbled up the gravel drive a little after four in the afternoon, its tires crunching steadily over the loose stones as it made its way toward the house, kicking up a thin cloud of dust that hung lazily in the warm air before settling back onto the drive.

The late afternoon sun had already started to turn everything a softer shade of gold, catching on the tops of the trees and stretching long shadows across the yard, and for a moment, the only thing you could hear from inside was the low, familiar growl of the engine getting closer. You heard it before you saw it, of course.

After working around cars and trucks for most of your life, you could tell half the vehicles in the county by the sound they made coming up the road, and this one was impossible to mistake. The engine purred far too smoothly, the tires were far too quiet over the gravel, and the whole thing looked like it cost more than your dad's old squad car had ever been worth.

By the time you wandered over toward the front window, wiping your hands absently against the sides of your jeans, the truck had already rolled to a stop near the porch. You caught sight of Bill climbing out of the driver's side, big and broad-shouldered, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head as he stretched one arm over the roof of the truck and looked toward the house with that familiar grin of his.

He had the same easygoing look he always seemed to wear whenever he showed up, like he'd never had a bad day in his life and probably didn't intend on starting one now. You watched him shut the door and glance toward the passenger side before shaking your head to yourself, already knowing exactly who was sitting in there and wondering, not for the first time, how long it would take before that particular city boy came wandering through your door again.

And then the passenger door opened.

You already knew Bill, of course. He'd been coming around for as long as you could remember, long before you'd been old enough to understand what he did for a living, back when he was still just your dad's friend and the two of them were young enough to think they were invincible and stupid enough to prove it. Bill had known your family for years, long enough that nobody really thought twice when he showed up.

He was practically part of the furniture by now, turning up every few months with a bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm and some ridiculous story about something he'd gotten himself into years ago, staying for dinner if your aunt had enough food and leaving before it got too late. You'd known him since you were little, had heard him laugh at the kitchen table more times than you could count, and could usually tell he was coming before you even saw his truck because he'd honk twice as he pulled into the drive.

But the man climbing out of the passenger seat was not Bill.

You stayed by the window, watching him straighten slowly beside the truck, and for a second your brain didn't quite know what to make of him. He was lean where Bill was broad, all long legs and narrow shoulders, dressed in black despite the Tennessee heat that had you feeling warm just standing inside the house. Black jeans, a black jacket, dark shoes that looked far too clean for the gravel driveway, and sunglasses that looked expensive enough to cover a month's worth of rent if you could somehow convince the right person to buy them. He shut the passenger door carefully behind him and then stood there for a moment, looking around as though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd been brought to.

His gaze moved slowly across the property, taking in the old farmhouse, the weathered barn sitting farther back beneath the trees, the fields stretching beyond it, and finally the police cruiser parked crookedly beside the shed.

There was something almost cautious about the way he looked at everything, like he was trying to memorize a place he'd never expected to see for himself. Then he reached up and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and the afternoon light caught his face just enough for you to finally see him properly.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

You knew that face.

Of course you knew that face.

You'd seen it on magazine covers at the grocery store, on television, on record sleeves sitting behind the counter at the diner. You'd heard his songs whether you'd meant to or not, because there wasn't a radio station in Tennessee that hadn't played them to death. You'd watched half the country lose its mind over Thriller, had seen his name printed so often that it had become almost ordinary to look at, even though the man himself certainly wasn't.

Still, there was something different about seeing him standing there in your driveway, dressed like he was trying very hard not to be recognized, with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket and his curls falling messily around his forehead.

Your brain seemed to take an extra second to catch up with your eyes.

Michael Jackson.

Actually standing in your yard.

You stared through the glass.

"...Well, I'll be damned."

Not a poster. Not a magazine. Not a voice coming through your car speakers while you drove the back roads with the windows down, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel while his songs played through the crackling speakers. This was Michael Jackson, standing in your driveway like he had somehow wandered into the middle of your ordinary Tennessee life by mistake, looking at your house with an almost curious expression as though he was still trying to figure out how he'd ended up somewhere like this in the first place.

You stepped back from the window before anybody could catch you standing there and staring, though it was probably too late for that. Your heart was doing something completely stupid against your ribs, beating hard enough that you could feel it in your chest, and you pressed your palm flat against yourself as if you could physically tell it to calm down. It didn't listen. Of course it didn't. You'd spent the last few minutes reminding yourself that he was just a man, just somebody who happened to have a very famous face and a voice you'd heard more times than you could count, but that argument became considerably harder to believe when said man was standing twenty feet away in your driveway.

"Baby girl!"

Your dad's voice thundered up from downstairs before you could even collect yourself, followed by the familiar squeak of the screen door opening and the warm boom of his laughter carrying through the house and out into the yard. "Get down here, we got company."

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Baby girl.

Of all the things your dad could have called you today, he had to pick that one.

And in front of Michael Jackson, no less.

You were going to die.

Taking one slow breath, you glanced down at yourself and immediately became aware of every little thing you'd never given a second thought to before. You tugged at the hem of your shirt anyway, smoothing it down as if that might somehow make the situation less embarrassing, then caught sight of yourself in the old hallway mirror and stopped. You stared at your reflection for a second, considered doing something, then immediately decided against it.

Another burst of your dad's laughter floated up from below. You sighed, nd finally headed for the stairs.

