#rough dom

you had been waiting for a night like this one for what felt like an eternity.

not dramatically. just in the quiet, constant way that had become familiar over the past couple of months. the low ache under your ribs every time he left for the studio with that soft, almost apologetic look and the same request: “stay tonight, please.”

he always asked. even when he already knew he would barely see you. even when the album was eating up every free hour, he asked, as if the house needed your body in it to keep from becoming completely empty… and you kept saying yes. you slept in his bed more nights than not. you learned the particular silence of neverland after dark when the staff had gone and the only sound left was the distant ticks of clocks scattered throughout the property.

the rooms stayed too quiet. your own footsteps started to sound wrong in the long hallways. you had begun leaving lights on in places you didn’t need them, just so the dark wouldn’t feel so absolute when he still wasn’t home.

tonight was supposed to be different.

michael had dismissed the staff early. the main house settled into that rare, soft quiet that only happened when he decided the world could wait. dinner was simple and late. you sat across from him at the small table near the windows as the last light drained from the sky. he barely ate. mostly he moved the food around with his fork, offering you small, tired smiles that reached his eyes for a second before the fatigue took him somewhere else.

the room was quiet enough that you could hear the soft scrape of his fork against the plate. you watched the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, the way his attention kept drifting past the glass into whatever version of the album was living behind his eyes. the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. it was just familiar. the kind that had been growing for months. the kind that made you feel like you were sitting with a memory of him instead of the real thing.

you tried not to fill it. you had learned that filling the silence only made him retreat further.

afterward, you followed him into the sitting room without asking. he dropped onto the long couch with a low exhale that sounded like it had been waiting to escape all day. you curled into his side immediately, tucking your bare feet under his thigh the way you always did when you needed to get as close as possible. he let you. the couch was soft and deep, the fabric worn smooth under your bare legs. his body was warm against you, but the rest of the room felt cool.

after a while, his hand came down to settle at the curve of your neck, thumb stroking once, absently. the heat of his palm against your skin felt like the first real thing that had happened all evening.

he put on a charlie chaplin film. the black and white picture flickered in the corner in silence. normally he watched these with a quiet, almost boyish delight. tonight his gaze rested on the screen without really seeing it. he didn’t smile at the parts he usually smiled at. he just sat there, warm and solid against you, present in body yet somewhere else entirely in his head.

you stayed quiet for as long as you could stand it, breathing in the faint trace of cologne that still clung to his shirt. your fingers traced slow patterns over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart under the soft fabric. almost no real time with him had left you starving for exactly this. the weight of his arm. the sound of his breathing. the simplicity of him not moving away.

you pressed closer and turned your face into the warm skin on the side of his neck, and michael tipped his head just enough to give you more of it. when you placed a soft kiss there, his hand tightened briefly in your hair. a small, instinctive response that made something in your chest loosen for a second.

but he still wasn’t laughing at the film.

the longer you sat there, the more you noticed the tiny absences. the way his fingers would still completely in your hair for several seconds at a time, like his mind had left the room. the way his breathing would go slightly shallow, then deepen again when he came back. those small disappearances hurt more than the longer ones. they made you feel like you were holding onto someone who was already halfway gone, even while his arm stayed around you. you had been living inside that feeling for months; invited to stay, asked to be here, and then left reaching for someone who was only partly present.

you tried again. you shifted closer, sliding one hand up to rest against the side of his face. he leaned into the touch for a moment, eyes still on the screen.

he didn’t come back.

after another few minutes, you lifted your head enough to look at him properly.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

michael blinked like the question had pulled him back from somewhere far away. he looked down at you, and the smile he gave you then was real. small, but real.

