#mk7

“Oh, you wanna go, buddy? Let’s go!” Michael chirped, throwing his gloves to the ground like he was about to drop the gloves in an NHL brawl, crouching down to meet the little boy at eye level. His smirk was wide, teasing, and devastatingly adorable as he rolled his shoulders in a playful warm-up move. The boy—what was his name?—giggled wildly, his tiny fists raised in a mock stance, his red cheeks full of pure delight.

You stood off to the side, wrapped up in your coat, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried—and failed—not to swoon at the sight.

God, Michael was enormous next to that kid, but he was so damn gentle. This giant of a man, 6'5 of pure, chiseled hockey muscle, with hands capable of hurling pucks like missiles and pinning other players to the boards, was crouched down making goofy faces and fake "pow, pow" sounds as he pretended to take little hits from the boy’s fists.

I’m so screwed, you thought, heart flipping. Your ovaries were practically writing love letters. Baby fever? No. This was an absolute five-alarm fire.

You watched as Michael let the boy land a “solid” punch to his shoulder. He stumbled backward, over-exaggerated, and sprawled out flat on the ice like he’d just taken a knockout hit. "Ugh! You got me!" he groaned dramatically, holding his side as if wounded.

The boy shrieked with laughter, skating a triumphant circle around him while the other kids gathered around, cheering like they’d just won a Stanley Cup. And Michael? He was lying there, grinning like an idiot, his brown eyes crinkled with happiness and his laugh rolling low and warm across the ice.

It was ridiculous how badly you wanted him at that moment.

Look at him, you thought, watching him ruffle the kid’s helmet before rolling back to his feet with the kind of athletic grace that had made you weak in the knees from the day you met. He'd be such a good dad. The image popped into your head without permission: Michael in your kitchen, holding a little baby with sleepy eyes and soft, dark hair while he hummed quietly to them. You had to press your thighs together just thinking about it.

He caught your eye, still grinning, and winked.

Shit. That wink.

You swallowed hard, feeling your face flush, not with embarrassment but with something far more dangerous. Because Michael didn't do anything halfway. If he decided to be a dad one day, he'd be the best at it, just like everything else in his life—hockey, relationships, making you completely unravel in bed.

And God, what if we did that soon? The thought whispered through your mind, bold and breathless. Little hands, big brown eyes, someone with his same loud laugh and unstoppable energy running through the house…

“Hey babe!” Michael called across the ice, snapping you from your daydream. “You daydreaming about me again?”

You tried to play it cool, but the blush gave you away instantly. “Nope,” you lied, shaking your head. “Just thinking about how you can’t even handle a six-year-old.”

The kids roared with laughter as Michael scoffed, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow,” he said, sliding over to you with effortless speed. “That’s cold. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

He stopped just inches from you, towering over you, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. God, he smelled like fresh ice and his signature cologne, spicy and addictive. He lowered his voice so only you could hear: “What were you really thinking about?”

The way his gaze pierced through you made you want to squirm in the best way. Babies. You. Me. Us making them. But you couldn’t say that, not here.

“Nothing,” you whispered, but your voice sounded breathy even to your own ears.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what that tone meant. The corner of his mouth tilted into a slow, knowing smirk, one that made your stomach flip and your thighs clench all over again.

“Oh, nothing, huh?” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, a suggestive hum beneath the noise of the rink. “We’ll talk about that ‘nothing’ later.”

Your breath caught, and before you could respond, one of the kids called him back onto the ice for another mock fight.

Michael turned, calling out, "Alright, who's next? Who thinks they can take me?"

And as he skated off, you leaned against the barrier, heart racing.

Later couldn't come soon enough.

***

You sat curled on the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, staring at the glass of wine in your hand as if it held the secrets to the universe. It didn’t, but it was easier than looking at Michael, who was stretched out across the other end of the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles, one arm slung lazily over the backrest.

He’d showered after getting back from the rink, and his damp hair clung to his forehead in messy, irresistible waves. A simple white t-shirt hugged his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched taut across his chest, and the sweatpants slung low on his hips didn’t do much to help the situation. He was so goddamn casual about being utterly devastating.

You were too quiet. You knew it. He knew it.

“Alright,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but there was that undercurrent of warmth that made it impossible not to look at him. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, too quickly. It sounded weak even to you. You glanced away again, lifting the glass to your lips to avoid his gaze.