The old wooden steps complained beneath your bare feet as you made your way down, each creak somehow sounding louder than usual in the sudden awareness that you were about to walk into a room containing a man you'd only ever seen on television. By the time you reached the bottom, you could hear Bill talking, your dad answering him, and another quieter voice mixed somewhere between them. You slowed slightly as you reached the corner, suddenly very aware of yourself again, before forcing your feet to keep moving.

When you rounded the corner into the living room, all three men were already inside, your dad standing near the couch with one hand resting against the back of it, Bill leaning comfortably against the armchair like he'd been there a hundred times before, and Michael standing a little farther away from them with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

Then Michael's gaze drifted across the room once more, almost absentmindedly, until it landed on you.

And stayed.

Not a glance. Not a polite acknowledgment. And for a long, strange second, neither of you moved or spoke. He looked at you. He looked at all of you. Your face, your throat, your chest and the curve of your hips. His jaw shifted, and his throat moved like he was swallowing something that tasted difficult.

Then your dad's voice broke through.

"There she is. Michael, this here's my daughter."

You stepped forward and offered your hand, because that's what you did when someone came to your house. You shook their hand like a normal person who had simple manners. "Hi."

Michael looked at your hand. Then at you. Then he took it, and his palm was warm and dry and his fingers wrapped around yours and held on a half-second longer than a handshake required.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was softer than you expected. Lighter. A little breathy around the edges. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice t' meet y' too."

His gaze flickered— a spark, there and instantly gone again.

"Soooo... y' Bill's friend," you said, pulling your hand back.

"Somethin' like that."

Before either of you could say anything else, Bill reached over and clapped Michael firmly on the shoulder, the gesture so familiar and casual that it almost made you forget who was standing in front of you. He treated Michael exactly like he treated everybody else, with the same easy familiarity he'd always had with your family, as though he hadn't just brought one of the most recognizable people in the world into your parents' living room.

"This one needed a few days off the road," Bill explained, giving Michael another friendly pat on the shoulder, "and I told him your daddy's got the best property for thirty miles. Peace and quiet."

"And a damn good grill," your dad added from beside him, already grinning. "Hope you like steak, son."

Michael's smile at that, and he glanced toward your father before giving a polite nod. "Sounds perfect."

But when his eyes came back to you, they stayed there for just a fraction longer than they needed to.

You felt the heat climb your neck before you could stop it. His stare wasn't subtle. It wasn't trying to be. It dragged down the length of you again— your hips, your thighs, the way your shirt pulled a little tight across your chest— and when his eyes came back up to yours, there was something in them that made your stomach drop, hot and sudden.

He wanted you.

You'd seen that look before. On boys at the county fair, on men at the bar, in countless movies. You knew what it meant. What you didn't know was why Michael Jackson was looking at you like that — like you were something he wanted to unwrap and taste.

"So," you said, crossing your arms under your chest, which did something interesting to his expression, "y'all stayin' for dinner or what?"

His eyes flickered again.

"Wouldn't miss it," he said quietly.

Your dad was already steering Bill toward the kitchen, one hand settling around his shoulder as he launched into a detailed explanation about some new smoker he'd bought, apparently determined to give Bill the entire history of the thing before either of them had even made it through the doorway. Bill listened with the patient expression of a man who had clearly heard several versions of your dad's latest projects over the years, but just before he disappeared into the kitchen, he glanced back at Michael.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you knew that look well enough to recognize it immediately. Bill's eyebrows lifted just slightly, his mouth twitching at one corner as if he were trying not to smile, and the message was obvious even without words: behave yourself. Michael caught it too, judging by the tiny shake of his head and the embarrassed little smile that crossed his face before Bill finally turned away. Then the kitchen doorway swallowed both men, your dad's voice immediately rising above Bill's as they started arguing about barbecue.

And just like that, you and Michael were alone.

You tilted your head. "Y' always stare at people like that?"

Michael blinked. A flush crept up the back of his neck, dark against his skin, but he didn't look away. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to be rude."

"Didn't say it was rude."

His mouth opened. Closed. You watched him fumble for a response and for some reason— maybe the nerves, maybe the way he was looking at you, maybe the sheer absurdity of Michael Jackson standing in your living room getting flustered— you laughed.

It came out warm and easy, and something in his shoulders loosened at the sound.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothin'." You smiled. "Y' just ain't what I expected."

"What'd you expect?"

"I dunno." You shrugged. "Bigger, I guess. More... I don't know. Shiny."

"Shiny?"

"Y' know what I mean."

His smile broke through then— real and crooked and a little shy— and it changed his whole face. "'m shiny enough for you?"

You felt your smile widen.

"I didn't say that neither." You stepped past him toward the kitchen, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm. "C'mon, city boy. Daddy's gonna talk your ear off about that smoker if we don't rescue him."

He followed. You could feel him behind you, feel his eyes on your back, on the sway of your hips, on the way your jeans hugged the curve of your ass. You didn't turn around, but your cheeks went hot, and your pulse beat hard in your throat.

Dinner went like dinner always went when Bill came around—loud, slow, and full of stories you'd heard so many times that you could practically recite half of them yourself.

Your dad had the grill going out back before the sun had even started to sink, and the smell of smoke and charcoal had drifted through the open kitchen windows for nearly an hour while the three men talked over one another on the porch.

Bill had already told some story about a fishing trip from years ago, your dad had interrupted at least twice to correct the details, and by the time the steaks finally made it onto the table, both of them were arguing about whose memory was worse. You were used to it. This was what dinner looked like when Bill came around, plates being passed from one side of the table to the other, glasses being refilled before anybody had to ask, your dad laughing loud enough to be heard from the other end of the house, and Bill always having one more story ready whenever the conversation started to quiet down.