“just tired,” he said. his voice was low and rough around the edges. “long couple of weeks.”

you nodded against his shoulder even though the answer didn’t fully settle.

you settled back against him and let the film keep playing. his fingers resumed their slow path through your hair. you kept your face tucked against his chest and tried to memorize the feeling of finally having him still for more than ten consecutive minutes.

the chaplin film ended. michael got up to put on another one without asking. the second film started. the light from the screen flickered across the side of his face. you watched him for a while instead of the picture, studying the tired line of his mouth, the way his lashes sat against his cheek when he blinked too slowly. he was beautiful in the low light. he was also somewhere else. you reached for his hand where it rested on his thigh and laced your fingers through his. he let you. his thumb stroked once over your knuckles and then went still again.

you stayed like that longer than you expected, holding his hand and listening to him breathe and trying not to need more than he was giving. the desperation sat right under your skin, quiet and constant. you wanted him to look at you the way he used to before the album swallowed everything. you wanted him to laugh at the film. you wanted him to pull you closer like he meant it instead of like he was simply allowing it. you wanted, more than anything, to feel chosen instead of allowed.

eventually he pressed a brief kiss to the top of your head and sat forward with a quiet sound of reluctance.

“i need to finish one thing in the office before bed,” he said. his voice was almost apologetic. “give me a little bit, baby. i won’t be long, i promise.”

you nodded even as something in your stomach tightened. he stood, and the sudden loss of his warmth left the couch feeling too big. you watched him walk to the doorway without looking back. the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.

you sat alone on the couch for a long time after that, while the film kept playing to no one. you could still feel the place where his hand had rested in your hair. you could still feel the shape of his fingers between yours. the longer you stayed, the more the quiet started to press in. the house felt larger again. the rooms beyond the sitting room seemed to stretch farther than they had a few hours ago. you thought about getting up and going to bed. you thought about waiting right there on the couch until he came back. neither option felt right.

eventually you stood and walked back to the bedroom.

his large black shirt was draped over the chair where he had left it earlier. you pulled it on without thinking. the fabric was soft and worn and still held the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the clean soap he used. it hung to your knees and slipped off one shoulder the way it always did. you weren’t wearing anything underneath. you climbed into the big bed, sat against the headboard, and tried to wait.

twenty minutes later, the restlessness won.

you decided you were going to find him. you were going to walk down the long hallway in nothing but his shirt, push the office door open, and climb into his lap before he could finish whatever was keeping him from coming back to you. you wanted to take his mind off whatever had been sitting so heavy on him all night. you wanted his hands under the hem. you wanted the low sound he made when he realized you were already bare for him. you wanted to be the thing that pulled him out of the fog, even if only for a little while, even if he went right back into it afterward.

you needed it more than you wanted to admit, so you left the bedroom with the decision still warm in your chest.

the only light in the hallway leaving his bedroom came from the small nightlights left on low, the way the staff always left them. neverland at this hour felt like a held breath. vast and completely still. your bare feet were quiet on the carpet. his oversized shirt brushed against your legs as you walked, the cool breeze from your movement sliding under the hem and teasing the soft skin of your inner thighs.

with every step you took, the more the image of him brushing his fingers up your soft thighs and touching your aching heat filled your mind.

the thought of it made the anticipation and hope sharper, and more desperate at the same time. you told yourself he would look up when you opened the door. you told yourself that if you could just get close enough, if you could get his hands under the shirt, you could still be the thing that brought him the rest of the way home.

the office door was closed, but not all the way. a thin line of warmer light spilled into the hallway.

and then you heard his voice.

it was soft.

not the voice he used with the engineers, or the dancers, or the people who needed something from him. this was the private register, the one that only came out when the armor was off and he thought no one was listening. it was lower. warmer. there was a quiet almost-laugh in it, the kind he rarely gave you anymore.

“…no, it’s better now,” michael said, and the fondness in it made something cold slide under your chest. “you were right about the layering. i didn’t hear it until you said it.”

a pause. the soft creak of his chair. the quiet shift of fabric as he settled deeper into it.