He shifted, and suddenly he was closer, sliding across the couch until he was right there, so close you could feel the warmth of him seeping into your side. “Nothing, huh?” he repeated, his eyes studying you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “You’ve been quiet since we got home. You’re never quiet. Spill.”

You bit your lip, debating whether to brush it off, but he reached out, his fingers catching your chin, turning your face gently toward him. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, and it was unfair—so unfair—how easily he could disarm you with a touch.

“Baby,” he said, his voice low. “Talk to me.”

It started as a trickle. “It’s stupid,” you mumbled, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” he promised, his brows pulling together in that sincere way that always made your chest ache. “Come on. Tell me.”

You took a deep breath, staring down at the wineglass. “I was watching you today,” you began hesitantly. “With the kids. And you were so good with them, Michael. Like, ridiculously good. And all I could think about was how… how you’d be with our kids.”

His fingers stilled on your chin, his hand dropping to rest on your thigh. He didn’t interrupt, just watched you, his expression unreadable but intent. The silence made you nervous, and once you started talking, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“I mean, you’re already incredible at everything you do, but with them, you were just… God, it was so…” You floundered, trying to find the words, your voice picking up speed. “You were patient and sweet, and you looked so—so happy, and all I could think about was how you’d look holding a little baby, our baby, in your arms, humming to them, maybe singing that stupid song you’re always singing in the car. And then I thought about them running around the house with your laugh and your energy and…”

You paused, taking a shaky breath, but it was too late. The dam had burst.

“And then I thought about making them with you,” you blurted, your face going red-hot. “Like, the actual process. Because, God, Michael, you’re just so… big, and strong, and perfect, and I can’t stop thinking about you on top of me, holding me down, and…”

His eyes darkened, his grip on your thigh tightening, but he didn’t say a word, just let you keep going, his jaw tense, his breathing a little heavier.

“And then I thought about you kissing my stomach while it grows, and how you’d talk to the baby, and how we’d… God, Michael, I can’t stop thinking about it, and I know it’s crazy, and we haven’t even talked about kids seriously, but…”

You didn’t get to finish. His hands were suddenly on your waist, lifting you effortlessly, and before you could process it, your legs were wrapped around his hips, your wineglass forgotten on the couch. He kissed you, hard and hungry, swallowing your gasp as he walked you toward the bedroom. His lips moved against yours with a purpose, his hands splayed across your back, holding you flush against him.

You didn’t stop rambling, even as he laid you down on the bed, his mouth trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

“And… and then I thought about how you’d look holding twins,” you babbled, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Or triplets, and… oh my God, Michael, I’m losing my mind over here. I’m obsessed with you. I want it all. I want you, I want them, I want…”

Michael groaned low in his throat, his lips grazing your jawline as his hands roamed over your body, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “God, you’re… fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice thick. “And you don’t even know what you just unleashed, do you?”

You blinked up at him, already breathless, your hands fisting the front of his shirt as if it were the only thing tethering you to the earth. “Michael…”

“No, no, let me talk,” he cut you off, his mouth quirking into a lopsided grin that didn’t quite disguise the hunger in his eyes. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot and rough against your skin as he pushed it up over your head. “You wanna talk about kids? Babies? Us making them?” His voice dropped lower, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea how long I’ve been thinking about that.”

Your breath hitched as he tugged your shirt off completely, tossing it aside like it was nothing, like all he cared about was getting to more of you. His hands were everywhere, warm and demanding, sliding over your sides, your back, cupping your breasts through your bra. “You wanna know what I think about at night?” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear before trailing hot, wet kisses down your neck. “I think about filling you up, watching you swell with my kid. Fuck, the idea of you round and glowing and mine? I can’t fucking stand it sometimes.”

“Michael,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his fingers worked the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. It fell away, baring you to him, and he groaned, his brown eyes darkening as he took you in. “God, you’re…”

“Keep talking,” he said hoarsely, ducking his head to capture a nipple in his mouth. His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, drawing a broken moan from your lips. “Tell me more about what you were thinking out there. About me holding you down, fucking my baby into you.”

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as he lavished attention on your breasts, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “I… I was thinking about how big you are, how deep you could… oh fuck, Michael, how deep you could get, how you’d fill me up completely.”