The sun had dropped lower by then, leaving the kitchen windows glowing with that deep orange light that made everything inside look warmer than it really was. You sat across from Michael, and it took you a moment to realize that he had chosen the chair directly opposite yours.

There had been other seats available, but he'd taken that one without making a big deal about it, settling into the chair quietly while Bill and your dad argued over who was responsible for burning the first batch of steaks. You didn't think much of it at first. It was simply where he'd happened to sit. Still, every time you looked up from your plate, you found him there, and every now and then your eyes met across the table for a second before one of you looked away.

Michael seemed to be taking everything in. The food, the conversation, the house, the way your daddy talked with his mouth full despite your mother's complaints about it for years, the way Bill leaned back in his chair whenever he laughed. He looked comfortable. Then you'd catch him smiling at something your dad said, or laughing quietly when Bill exaggerated some part of an old story, and you'd decide he probably was.

"So Bill tells me y' a writer," your dad said eventually, sawing into his steak. "What kind of stuff?"

Michael's eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to your dad.

"Songs, mostly."

"Songs." Your dad nodded slowly, apparently deciding that was a perfectly respectable profession. "Y' write 'em yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

Your dad pointed his fork at him.

"That's good. Too many folks these days don't write their own stuff."

"Dad."

"What?"

"You don't even know what he's written."

"I know enough."

Michael smiled into his plate, clearly trying not to laugh. Your dad leaned back in his chair and looked at him again. "How 'bout you sing somethin' after supper?"

You immediately looked across the table.

"Daddy."

"What?" He looked genuinely confused by your reaction. "Boy's got a voice, don't he?"

You gave him a look that clearly said please stop embarrassing everybody.

Michael, meanwhile, ducked his head slightly, that same shy smile appearing at the corner of his mouth as his fingers moved absently around the edge of his glass.

"Maybe later."

Your dad grinned.

"That's what I like to hear."

You rolled your eyes and went back to your plate, though you couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at your own mouth. When you looked up again a moment later, Michael was already watching you, and the second your eyes met, he smiled again.

You watched him through the candlelight— the way his fingers moved when he talked, the way he barely touched his food, the way his eyes kept finding you over the rim of his glass. Every time your accent curled around a word, you saw his attention sharpen.

"So, y' off the road for a bit?" you asked.

"For a few days," he said. "Bill thought I needed to slow down."

"And y' came 'ere?" You laughed, gesturing at the kitchen, the faded curtains, the dog barking somewhere down the road. "Ain't exactly the Ritz."

His gaze settled on you, heavy and warm. "That's the point."

You felt it low in your belly. That look. The way he said that's the point like he meant you're the point.

"Pass the oil, baby girl."

Your dad's voice snapped through the little pocket of tension before either of you had quite figured out what to do with it, calling across the table for the bottle of steak sauce. You reached for it automatically, your fingers closing around the glass before you even looked up, and held it out toward him. Your dad took it with a distracted thank-you, already turning back toward whatever story Bill was telling, but when you lowered your hand again, you caught Michael still looking at you.

Not just glancing.

Looking.

There was something almost absentminded about it, like he'd gotten caught somewhere between listening to the conversation and paying attention to you and hadn't quite realized he'd been doing it. His eyes moved over your face for another second before finally meeting yours. You couldn't help the small smile that pulled at your mouth.

"Y'alright there?"

Michael's eyebrows lifted.

"Fine."

His answer came a little too quickly, and his voice sounded rougher than it had a moment ago. He cleared his throat quietly, lowering his gaze toward his plate as though the steak suddenly required his full attention.

You watched him for another second, amused.

"You sure?"

He nodded, though he still wouldn't quite look at you.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

There was something about the way he said it that made you want to tease him, but you let him off the hook for the moment, reaching for your glass and taking a sip while trying not to smile. Across the table, Michael finally glanced up again, and this time there was a faint smile on his face too, like he'd realized you weren't going to make a big deal out of it.

Bill was watching him now. Bill knew. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, the way he glanced between you and Michael like he was reading a situation he didn't love.

"So," Bill said, leaning back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "you got that creek still runnin' through the back forty?"

"Sure does," your dad answered immediately, already pushing his chair away from the table as though Bill had just reminded him of something he'd been meaning to show him all evening. "C'mon, I'll show you."

Bill stared at him for a second, clearly caught off guard by how quickly he'd volunteered himself.

"Now?"

Your dad gave him a look.

"What, you got somewhere to be?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then get up."

Bill laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he slowly stood from the table and reached for his glass. He glanced toward Michael before following your daddy toward the back door, and there was something in that look that made you narrow your eyes slightly. It was the same expression he'd given Michael earlier, only this time there was a little more amusement behind it. Michael caught the look too, judging by the way his eyes followed Bill for a second before dropping back toward his plate.

Neither of them said anything.

The screen door banged shut behind them a moment later, and the sound carried across the quiet yard before gradually fading into the distance along with the low murmur of their voices.

For the first time since dinner had started, the kitchen seemed almost strangely still. The refrigerator hummed from somewhere behind you, the old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and every now and then you could hear the faint creak of the house settling around you. The table was still covered with the remains of dinner, half-empty glasses, crumpled napkins, a few crumbs scattered across the plates, and the serving dishes your daddy had left sitting in the middle because nobody in your family had ever been particularly good about cleaning up immediately.