“it’s so good talking to you.” another quiet breath, almost like relief. “yeah. i needed that.”

the words were simple. they shouldn’t have gutted you. but the way he said them, like whatever was on the other end of the line was giving him something he couldn’t get from you, made your stomach drop so hard you felt dizzy. your fingers tightened in the hem of his shirt. the hallway suddenly felt too narrow.

you didn’t stay for more.

you turned around before he could hang up, before the softness could turn into goodbye, before you heard his actual laugh. his shirt against your skin felt heavier with every step. the air in the hallway felt thinner. by the time you reached the bedroom again, your pulse was loud in your ears.

you climbed back into the bed the way you had left it. you sat against the headboard and pulled the shirt down over your thighs, smoothing the soft black fabric as if it could somehow cover what you had just heard. the residual cold in your chest hadn’t left. it sat there quietly, waiting, spreading. you could still hear the soft shape of his voice in your head. the words kept replaying, gentle and private and not meant for you.

the clock on his nightstand read 1:51 when you heard his footsteps coming down the hall.

he pushed the door open quietly, the way he always did when he thought you might already be asleep. he was still in the black sweatpants from after dinner, the long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows. his small cell phone was in his hand. he walked straight to the nightstand, set it face down on the wood with a soft click, and then looked at you.

“you’re still up.”

his voice was normal again. the private softness was gone, scrubbed clean. the contrast made your throat tighten.

“couldn’t sleep,” you said. your own voice came out thinner than you wanted. smaller.

he nodded once, reached up and dragged a hand through his long dark hair, then glanced toward the bathroom.

“i’m gonna take a two minute shower,” he said. “then bed?”

there was no real question in it. no pause to see if you needed anything. he was already turning away. you watched him walk into the bathroom. you listened to the door click shut. you listened to the water start. the sound of it filled the room and somehow made the silence between you feel even larger.

the phone was right there on the nightstand.

you stared at it. the way it sat so casually where he had left it, as if there was nothing on it that could hurt you. the water continued to run. your pulse continued to climb. the twisting feeling in your stomach continued to settle deeper.

you lasted eleven seconds.

your fingers closed around it before the decision finished forming. you touched the tiny keyboard, causing the small green-tinted screen to light up, bright in the low light of the lamp. the call log was still open, like he never bothered to close it. like it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone might look.

elena.  

outgoing.  

1:06 a.m. – 1:47 a.m.  

41 minutes.

it sat there clean and undeniable. forty-one minutes of the soft voice you had just overheard. forty-one minutes of it’s good talking to you, and i needed that while you were down the hall in his shirt, planning to climb into his lap and pull him back to you. while you had been telling yourself that tonight was different, that if you were just patient enough and soft enough the distance might finally loosen its grip, but he had found whatever he needed in someone else’s voice.

you sat there with the phone in your hand, your favorite shirt of his hanging off one shoulder, the entire quiet weight of neverland pressing in through the windows. the hurt was no longer sharp. it had become something heavier, something that lived in your chest and made breathing feel like work.

you set the phone back down exactly where he had left it: face down, slightly angled toward the lamp, like nothing had been touched. your hands were steady when you did it. they only started shaking after the screen went dark and the evidence was hidden again.

you sat up against the headboard and waited. the shirt still smelled like him. the fabric had gone slightly warm from your skin. the only sound was the water running in the bathroom, steady and distant.

after another minute, the water shut off. there was the soft sound of the shower door opening, the rustle of a towel being pulled from the rack, the quiet pad of his bare feet on the tile. then the bathroom door opened, and the warmer light spilled into the bedroom for a second before he stepped through and closed it behind him.

he was wearing only a large towel. it hung low on his hips, knotted carelessly on one side. his hair was longer than it had been the year before, the soft dark curls still wet and clinging to the back of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw. tiny beads of water tracked down the center of his chest, eventually disappearing underneath the towel. the scent of his soap moved into the room with him; clean and familiar. the same scent that usually made you want to press your face into his neck.

he looked at you immediately, and whatever your face showed made him pause for half a second in the doorway.

he didn’t ask right away.

he walked to the dresser, opened the second drawer, and pulled out a pair of soft black pajama pants. he turned slightly toward you as he loosened the towel, dropping it to the floor without a second thought. he stepped into the pants bare, pulled them up over his hips, and tied the drawstring with slow, deliberate movements. only when the knot was finished did he glance over at you again.

his voice was quiet. careful.

“you okay?”

the question sat in the air between you for a long moment.

you looked at him, and the soft voice you had overheard in the hallway rose in your throat like something you might choke on.