“Yeah?” he muttered against your skin, his hands sliding down to undo your jeans. His fingers worked with maddening precision, popping the button and dragging the zipper down in one smooth motion. “You think I could get you deep enough, sweetheart? Because I’ve been picturing it. You on your back, legs wrapped around me, taking everything I give you. Every drop.”

Michael’s breath was hot against your throat, his lips dragging down until he reached the curve of your shoulder. His hands worked your jeans off your hips, dragging them down slowly, almost reverently, but his urgency was clear in the rough way his knuckles brushed against your skin. 

You couldn’t stop talking. “I was thinking about how you’d… how you’d feel watching me get bigger,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together under the heat coursing through your body. “And how you’d touch me, how you’d make me feel like I was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen, even when I felt huge and—and…”

Michael groaned low in his chest, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. “Stop it,” he said, but his tone was thick with arousal, not annoyance. His eyes burned as he pulled your underwear down and tossed it to the side. “You’re killing me, sweet thing.”

“I can’t stop,” you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders as his body came over yours again. His skin was warm, solid, grounding. “I keep thinking about it. About us in bed, me begging for it, begging you to give me another one—”

Michael swore, cutting you off with a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, raw and needy. He leaned into you, pressing you into the mattress, and you swore you could feel every inch of him, rock-hard through the fabric of his sweatpants.

“You think I wouldn’t lose my goddamn mind for that?” he rasped, breaking the kiss to suck at the tender skin of your neck. “Fuck, you’d be so beautiful. Pregnant with my kid, knowing I put it there, knowing I’m the only one who ever will.”

His words made you moan, your nails digging into his back as he pulled back just enough to yank his shirt off. You couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t help but run your hands over his chest, his abs, feeling the strength in every muscle.

“You’d take care of us,” you murmured, the thought spilling from your lips before you could stop it. “You’d keep us safe. I know you would. You’d do anything for us.”

Michael’s eyes softened, just for a moment, as he leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time, deeper. “Damn right, I would,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. “I’d take care of you. All of you. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, sweetheart.”

His hands slid between your thighs, parting them with ease as he settled between them. The warmth of his body, the weight of him above you—it was intoxicating, comforting, and utterly overwhelming all at once.

“I’ll give you everything,” he promised, his voice low as his fingers trailed over your skin, deliberate. “A house full of kids, a life where you don’t have to lift a fucking finger if you don’t want to.” His lips ghosted over your ear. “All you have to do is let me put them in you.”

You whimpered, your body arching into his touch. “Michael, please—”

“You gonna let me, sweetheart?” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hands moved to his waistband, and your breath caught as he pushed his pants and boxers down, his cock springing free. He stroked himself lazily, watching you. “You gonna let me fill you up? Make you mine all over again?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. “God, yes, Michael.”

He groaned, positioning himself above you, pressing you into the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide, and he paused for a moment, his gaze raking over you like he was committing every detail to memory.

“You want me deep, don’t you?” he muttered, his voice rough as his cock brushed against your entrance. “Want to make sure it takes?”

You nodded frantically, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “Please, Michael, I need it. I need you.”

A dark smile tugged at his lips as he shifted, his body settling more fully against you. “Turn over,” he said, his tone commanding. “I know how I’ll get there, sweetheart. Gonna make sure it counts.”

Your heart raced as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach. Michael’s hands were firm on your hips, pulling you back against him, and the heat of him was searing as he lined himself up.

He didn’t waste a second. His hips pressed forward, and the first inch was enough to knock the air from your lungs. “Oh, fuck,” you choked out, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the sheets as he sank deeper. The stretch was intense, but not overwhelming—just enough to make you feel every inch of him filling you.

Your brain went haywire, scattering thoughts firing off with no rhyme or reason. God, he’s big. How does he feel this good every single time? You bit your lip, trying to muffle the sound clawing its way up your throat, but Michael wasn’t having it.

“None of that,” he growled, his voice rough and dripping with authority. One hand slid around your throat, gripping just enough to make you shiver. “I wanna hear you, sweetheart. Don’t hold back.”

And when he bottomed out, his cock pressed flush against that sweet spot deep inside, your entire body locked up. “Oh my fucking God,” you cried, the sound breaking as your arms gave out beneath you. Your cheek hit the mattress, and you could barely see past the haze clouding your vision.