You looked across the table.

Michael had set his fork down.

He reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth slowly, almost absentmindedly, before folding it once between his fingers. Then he looked up.

Straight at you.

This time, neither of you looked away.

—

You didn't remember who moved first.

His mouth crashed into yours and your back hit the hallway wall, his hands everywhere at once— your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck pulling you closer. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, spit-slick and gasping. He kissed like a man starving, like he'd been sitting across that dinner table losing his mind and couldn't hold it another second.

You grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him against you. He groaned into your mouth.

"Your room," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe. His lips were wet, swollen, already wrecked. "Where's your—"

"Upstairs."

You grabbed his hand and dragged him. The stairs groaned under both of you, and halfway up he pulled you back against his chest, mouth finding your throat from behind, teeth grazing the soft spot below your ear.

"Keep walkin'," you breathed. "Ain't stoppin' on the stairs."

He laughed against your skin— breathless, giddy, ruined already.

Your bedroom door banged open. Then shut. Then his hands were on your face, cradling your jaw, kissing you slower now but no less desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while his thumbs traced your cheekbones.

You walked him backward. He went easy. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, looking up at you with those dark, blown-out eyes, his chest already heaving.

You dropped to the floor between his legs. His breath caught. "What are you—"

"Shh." Your hands found his belt, worked the leather through the buckle. "Been thinkin' 'bout this since y' stepped outta that truck. Been thinkin' 'bout gettin' my mouth on this pretty city boy cock."

"Baby—"

"Tell me t' stop."

He just looked at you and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You yanked his belt open. Popped the button. Pulled the zipper down and watched his jeans part, and there he was— thick and hard, straining against his briefs, a dark wet spot already soaking through the cotton where the head pressed. You leaned in and mouthed him through the fabric, wet and hot, and his hips bucked off the mattress.

"Oh god—"

You pulled his briefs down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed deep and slick with pre-cum, already dripping down the shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and he was hot in your palm.

"Shit," he whispered.

You looked up at him. His chest heaved. His mouth hung open. His hands were fisted in the sheets like he didn't trust himself to touch you.

"Y' want me t' suck your, baby?"

He shook his head. Swallowed hard. "yes..."

"Then sit still."

You lowered your mouth.

The first taste—salt and skin and the slick bead of pre-cum on your tongue—drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound so raw it vibrated through you. You licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, letting your spit pool and drip down the shaft, and his thighs tensed under your free hand.

"Oh god— baby.."

You took the head between your lips and sucked. Gentle at first, just the tip, your tongue swirling around the ridge while your hand worked the base in a slow twist. His head fell back. His throat went long and taut.

Then you took him deeper.

You let your jaw go slack and pushed down, taking him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged around him, wet and loud, not trying to be quiet about it, and spit dripped down his shaft, pooled at the base, slicked your fingers where you gripped him.

"ah—" His voice cracked. "Your mouth— baby, your mouth is so—"

You pulled off with a slick, obscene pop and grinned up at him, mouth slick, chin wet, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his dick. "So what, baby? Use your words."

"So good." He sounded wrecked. His hand found your hair, not pushing, just holding. "Sooo damn good, baby. I can't— I've never—"

"Never what?" You licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, slow and filthy, and his hips jerked. "Never had a girl suck your dick sloppy like this?"

"No— no, never—"

"Shame." You took him back into your mouth and went deeper this time, until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base and your throat convulsed around him. Your spit dripped down his balls. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him— slick and messy, gagging and slurping, no pretense at being neat about it.

He was falling apart above you. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched. One hand was in your hair and the other was still fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and every sound he made was needier than the last.

"So thick," you mumbled around him, pulling off just enough to breathe, your hand pumping the slick length of him while you talked. "Soooo goddamn thick, Mike. Heavy on my tongue. Y' know how good y' taste?"

"Mmmm..."

"Could suck this pretty cock all night." You dragged your tongue over the head, catching another bead of pre-cum, and he whimpered. Actually whimpered. "Y' want that? Want me to keep goin'?"

"Yeah..." His hips rolled up into your hand, desperate and involuntary. "Please. Baby, please— I want— I need to be inside you..."

You pulled off with a wet pop. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, slow and deliberate. "Yeah?"

"Please." His voice broke on the word.

"Good boy."

He whined. A high, desperate sound that went straight through you, his whole body shuddering.

"Yeah?" His voice was trembling, wrecked. "'m your good boy?"

"Mhmm." You crawled up his body, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. "My good boy."

He surged up and kissed you, hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head. Your bra followed— his fingers working the clasp with more desperation than skill until it gave. The straps slid down your shoulders. He pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you.

Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp.

"God, look at you." He pulled back, hands cupping both breasts, thumbs dragging over your nipples. His eyes were dark, reverent. "So soft. So beautiful. Y' so beautiful, baby."

"Michael—"

"I mean it." He looked up at you, earnest and wrecked. "Been losing my mind all night. Every time you looked at me. Your voice— the way you talk— I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe."

You kissed him hard and sloppy and pushed him flat on his back.

"Then don't think."

You shimmied out of your pants and panties, kicking them off the bed. He watched you the whole time, propped on his elbows, his cock slick and hard against his stomach, and when you straddled him his hands found your hips like they belonged there.

"Wait," he breathed.

"What?"