“who’s elena?”

he went still.

not the sharp, defensive stillness of someone already prepared for a fight. this was slower. genuine surprise first, then something that looked almost like disbelief.

“what?”

“elena,” you repeated. your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “you were on the phone with her for forty-one minutes. who is she?”

his eyes moved from your face to the phone on the nightstand and back again. he didn’t pretend not to understand.

“you went through my phone.”

it wasn’t a question.

“yes,” you said flatly. “it was eating me alive. i had to know who you were speaking to like that.”

“speaking like…” he said it slowly, like he was still putting the pieces together. “you listened? you stood out there and listened to my conversation.”

you didn’t deny it.

something shifted in his expression. the surprise was still there, but anger was moving in underneath it now, cleaner and sharper than the earlier tiredness. he took a step closer to the bed, then stopped.

“i already have to worry about everyone else invading every private second of my life,” he said, voice low. “now i have to worry about you doing it too?”

“you lied to me,” you spit out.

“i told you i needed to finish one thing—”

“you didn’t mention you were going to call another woman in the middle of the night,” you pushed the covers the rest of the way off your legs and sat forward. the shirt slid further down one shoulder. “that’s a lie by omission, and you know it.”

he was stopped at the foot of the bed. close enough that you could see the last drops of water still clinging to his collarbone. close enough that the clean scent of his soap reached you again. the air between you felt tight, almost warm from how close he was standing. you could hear the soft, controlled sound of his breathing. the lamp on the nightstand threw a low gold light across the side of his face, catching on the damp ends of his hair.

the proximity made it worse. your body still wanted him even while your chest felt tight with anger. you hated that most of all.

“i didn’t lie.”

“you did.” the words came out harder this time.

he exhaled through his nose. the sound was pure irritation.

“you’re exhausting when you’re like this.”

“i’m exhausting because i don’t like being lied to?”

“you’re exhausting because you invent problems when there aren’t any and then force me to stand here and defend myself against your imagination.”

you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood. the shirt fell to your knees again. you felt completely exposed under it. bare. small. ridiculous.

“my imagination,” you repeated. “that’s what we’re calling the call log now.”

“the call happened. the meaning you’re giving it didn’t.” he paused, dragging his hand across his jaw in frustration. “you went through my phone. you stood outside my door and eavesdropped on my conversation. and now you’re sitting there looking at me like i did something to you.” his voice stayed low, but there was real heat in it now. “what exactly do you think happened, huh? what story did you convince yourself of while you were going through my things?”

“i don’t know,” you said, the words coming out thinner than you wanted. “i just know it didn’t sound like nothing. you were soft with her. i could hear it in your voice. you laughed at something she said like it was easy. forty-one minutes of easy.”

for a second, he only stared at you. the irritation was still there, but something more focused moved in underneath it. like he was forcing himself back into order.

“she’s someone i’ve known a long time. longer than i’ve known you,” he said finally. “she’s helping with some of the vocal ideas. that’s all. it was nothing. it was work.”

you let out a short, humorless breath.

“that wasn’t a work call.”

his eyes narrowed.

“yes, it was.”

“no.” your voice had gone quieter, but it was harder now. “that was a relief call. that was you needing a break from me. you called her because you didn’t want to deal with whatever this is right now. you didn’t call her about a song. you called her because you needed to talk to someone who doesn’t make you feel the way i do.”

the words sat in the air between you.

you watched them land. watched the way his expression tightened, then closed.

“you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

you let out an air-filled laugh. his shirt had slipped further down your shoulder. you didn’t fix it.

“then explain it to me,” you said. “explain why you needed forty-one minutes with someone else at almost two in the morning. explain why you can be soft with her and then come in here and go cold again. explain why the second things get quiet you go looking for someone who isn’t me.”

his jaw flexed. the muscle jumped under the skin.

“you’re really doing this again?” he asked. the control was starting to fray. “every time i take one breath that isn’t about you, you decide it means something. i needed to talk to someone who wasn’t already waiting to turn every little thing into a problem.”

“someone easier. someone who doesn’t see you.”

the words came out quieter than the ones before them. they still landed.

he went still.

