ㅤㅤ✶ you get hurt
❛ mature era michael & pregnant!reader
in which╵his spouse accidentally injuries herself, and he makes no light of the matter.
contents╵obviously female portrayal. exactly, age gap. slightly suggestive! but mostly just michael fussing over mama and perhaps a bit too fond of the feeling of sharing a baby with you. subtle breeding king undertones if you squint.
Though the mirror suggested otherwise, you couldn’t bring yourself to see anything dramatic in it. In your eyes, it was something that could easily pass for a cat scratch, except you didn't actually have a cat. Just a thin red horizontal line. Not even bleeding anymore. Barely enough to call a wound, most likely the kind to be gone in a week.
You sucked in sharply as your thumb grazed the bone of your slightly injured hip before quickly tugging down the satiny fabric of your gown. Your mouth curled slightly, the impact still throbbing beneath your skin. Silence dragged on as you confronted your reflection and the goddamn stool toppled over on the white tiles.
Contemplation always seemed to elude you before making decisions. Your attempt to fetch the record box by yourself proved to be yet another miserable case in point—you didn’t even register the moment you slipped backward, only to crash catastrophically onto your side and catch yourself on the vanity handle.
The distant scrape of the door latch chilled the life out of your legs in a matter of seconds. It only got worse as you heard Michael call your name tenderly.
Try as you might to answer, nothing came out in the next beat. Instead, you sent the stool hurtling under the sink with a solid kick.
The muted footsteps behind the slightly ajar bathroom door faltered momentarily, and you could practically picture Michael's face scrunching up from the spot. “Lovely?”
“Be right there, honey. Just a sec.”
Unfortunately, the hesitation in your reply was a terrible giveaway.
You stepped into the hallway just as your husband's pace had quickened right past the faux serenity of your words, a paradoxically sincere smile on your face as you traced his silhouette in the shadows of the apartment. Recently, you’d been using your—admittedly rare, given the small swell of your stomach—alone time to dim the lighting to as many candles or table lamps as possible, day or night it be. You claimed it kept you level-headed in the face of your emotional upheaval, and of course, there was absolutely no complaint that could be levelled at you.
Michael unwound at the sight of your cute, pink pajamas. Your belly was the first point of contact for his hands, skimming the curve of your waist while a pair of fingers at the small of your back sowly brought you closer. The heady scent of musk drunk your senses.
“How’s my lady keepin’?” He purred. The same words arose regularly, often standing in for any ordinary greeting. A symptom of how much of his mind was given over to caring for you.
You nodded from deep in your throat. “I missed you.”
While that was your equivalent to a ‘hello.’
“Missed you more, sweetheart,” He conferred, nuzzling your neck to kiss it.
A little titter on your part faded halfway through at the slight change in his hand placement. You forced out an awkward cough when his palms slid lower onto your hips—and, therefore, painfully fresh cut.
He did not miss your sudden stiffness. After a brief pause of recognition, his gaze dropped to your belly on instinct. A sudden, disquieted note as he lowly spoke, “What is it?”
You moved your hands up to his shoulders, trying to maintain closeness. “Nothing, Mike, he's fine."
"Are you?"
You nodded again, unconcerned. Michael breathed softly as he took your earlier move of proximity a step further, his lips gently caressing yours as though every inch of your body aside from the one bearing his baby were also made of glass.
But so soon his thumb dug down into your hipbone, you chomped down on his lip by accident.
Instead of flinching in the least, he leaned back and gave you a look that, the longer it lasted, the more your knees went weak.
“Are you hurt, sweetheart?”
You clicked your tongue dejectedly, your guileful demeanor shedding its pretense as thus far so effortlessly at the familiar edge of the question. Not overbearing nor stern, nor did it in any way rise above the bounds of that usual adoration normally fluttering around you. Yet you never failed to yield. It was the suddenly perceptive stillness with which he searched for any sign that might prove his hunch, too incorriginly prone to ring true. Like right now.
“It was the smallest, most pathetic of falls imaginable." You surrendered, your confidence flagging as you looked away, and then back at him. And then back at the farthest reaches of the walls. Then, inch by inch, finally back at him again.
Michael stared, the sternness so palpable you began to notice blood pooling in your fingertips.
“The smallest ever.”
The thumb he had pressed on the area initiated feather-like strokes, displeasingly confirming your confession in the way your face winced at the touch. Without further probing, he lifted your nightgown just enough to make skin-to-skin contact.
“Oww, careful, careful...“
“Alright, angel. Does it hurt?” You knew he wouldn’t see much in the poor light. He carefully mapped the subtle irregularity in the smoothness of your skin, your spine titillated by the cold, coarse tips of his fingers. “How'd you manage this, mh?”
Your face flushed with humiliation. “…I went looking through the tray records for the doctor's appointments. Up on the shelf."
Michael didn't seem any the happier with your explanation, a sigh through his nose stirring some sense of inadequacy in you.