"I want to see you." His palms slid up your sides, slow, deliberate, over the swell of your stomach and the soft curve of your waist. His thumbs traced the stretch marks on your hips, pressing into the give of your flesh. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. "Every inch. You're gorgeous, baby. These hips. This stomach. All of you."

Heat flooded your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

"Y' gonna make me emotional 'fore I even get y' dick inside me."

"Can't have that." His smile was shaky but real. His hands squeezed your hips, fingers sinking into the softness. "Come here, baby."

You reached down and wrapped your hand around him. He was slick with your spit, still leaking, thick enough that your fingers didn't quite meet around the base. You lined him up, the head pressing against your soaked entrance, and you both sucked in air at the same time.

"Ready?" you whispered.

"Mhm..."

You sank down.

The stretch of him knocked the breath from your lungs. Inch by thick inch, filling your wet pussy until there was nothing but the feeling of him— hot and heavy and so deep. Your head dropped forward. Your nails bit into his chest.

"Ohhhh, fuck— y' so, so thick, baby—"

The words slurred out of you, drunk and babbling. You couldn't help it. The stretch was obscene, splitting you open, and he just kept going until you were seated flush against his hips, every inch buried inside you.

"Feel good, baby?" His voice was strained, barely holding together. His hands were gripping your hips so tight you knew there'd be bruises. "Tell me— tell me it feels good—"

"S'good. S'fuckin' good. Y' so deep— so thick inside me, Mike— feel so full—"

He moaned, head pressing back into the mattress, throat bared. "Move. Please move. I need you to move."

You did. Slow at first. Just a roll of your hips, grinding down on him, feeling every inch drag against your walls. Then faster. Then harder. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him into the mattress, your tits bouncing in his face, your soft thighs slapping against his hips.

He stared up at you like you were a revelation. Mouth open. Eyes blown wide. Watching your body move above him— the bounce of your breasts, the way your hips rolled.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, baby, look at you— look at you riding me—"

"Y' like watchin' me, baby?" Your voice was breathless, catching on every stroke. "Like watchin' this pussy take your dick?"

"I love it." His hands slid up your ribs, cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples while you rode him. "Love watchin' you. Love these tits. Love this body— love the way you feel— so wet, so tight—"

"So heavy," you babbled, grinding down harder, feeling him hit that spot deep inside. "Y' so deep inside me, baby. Shit. Splittin' me open. S'good— s'fuckin' good—"

"Yeah? You like how deep I am, baby?"

"Love it. Love this dick. Love the way it stretches me out—"

Your tits bounced in front of his face. The angle dragged his cock against that spot that made your vision blur.

"Oooh fuck— Mhm! right there—"

He caught a nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, and your rhythm stuttered. His tongue circled the peak, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and then he switched to the other breast— mouth hot and wet and greedy.

And then you felt it. That creamy, wet slickness building where your bodies met. The sound of it, obscene and unmistakable, filled the room with every stroke.

"Hear that?" He pulled off your breast, looking down between your bodies, watching himself disappear into your pussy. His voice was reverent. "Hear how wet y' are, baby? Y' creaming all over me."

You looked down. There was a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, slick and shining, smearing on his skin every time you sank down.

"Not my fault," you gasped. "Y' the one with the pretty face 'nd big dick—"

He groaned and grabbed your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and started thrusting up into you from below— sharp, desperate snaps of his hips meeting every roll of yours.

"That's it. That's it, baby— make a mess on me— cream all over my dick—"

"Shit!—"

"You're sooo fucking wet. So messy. God, I love it— love this pussy—"

The words tumbled out of him, filthy and wrecked, and you couldn't hold back. You rode him harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, the headboard knocking against the wall. Your thighs burned. Your stomach tightened. You were right there, right on the edge.

"'m close—"

"Me too. Me too." He wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back in one motion.

He was on top of you now. Chest to chest. His forearms braced on either side of your head, curls falling around his face, damp with sweat. He looked ruined. Desperate. Nothing like the composed city boy from dinner.

"Need to feel y'," he breathed. "Need t' be deeper. Need all of you."

"Need y' too...."

He pushed inside again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, and then he dropped his face between your tits.

His mouth was everywhere. Kissing the swell of your breasts, licking the sweat from your sternum, burying his face in the soft give of your cleavage while his hips rolled into you. His hands slid down your sides, over the curve of your waist, and then they were gripping your ass— both hands full, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, pulling you up into every thrust.

"So soft," he groaned against your skin. "So fucking soft everywhere. Love this body. Love your ass in my hands—"

"Mmm, y' fuck me so good, baby.."

"Feel so good, baby. This pussy—" He drove in deep and held there, grinding against you, his face still buried between your tits. "So wet. So wet. Grippin' me so good."

"Y' so deep— y' so deep like this— oh my—"

He fucked you slow and deep, his hands kneading your ass, his mouth working up from your chest to your throat to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy. All tongue and spit and gasping breaths, and when he pulled back there was a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"Need deeper," he said, and it was a plea. "Need— let me—"

He hooked your legs over his shoulders. Folded you nearly in half. Mating press. The new angle made you both groan.

"There." Your voice broke. "Right there, right there!—"

He fucked into you with short, desperate strokes, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in broken gasps against your mouth. His curls dripped sweat onto your forehead. His hands gripped your thighs, your ass, anything he could hold.