“that’s what this is,” you continued. your voice had started to shake, and you hated it. “you let me close enough to see how lonely you are and then you punish me for seeing it. you go looking for someone who doesn’t know the weight of you. someone easier. someone who doesn’t notice when you disappear.”

“stop.”

“no.” you took a step closer. the floorboard under the edge of the rug creaked. “i think i’m the only person who actually sees you, and it scares the shit out of you. so you go find someone who doesn’t care enough to notice.”

for a second, the only sound in the room was the faint tick of the clock and the wind moving against the large windows of his bedroom. you watched the words hit him.

when he spoke again, his voice was lower. colder.

“you think you understand me. you think because i let you into my bed and my schedule and the private parts of this life that you somehow earned the right to diagnose me. the right to invade my privacy.” his eyes had gone dark. “you went looking for a reason to be angry, and then you made one up out of thin air. that’s not me leaving. that’s on you.”

he let out a short, angry breath.

you watched the way his jaw tightened, the way something cold and final settled behind his eyes. whatever he was about to say, you could already feel it cutting.

“it’s immature,” he said. “going through my phone, standing outside the door listening. turning one conversation into some big betrayal. it’s immature, and it’s exhausting.”

the words hit with enough force that your ears rang for a second.

“fuck you,” you said.

the two words came out quiet and precise.

he blinked once, like he hadn’t expected them. then something in his expression shifted; not softer. darker. the kind of focus that made the air in the room feel thinner.

“say that again,” he said.

your pulse was already too high. the anger was still there, hot and sharp, but underneath it something else had started to move, something that had been sitting under the entire fight, waiting.

“fuck. you.”

he closed the space between you in two slow steps, arriving so close that you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him. the warm scent of his skin hit you like a freight train. you hated how much your body still reacted to it. you hadn’t felt this much of his attention in weeks. the type of attention that was charged and locked completely on you; it made your composure crumble.

your breath had gone shallow. you felt it happen, and you couldn’t stop it. the small, traitorous catch in your chest, the way your thighs pressed together under his shirt for half a second before you forced them still. heat had already started gathering low in your stomach, slow and heavy, and the thin fabric of the shirt suddenly felt too rough against your skin.

your pulse was visible in your throat. when you swallowed, the sound was soft but unmistakable in the quiet room. his eyes flicked down, tracking all of it. the tight breath, the shift of your thighs, the way your nipples had gone tight under the soft black cotton… and when they came back up, something darker had settled in them.

“you’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“i’m angry.”

“is that what we’re calling it?” he murmured. his eyes dropped to your mouth for a second, then came back. “interesting.”

for a second, neither of you moved. the fight was still all over both of you. every accusation. every wound. it had nowhere left to go, except into the small amount of space still left between your bodies.

his hand came up, not fast, and he brushed his knuckles along the edge of the shirt where it had slipped off your shoulder, watching the path of his own fingers like he was deciding something. the contact was light, but it still sent a slow current straight down your spine.

“you want to keep fighting,” he said, voice rough now, “or do you want me to shut you up?” his hand slid from your shoulder up the side of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse so he could feel exactly how fast it was going.

the question was filthy in its simplicity. the heat flared low in your stomach, sharp and completely honest. you hated that he could still do this to you. you hated that the answer was already in your body before it reached your mouth.

he moved his thumb over your pulse slowly, and when you didn’t back away, he tightened his hand slightly, just enough to drag you forward by his grip on the side of your neck until your mouths collided. the kiss was nothing like the ones he’d given you when he was being soft or careful. it was all teeth and leftover venom from the fight.

he walked you backward without breaking the kiss, one hand locked on your throat, the other shoved under the hem of his shirt to grab onto your bare hip. your shoulder blades hit the cool glass of the window with enough force to knock a small sound out of you. the temperature contrast made you shiver: the chilled surface against your back, the heat of his bare chest sealing you in from the front.

you made a small, broken sound against his lips and he answered it by pushing closer, tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you flush against him. you could feel how hard he already was. the knowledge sent another pulse of heat between your legs, humiliating and electric.

the anger was still sitting under your skin, sharp and useless, while your body opened for him like it had been waiting for exactly this.

his hand on your hip moved to find you completely bare underneath the shirt. two of his long fingers slid between your legs without any warning, and the sound he made when he felt how wet you already were was filthy. low. almost disgusted with how much he liked it.