Michael’s grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in just shy of bruising. “That’s it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Right there. I’ve got you.”

Your walls fluttered around him as he started to move, pulling back slow and steady before thrusting in again with pinpoint precision. Each stroke slammed against that tender spot inside you, making you cry out every single time.

Shit, shit, shit, how the fuck does he always find it? Your inner voice was panicking, but your body betrayed you, arching back against him like you couldn’t get enough. And honestly? You couldn’t. Every nerve ending was lit up, every sensation amplified by the way he held you down, inescapable.

“Feel good?” he asked, his tone smug, like he already knew the answer. He leaned over you, his chest brushing against your back, and the change in angle sent a bolt of electricity straight to your core.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” you babbled, your voice barely coherent. Your nails clawed at the sheets, searching for some kind of anchor, but Michael wasn’t giving you any reprieve.

“Thought so,” he said, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re shaking, baby. Can’t even keep still for me, huh?”

No, I can’t! How the hell am I supposed to when you’re—fuck—doing that? You wanted to say it, but all that came out was a broken moan, your brain too scrambled to form a proper sentence.

Michael chuckled, the sound low and wicked, and his hand slid from your throat to your shoulder, holding you firmly in place. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice soft. “Let me do this for you.”

You tried, you really did, but the moment his hips snapped forward again, your body betrayed you. Your legs kicked out uselessly, your hips writhing as you tried to escape the overwhelming sensation.

“Uh-uh,” Michael growled, stopping you in an instant. Both hands clamped down on your waist, his grip unrelenting. “I said stay still, sweetheart. Don’t make me pin you down.”

Jesus Christ, Michael, what do you call this?! Your thoughts were a mess, but the way his cock hit that spot again, and again, and again, wiped out anything coherent. You screamed into the pillow, the sound muffled but loud enough to echo back at you.

“There it is,” Michael murmured, and fuck, he sounded so cocky. His hands slid up your sides, pushing you down into the bed as he thrust harder, deeper, each stroke precise and punishing. “Right there, huh? That’s where you need it, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “Oh my God, yes, right there, fuck!”

He groaned, his fingers digging into your skin. “You’re so perfect like this,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Taking it so fucking well. You wanna keep talking about babies, sweetheart? Because all I can think about is how fucking good you’d look carrying mine.”

Your brain short-circuited. The words sent a rush of heat straight to your core, and you couldn’t stop the whine that escaped your lips. “Michael, please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

“Please what?” he pressed, his voice taking on that teasing edge that made your toes curl. “Say it, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

You, you, you. Everything. Forever. “Fill me up,” you managed, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Fuck, Michael, I want you to fill me up.”

His hips faltered for a split second before slamming into you harder, his breath coming out in a harsh groan. “Yeah? That’s what you want? Me to fuck my kid into you? I hope they have your eyes, so goddamn pretty.”

You couldn’t even respond. Every thrust sent you spiraling further, your body clenching around him as the pleasure built and built, unbearable and perfect all at once. And Michael didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. If anything, he pushed harder, his cock hitting your sweet spot with ruthless precision.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice ragged. “Let go for me. Show me how bad you want it.”

Your whole body tensed, the coil inside you snapping with violent intensity. You came with a scream, your vision going white as the pleasure tore through you. Michael cursed, his grip on you tightening as he followed, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a low, guttural groan.

You were still trembling, your body buzzing from the orgasm that had left you shaking and dazed. He stayed inside you for a moment, his cock twitching with aftershocks, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. You didn’t mind. God, you didn’t mind one bit. Every nerve ending in your body was still lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to move again.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell did we just do? Your inner voice was panicked but also utterly smug. Like, yeah, you did that. And it was incredible. You’d definitely done a lot of reckless shit in your life, but this? This was a whole new level.

Michael finally shifted, his hands sliding up your sides, warm and grounding, as he pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmured, his voice still rough but tinged with concern.

“Uh-huh,” you mumbled into the pillow, your voice muffled and hoarse. You tried to sound convincing, but the way your legs felt like jelly and your brain was still stuck on a loop of “Holy shit” probably wasn’t helping your case.