"Baby, 'm not gonna— can't—" He was shaking. His whole body trembling. "can't hold it— y' feel too good—"

"please don't hold it." You grabbed his face, fingers sinking into his damp curls, and pulled his forehead to yours. "Come inside me, baby. Want it. Want all of it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Cream in my pussy. Fill me up."

He buried his face in your neck and drove into you hard— once, twice— and then he was coming. A cry cracked in his throat, raw and broken, his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hot and pulsing, his cock throbbing through every wave.

The feel of him— the hot rush of it, the way his hips kept jerking— tipped you over. Your climax hit like a wave breaking, white-hot and blinding. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every last pulse, and you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. Your thighs shook. Your nails raked down his back.

He whimpered into your throat, still thrusting weak and shallow, like he couldn't bear to stop. Like he wanted to stay inside you forever.

For a long moment there was nothing but breathing.

He eased your legs down, slow and careful. Pulled out with a wet, messy sound. You felt the slick heat of him and you drip down your thigh, and he collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Mhm..."

"That was—"

"Mhm..."

He laughed— breathless, giddy, still shaking a little. His lips pressed to your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose, your mouth. The kiss was soft now, tender, a different kind of desperate.

"You called me a good boy?"

You felt your cheeks go hot. "Don't get a big head 'bout it."

"Too late." He nuzzled into your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. "Definitely too late."

From somewhere out in the yard, your dad's voice rang out: "Told you that creek still runs clear!"

Michael froze. Then his body shook with silent laughter, his face pressing into your hair to muffle it.

"Bill's gonna kill me."

"Bill's not gonna do shit." You tilted your face up and kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting salt and yourself and him. "'sides. Worth it."

He looked at you. Brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

"Yeah," he said. "It was."

The house was quiet, so quiet it felt like the middle of the night, but alas… it was the morning. 

Grey, textureless light seeped through the kitchen window; the sun hadn’t yet broken through the clouds, and you hadn’t fully awakened.

Your eyes were maybe open all of twenty minutes before you had to bolt up from the bed; the heat of Michael lying beside you became oppressive. 

He was a wall of heat and limbs, all over you during the night—laying diagonally, stealing the duvet, occasionally snorting softly right into your hair. Blissfully unaware of how atrocious he made your sleep.

You padded down stairs and made herbal tea, as you had been loving the ritual—boil, steep, wait—anchoring you in the silence of the morning. The birds chirping and the neighbours dog barking intermittently made your zen slightly less dreamlike.

Your little routine softened the zombie feeling you had each morning after getting very little sleep beside your husband.

The familiar sounds came from upstairs: the groan of the mattress, bare feet on floorboards, soft, irritated mumblings. 

You’d probably woken him clattering around for your favourite mug. Drawers opened and closed with force. He was looking for his glasses. He always lost them.

When he appeared in the doorway, you bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling too wide.

Michael stood there squinting, one hand rubbing his temple, so innocently. Shirtless, his torso pale in the weak light from the patio doors. And... he was wearing your sweatpants. 

Your Juicy sweatpants.

You’d kicked them off at the foot of the bed last night to sleep skin-to-skin. He’d whine it wasn’t fair if you weren’t naked with him. Michael got what he wanted. Most of the time.

They were soft, black velvet Juicy Couture pants, with the branding spelled out in diamantes across the ass. 

He must have felt for something on the floor in the dark, his fingers closing on fabric instead of his plain plaid pajama pants.

They fit him all wrong. The waistband strained, sitting too high and folded over, too tight on his hips. The legs ended three inches above his bony ankles. The word ‘JUICY’ was stretched taut, the letters distorted, across the back of his perky bum. 

It was all wrong, yet… he looked good. His prominent happy trail, that black dusting of coily hair that led down under the waistband, stark against his skin. 

You could see the clear line of his dick through the material of the sweatpants, the seam making it protrude more—he at least had a semi.

He always had morning wood. You felt yourself clench at the thought of what it would have been like to wake up in bed together this morning.

His hair was a different story.

It was a dark and very cropped. Beautiful tight, delicate coils, each no longer than your fingertip, packed densely across his scalp. 

It wasn’t his usual style these days—most of the time he'd bare a longer weave, silk-pressed waves, or a curly piece.

But at home, with just you, he kept it natural. 

He’d tried to grow it, but decades of sewn in hair pieces had chafed and pulled, leaving a lingering trauma to the damaged skin beneath.

The tiny curls were soft as fine velvet, with a springy, resilient life.

Despite being patchy in some areas, it looked good; but then again, he always looked good. 

Now, sleep had matted one side, pressing the coils into a soft whorl against his temple.

He shuffled in, movements cautious, sleepy, irritated. “My glasses,” he said, voice gravelly. 

“Can’t find ‘em.”

“Nightstand?”

He grunted and looked at you as if ‘do you think im stupid?’. 

“Obviously not there. Must’ve fallen down the back.”

He fumbled in the bread bin, pulled out two slices of wheat bread, movements precise despite his faux blindness.

He got them into the toaster, pushed the lever down, and stood there, arms crossed, waiting. 

The pose made the sweatpants stretch even more, his ass subconsciously cocked out. 

‘JUICY’ glimmered in the grey light.

You set your mug down with a silent giggle and looked for your camera. You’d left it on the counter a few nights prior after being out with friends; it was your old Konica film point-and-shoot. 

You picked it up, framed him in the viewfinder: the slope of his bare back, the sharp shoulder blades, the ridiculous curve of diamante script.

You pressed the shutter. A soft snick-whirr.