“jesus christ. you’re soaked. standing here calling me a liar meanwhile you were dripping down your thighs for me.”

he didn’t ease into it. he pushed those two fingers inside you in one thick, deliberate stroke and curled them hard against the front wall. your head knocked back against the glass with a soft thud. a choked, helpless noise left your throat before you could swallow it.

“that’s it,” he said, voice low and mean right against your cheek. “make that noise again. let me hear what all that righteous anger sounds like when i’ve got my fingers buried inside you.”

he fucked you with his hand right there against the window, rough and relentless, the slick, filthy sound of it loud in the quiet room. the heel of his palm ground against your clit on every inward thrust. his other hand stayed on your throat the entire time, thumb stroking the frantic pulse under your jaw.

“you went through my phone,” he said, almost conversational, while his fingers kept working you open with that same punishing rhythm. “stood there looking at me like i betrayed you. and look at you now. spreading your legs the second i touch you. dripping down my wrist.”

you tried to speak. it came out as a moan that cracked in the middle. he laughed under his breath, dark and satisfied. he pulled his fingers out slowly so you could feel every inch of the loss. they were shiny under the low lamplight, coated in you. he lifted them between your faces so you had no choice but to see.

“open.”

you did. without hesitation. he pushed both fingers into your mouth, and you tasted yourself. he watched your lips close around them with an expression of pure possession.

“suck. taste how wet you got while you were calling me lonely.”

you obeyed even while a tiny part of you still wanted to scream at him. the contradiction sat heavy in your chest as you sucked his fingers, tongue working between them. a thin strand of saliva connected his fingers to your bottom lip when he finally pulled them free. he wiped it across your mouth with his thumb and then kissed you again, deep and claiming, tasting yourself on your own tongue.

while his mouth was still on yours, you dropped. your knees hit the carpet, soft but sudden. you kept your eyes on his as you reached up, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pajama pants. you dragged them down his hips, freeing his hard and thick cock, which was already leaking a clear bead at the tip.

he looked down at you for a long second, something dark and approving moving behind his eyes.

“such a good girl,” he said, voice low and rough. “didn’t even need to tell you. so eager for me.”

one hand came to the side of your face, thumb brushing once along your cheek before settling under your jaw, tipping your head back just enough. he pushed his cock between your lips with a low, controlled exhale. the stretch of your mouth around the thickest part of him burned in the best way. he groaned at the feeling. low, almost pained, and the sound went straight between your legs, another pulse of wetness slipping out of you.

he held you there, nose pressed to the warm skin of his stomach, until your eyes watered and your throat fluttered around him. only then did he pull back just enough to let you drag in a rough breath before pushing in again. the rhythm he set was deliberate and deep from the start. spit started to run down your chin. your eyes kept watering. he never looked away from your face.

“that’s it,” he said above you, voice rough and strained. “just like that. look at you… so fucking perfect like this.”

tears slipped from the corners of your eyes and tracked down toward your temples. he wiped one away with his thumb without ever slowing the pace of his hips, the gentleness of the gesture completely at odds with how deep he was pushing into your throat. the contrast made your heart rate skyrocket. you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper on the next stroke, just to hear the way his breath stuttered.

he pulled out suddenly. a thin, glistening string of spit connected your bottom lip to the head of his cock for a second before it broke and fell. you were gasping, chin wet, lips swollen and red. he was breathing hard too, chest rising and falling, the earlier anger still sitting under the surface but softened now into something hungrier.

“get on the bed.”

he stood over you while you climbed onto the bed with shaky legs, still breathing hard, the taste of him thick on your tongue. you scooted back toward the middle of the mattress, the oversized shirt riding up your thighs. he watched every movement like he was deciding how much of the fight he still wanted to punish out of you.