Michael chuckled, low and warm, and the sound sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “That good, huh?” he teased, pressing another kiss to your skin before pulling out slowly, carefully. The sudden emptiness made you whimper, and you felt his cum immediately start to drip out of you, hot and thick, smearing down your thighs.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice thick with something between awe and possession as he ran his hand over the small of your back. “You’re a fucking mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you let yourself relax against the bed, sinking into the mattress as your heartbeat finally started to slow. Michael shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him so your back was pressed to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting low on your stomach, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft, contented sigh.

But then his hand moved lower. Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down, brushing over your still-sensitive folds. “Michael,” you gasped, your thighs clenching instinctively. “I… I can’t. I’m too…”

“Shh,” he murmured, his lips pressing to the shell of your ear. “Not trying to get you off again, sweetheart. Just making sure everything stays where it should.”

Your brain short-circuited for a second. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pressed his fingers against your entrance, and you felt the slick mix of your juices and his cum leaking out. “See?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Can’t let it go to waste.”

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your face heating. “Michael, that’s…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence because his fingers slid inside, pushing his cum back into you with slow, deliberate movements. “Fuck.”

“Lift your hips for me,” he said, his tone firm. “It’ll help.”

You whimpered, burying your face in the pillow, but you did as he asked, tilting your hips slightly. His hand slid beneath you, holding you in place, and his fingers worked deeper, spreading his cum inside you with almost clinical precision—except it wasn’t clinical at all. It was filthy, and you couldn’t stop the way your body reacted, every muscle clenching around him as he worked.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking sensitive,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. “I can feel you shaking. You still feel so good. So fucking tight.”

“Michael,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He chuckled softly, withdrawing his fingers completely only to push them back in. “That’s the idea, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Gotta make sure it takes. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “God, yes.”

His lips brushed your shoulder, a tender contrast to the filthy things he was doing to you. “Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers curling inside you one last time before he pulled them out. “Stay like that for a minute. Let gravity do its thing.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling as you stayed in the position he’d put you in. His hand stroked over your back, soothing and gentle, and you could feel the warmth of his smile even without looking at him.

"I was gone for like half an hour." You told him.

Michael complained. "Half an hour too long."

You chuckled. "You're so dramatic. Now help me unpack these groceries."

"Just a man in love." He muttered under his breath as he took out a bag of cheerios. "My favorite."

"Of course, I know you." You put the fruits in the fridge.

The two of you worked together in sync as you put the remaining groceries away.

"You know, Kathy's Halloween party is coming up." Michael informed you.

"Oh, we should do couple costumes." You unpacked the groceries.

Michael looked at you as if you had grew two heads. "Couple costumes?"

"Mhm." You nodded. "You can be sully and I'll be Mike, from monsters inc."

"From monsters inc? You want me to wear a onsie like a toddler." Michael groaned.

You laughed loudly at his remark.

"Babe, it's not funny." He whines. "I can't be diminished to a onsie."

"Okay, okay," You sighed. "How about SpongeBob and Patrick?"

"... who gets to be Patrick?" Michael asked.

Your silence was enough of an answers.

"Babe, cmon!" He exclaimed.

"Patrick isn't that bad." You argued.

Michael wrapped his arms around you.

"You're insinuating that your big, strong, and tall boyfriend is dumb." He hide his face in your neck.

You sighed in his arms. "I just want costumes that will for you, mainly your height but still you."

Michael's expression softened at your words.

"And I appreciate you for caring." He kisses your shoulder.

"I'm just not liking your suggestions right now."

You nodded. "Wanna do something scary instead?" Your voice was more quieter than before.

Michael murmured. "Corpse bride?"

Your eyes lit up. "Really?"

He nodded in response.

"Let's see if you have a suit like Victor." You walked to your shared bedroom, Michael still clinging onto you.

"You know I do." He snorted.

"Maybe Spider-Man and Gwen Stacy would be good." You looked through the closet.

"It would, you'd make a good Gwen." He kissed your neck. "Real good."

"Oh or Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Too many good options." You complained.

Michael chuckled at your indecisiveness.

"Are we still settled on corpse bride?" He asks.

You shrugged. "Maybe, definitely. For this party."

"And for the team?" Michael questioned.

"You can choose." You took Michael's suit off the hanger. "Perfect."

Michael smiled. "I get to choose? You're gonna regret that, babe."

"Let me guess, batman and joker." You snickered.

"You always ruin the surprise." Michael grinned.