He turned his head, frowning. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You walked up behind him and you heard him sigh, a tired exhale. He was always so exhausted these days, from the press, the tours, the work schedule these executives had him operating under. It was sad.

You placed your hands on his hips to ground him, the fabric was thin and warm under your delicate touch. He eased up immediately at your touch.

“Your pants are too small, Mikey.”

“Mmm, yeah, tight,” he agreed, tone flat with annoyance. “And short. Shrank in the dryer probably.”

“They didn’t shrink, you idiot” Your thumbs hooked into the waistband above the ‘J’ and pulled him closer to your chest. 

“They’re not yours.” You whispered up at him; he was much taller.

There was a long silence as his brain did some computing.

You felt the realization move through him; irritation shifting to mild embarrassment, then understanding.

He uncrossed his arms and his hands subconsciously found yours where they were wrapped around him and he grabbed them tight and gave a little squeeze of acknowledgement before going back to the food. He always did that, acknowledged how much your touch meant to him.

The cuddling was so domestic and so far from the normal routine. The hardcore rehearsals and stress would be the reality soon enough when the next album cycle started again.

“They’re not mine?”

“No.”

“God- I'll have ruined th-”

you cut him off, trying to be unserious;

“Yeah, stretched them ‘cause your ass is so… Juicy.”

A soft huff of air—almost a laugh. 

“Oh, m’lord. It’s not the Juicy Couture ones you were wearin’ last night, is it?” He looked incredulous.

“In all their glory.” You backed off of him and leaned against the island counter.

He twisted awkwardly, trying to see his own ass. When he saw it, he chuckled lightly 

The toaster popped and whilst still laughing slightly, he turned and pulled the slices out, the smell of burnt wheat faint. He did a bit of spreading before then taking a bit of one of the slices, chewing thoughtfully as he turned back to you, the jam—raspberry, you knew—glistening. 

“So that’s what that little noise was. You took a picture?”

“Yes. Just to keep. Only for me.”

“Y/N, that better not be on page 6 by tomorrow. i mean it when i say keep it safe when you develop it,” He took another bite of the bread.

“its a momento. Just for me, baby. M'gonna keep it safe!”

You were laughing now, wholeheartedly, at how funny and cute the whole situation was.

He feigned some annoyance, moving slowly towards you all menacing, still chewing his breakfast.

Once he was close enough to be able to see you, his eyes, even unfocused, found yours so intently. 

Sleep-softness was gone, replaced by simmering intensity of both horniness and playfulness.

Morning breath, now laced with the sweet-rot scent of jam, hung between you.

He reached behind, hands finding the counter’s edge, caging you. “You think this is funny?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. Really funny. Juicy, if you will.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours and gave you a peck on the lips. 

You felt the hard line of his dick against your thigh as he'd moved closer. 

“All that laughin’,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gritty register. 

“Makin’ fun of your husband. Maybe I oughta to do something about it?”

“Oh Mike, whatever will you do to me?” you feinged fear right into his face, and he raised his dark eyebrows expectantly.

“Ohhh I don’t know. Fuck you, so that you stop laughing at me? See how funny you think it is when you can’t even form a sentence?”

It was a challenge, a promise of obliterating pleasure that shot straight to your ovaries. 

Your laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

His hands slid to your backside, gripping you through your sleep shorts, pulling you firmly against the hard ridge of his dick. 

“Well, jokes on you, because I’d like that,” you managed, your voice already losing its steadiness. “Your juicy ass and your dick.”

A slow, dark chuckle after realising your reference came from him

“Greedy girl.” 

His hands went to the waistband of your sleep shorts and the panties beneath. 

He just shoved them down roughly, just enough, the elastic stretching tight around your thighs, creating a frustrating, thrilling barrier. 

He fumbled with the strained waistband of the Juicy pants, shoving them down his hips just enough to free himself. 

The glittering ‘JUICY’ now sat crumpled around his upper thighs. 

He was half-dressed, you were half-undressed, and it was dirtier, more urgent - the kitchen windows easy for people to see through if they had so wished it.

He was already slick at the tip and probably had been for a while considering he woke up already fairly hard.

he used that wetness to rub himself against you, the pressure was delightful.

He kept pushing himself through your folds and hitting your clit; each direct hit making you close your eyes, at each burst of pleasure.

“A quickie to start your day, m'lady?”

You nodded, wordless, your hips pushing against his hand.

“Didn’t hear you,” he growled, leaning in. His breath was hot and jam-sweet against your ear.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want that.”

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, but there was a dark heat in it. He was done talking.

“Please, Michael. Please fuck me.”

That was all he needed. He hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you forward off of the counter just enough, and with a rough, unceremonious push, he was inside you. 

Far from a slow invasion; he filled you in one blunt, deep stroke, the stretch sudden and breathtaking.

You held in your moan, your eyes rolling back into your head from how good it felt to be filled to the brim.

The angle on the counter somehow making him feel deeper than ever before. 

The cold granite of the counter bit into your backside. He was looking intently at you, his eyes black and focused, observing your face as he began to move.

It was fast and deep from the start, a hard, driving rhythm meant to overwhelm you. He was playing games. 

“That’s it,” he panted, his voice raw. “Dirty girl takin’ it good on the kitchen counter f’me”

It was incredibly effective. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs. 

You could only cling to his shoulders, your head thrown back, every sound pulled from you a choked gasp or moan. 

He was making good on his promise—fucking you into speechlessness.