Your throat vibrated with a grumble. “C'mon babe, that's just a scratch. I did not lose a limb.”
“And yet you couldn't give it twenty minutes and let me do it for you." A rebuttal that inevitably set you straight.
"Probably around fort—"
"Still could’ve waited for me, couldn't you, lovely?"
Your lips pressed together, embarrassment welling up now that you'd noticed the amused look taking shape on your face, at odds with your husband's obvious solemnity.
“…’Kay. But honestly, it's only a scratch.” Right. Your temple nestled against his shoulder as you watched intently. Michael’s hands deftly manoeuvered through the domestic medical supplies and down to your hip, occasionally swapping out the iodine-stained gauze pads for clean ones.
You couldn’t quite understand the point of using more than a couple of them. Or using iodine at all.
A blotchy brownish smear now covered the spot you'd bumped, unevenly.
Michael dabbed at it with the cotton swab, surprisingly sure-handed for someone with virtually no first-aid knowledge or any overall medical expertise.
You’d already protested twice. He wouldn't listen, squeezing more firmly around your underarms instead. Your inner wrist brushed gently against his jaw, bristly with stubble. “Mike, hun... I think that’s enough. Dr. Jackson can stand down now.”
“Let me take care of it, baby.” His hot breath against your ear. “You've been so clumsy. What am I gonna do?"
You couldn't keep your lips from twisting shyly, already leaning in to press them affectionately to him—however, you hadn't quite closed the gap when he captured your chin, tilting it to the perfect angle to properly kiss you. A laugh escaped you when he stopped. "I think you're enjoying this a little too mu—"
The piece of cotton dangled neglected between two of his other fingers while he slowly kissed you shut, an alcohol-scented trail wafting into your nostrils.
His guarding touch dragged up your thigh to your hand, which kept a loose fist on the hem of your flannel to give him a clear view. Your chest vibrated annoyngly when his mouth suddenly left yours. “Here, baby, let me," replacing your hold with his own.
Before you could say anything, Michael diligently resumed the task at hand, now holding the fabric up himself as he lightly petted the soft material over the bruise.
You traced your tongue along your gums, breathing out a smile as your muscles melted back into his chest, both of you on your marital bed.
"Try not to scare me like that again, hm?"
“Fine. I’ll just strap myself to the couch.”
Michael's snarl resented the irony in your voice, which you found nothing but charming. But he met your gaze and you were struck by the same solemnity as before, so you quickly recomposed. “Hey,”
His hand hovered in midair, attending. It was a farcical discrepancy seeing its large proportions against the tiny gauze.
“We’ll be fine, dad. It was just a dumb little accident."
You could so plainly see the muddled and yet quiet fervor writing across his face at your choice of nickname, leaving you temporarily transfixed as you contemplated the endearing onslaught of emotion.
“Oh, boy." He reached for your jaw, your body tilting forward to his grasp. “I'd like t'hear that again.”
“Say what?”
He kissed you on the lips. As he broke not far off, your raised brow of mock innocence hid how much you had suddenly begun to enjoy this.
You tasted it in your mouth. “Dad?”
He hummed, a mellifluous tune to your ears. You started to entertain the idea of spending the whole day teasing him with the name, just to enjoy the novelty of his barely contained reactions.
Michael leaned in to take your lips again, his body warmth more tangible against you—the cotton bit finally cast aside onto some plush game-themed pillow that adorned the duvet. The hand once keeping your gown up now released to cradle your head before pushing you, still ever so gently, onto the wooden headboard, his knuckles cushioning the brunt of impact.
“Being my wife looks great on you, but—” you boldly interjected, bringing him back into the kiss. A tenor “hmh” in response. “God, I love you like this, baby. Lookin' so sweet... doing so good for our baby."
Your bottom half shuddered at the praise. “It has a nice look on you, too.” words mouthed to his parted lips.
A sense of accomplishment settled over you as his teeth lightly sank into your plump bottom flesh, his tongue inadvertently delving deep into the warmth of your mouth shortly after to hungrily lap up every inch. He briefly separated.
"You're makin' it pretty hard for me to stop at one, ain't you, pretty girl?” Your legs already enveloping him, calves pressing down on his bent shoulders. “Soo hard…”
The way your big, dewy eyes gazed up at him, drinking in every syllable he uttered—he pressed down on you a third time, both your bodies weighing down the centre of the mattress, one hand cupping your tummy as he wormed his way beneath the straps of your skimpy thong. “Such a clumsy head... you deserve a little looking after after all that. M' gonna need to keep a closer eye on you to ward off your risky ways.”
His head already trailed down your torso, steadying you against the wall with a palm beside the curve of your breast. He lingered just enough to plant a peck on your hip, sending the night’s very first shiver up your spine.
“You tell me if it's sore, baby."
But you'd pretty much already forgotten about your hip.
author's note╵a quick scribble that came to mind to my moon my man. i will be getting your requests! ik what you dirty hoes are thinking xoxo,
© feverrootlips 2026