But then his rhythm faltered. A grimace twisted his features. He tried to adjust his angle, but the counter was too high, his stance awkward.

“Damn it,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming shallow, strained. “My back…”

He pulled out of you abruptly, the loss hollow and shocking and pulled up the pants. This brought out another laugh from you.

Before you could protest, his arms were under you, lifting you completely off the counter.

He held you against his chest, your legs around his waist, your panties and shorts still tangled around your thighs. 

“Bed,” he mumbled, as if to himself. 

“Should’ve started there.”

He carried you out of the kitchen, through the living room, and awkwardly found his way up the stairs, juicy pants low on his hips. 

Each step jostled you, his still-hard cock under the sweatpants rubbing against your wet, sensitive flesh with every movement. 

It was a torturous, overstimulating tease.

You were already so close from the counter sex, and this constant, rhythmic friction was pushing you toward the edge without any relief. 

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Sensitive, my baby?” he murmured, a note of smug understanding in his voice. He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt every bounce.

He was really having a field day today - usually it was you doing the teasing. 

He shouldered into the bedroom and deposited you onto the bed, following you down without breaking contact. 

This time, he took a moment to properly kick the ridiculous sweatpants off his ankles and push your sleep shorts and panties the rest of the way off your legs. 

He settled between your legs and started pumping his swollen and hard dick, the tip so flushed and almost purple from lack of attention.

The energy from the kitchen had banked into something hotter, slower, more deliberate and duller; but not less exciting.

He sank into you again, this time with a long, deep groan of relief. 

“Better,” he sighed against your lips, beginning a slow, grinding rhythm. “So much better.”

After a few more deep thrusts and his thumb playing expertly with your clit, you could feel your own climax coming. He really didn't have to do much and you were there.

But you didn’t want it to end. You wanted this—him, like this—to last.

It wasn’t really that often you had a whole day off together and you wanted this to be good.

When you felt his pace start to quicken, his breaths becoming more ragged, you knew he was getting close, too.

You put your hands on his hips, stilling him. “Wait,” you breathed.

He froze, looking down at you, confusion and desperate need in his eyes. “Baby…shit.. I was so close to comin',”

“Not yet,” you said, your voice taking on a new authority.

You shifted beneath him, gently rolling him onto his back. He went willingly, a soft, surprised sigh leaving him. 

You straddled his hips, sinking down onto him slowly, taking back control. “I’m not done with you.”

The position changed everything. 

You set the pace, a slow, deep, rolling grind that had him biting his lip, his hands fluttering to your thighs and then up to your tits. 

“Oh… oh, that’s… hnmngg, you’re so wet and slippery” he babbled.

“You were gonna come, weren’t you?” you whispered, leaning forward to speak against his mouth. 

“I could feel it. But I want more.” You lifted yourself up almost all the way off him, until just the tip remained, and paused.

He whined, a high, helpless sound. His hips canted up, seeking. 

“Y/N… please…”

“Please what?” You sank down an inch, then rose again. Teasing. Easing him back from the edge, only to stoke the fire higher. “Use your words, Michael”

“Please, I need… I need you to move. Please, just use me, I need it… I need you” He whined. 

His words were a desperate stream. He was writhing beneath you, not trying to take over, just lost in the sensation you were meting out. 

His hands gripped the sheets, his beautiful face a mask of tortured pleasure. The dominant act from the kitchen was completely forgotten. He was putty, begging, whining and aching for you to tell him what to do.

You gave him what he asked for, but on your terms. 

A fast, hard pace that made him shout, then slowing to a near-stop when you felt him tense. 

You were edging him, drawing out every second of his pleasure, making it last. His begging became incoherent, a mix of your name, whimpers, and promises that he’d do anything for you… if you’d just let him come inside you.

“You look so good whimpering for me like that, angelface” you murmured, watching him come completely undone at his favourite pet name. 

“So perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, but you have to wait for me.”

You could feel your own orgasm building, a slow, deep wave this time. 

When you finally let yourself tip over the edge, crying out as you clenched around him, it was the signal he’d been waiting for. 

“Mhm can i come inside, baby?” he asked you, his whole body tensed under you as you rocked on top of him. 

You couldn’t even speak, you just nodded, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip almost bloody from how much you were biting it, holding in your further groans from riding it out.

With a sobbing gasp of relief, his own control shattered. 

His release was massive, a deep, pulsing flood inside you that seemed to go on and on, his body arching off the bed, a continuous, broken groan torn from his chest.

When he came around, he pulled you into him, a sweaty, trembling heap. 

He held you tightly, his arms like vices, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks. His breath sobbed in your ear.

“To think I was teasin’ you and you’ve only gone and switched out on me,” he said breathlessly into your hair. 

You didn’t even reply, still in shock from the level of pleasure you had just experienced.

Eventually, his grip loosened. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently stroking your hair. You both stayed like that for what felt like 10 minutes, his dick still inside you, soft now.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You…” he breathed, the word shaky. 

“You own me. Body and soul.” He turned, lips finding your temple in a trembling kiss. 

“not just my heart, but every damn part of me is yours. You know that?”

You nodded against his sweat-salted chest.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from his bones. A moment later, a soft, breathless laugh shook his chest.

“Sorry about stealin’ your sweatpants and probably ruinin’ them, m'a bit blinder than I thought I was.”

You laughed too, weak and sated. You hugged him a little tighter, not wanting to let this cute moment end. His smile was basically audible. 

“Worth it.” you said.

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