“lie back.”

you did, but slower than he wanted. a small, stubborn delay. his eyes narrowed.

he climbed onto the bed after you, knees spreading your legs open as wide as they could go. the shirt was still on. he didn’t take it off. he just shoved the fabric up past your hips and left it bunched under your breasts, so you stayed half-covered, and somehow more exposed by it. one hand pinned your thigh open. the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking once, slow, watching your face.

“still angry?” he asked, voice low.

you swallowed.

“yes.”

“good.” he dragged the head of his cock through the mess between your legs, coating himself in how wet you still were. “stay angry. i want to feel it when i fuck it out of you.”

he lined himself up and drove into you in one long, brutal stroke that punched the air straight out of your lungs. the stretch was sudden and perfect and almost too much. your back arched hard off the mattress, and a high, cracked sound tore out of you before you could stop it. he didn’t give you time to adjust. he set a hard, deep rhythm immediately, hips snapping forward like he was still answering every accusation you’d thrown at him.

“fuck. there it is. that’s the noise i wanted.” he pulled almost all the way out so you felt the drag of every ridge and vein, then slammed back in hard enough that the bed frame knocked against the wall. “still think i’m lonely? still think i need somebody else when i’ve got this tight little pussy wrapped around me like it never wants to let go?”

you tried to answer, but it came out as a filthy, desperate whimper. he laughed under his breath, dark, and drove into you harder.

“say something,” he ordered. “you had plenty to say five minutes ago.”

you dug your nails into the flexing muscles of his back hard enough to leave marks. he hissed through his teeth and fucked you harder for it, like the small pain only fed him. your words came out shaky and defiant at the same time.

“this still doesn’t make you any less of a liar.”

“say it again,” he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head, fingers locking tight around it. “say it while you’re full of me and see what happens.”

he kept the pace punishing. deep and angled precisely to drag against the spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges, deliberate, like he was trying to drag the fight out of your body through pure force. the wet slap of skin against skin filled the quiet room. your free hand continued to claw at his back. he didn’t slow down.

“look at me,” he said.

you did. his eyes were dark, focused, still carrying the edge of the argument, but something more possessive was at the forefront.

“you’re the only one who gets me like this,” he said, voice rough, almost angry about the admission. “you know that? the only woman in my bed. the only one i let see me when i’m like this.”

the words hit differently than the earlier cuts. they landed lower. your breath stuttered.

he felt it. his rhythm stayed hard, but the angle changed, deeper, more claiming.

“say it,” he muttered. “say you’re the only one.”

you shook your head once, still trying to hold onto the last of the anger, but your voice betrayed you.

“i’m the only one.”

“louder.”

“i’m the only one.” it came out broken. “you’re… fuck. you’re all mine.”

something in his expression cracked open at that. the last of the pure anger bled into something darker and more possessive. he dropped his forehead against yours, still fucking you in long, heavy strokes that made the headboard knock softly against the wall.

“that’s right,” he said, almost to himself. “all yours. and you’re going to take it.”

he released your wrist only to shift his weight, and he hooked one of your legs over his elbow, and the new angle made you sob openly. the slick, filthy sound of him driving into you was the only thing you could hear. the soft slap of it, mixed with the low broken noises you were making and the occasional sharp, controlled exhale from him.

sweat was starting to slick both of you. a drop fell from his temple onto your collarbone. the clean soap smell from his earlier shower was gone, replaced by the thicker, heavier scent of sex and warm skin and the faint metallic edge of leftover adrenaline from the argument. your hands slid down to his moving hips, feeling the powerful flex of muscle under smooth skin every time he thrust forward.

he pulled out without warning, causing you to make a desperate, needy sound of protest that would have embarrassed you any other night. he ignored it completely. before you could reach for him, he had already flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. the motion was effortless, almost careless. one second you were on your back, the next your face was pressed into the sheets and your hips were dragged up until you were face down, ass up, the oversized shirt still bunched under your chest.

he shoved the soft black fabric further up your back in one rough drag, exposing the full line of your spine. his palm settled between your shoulder blades, warm and heavy, and he pushed down until your chest was flush to the mattress and your ass was higher in the air. the position left you completely open. you felt the cool air against how wet you were, felt the way your thighs trembled trying to hold the angle.

“arch your back for me,” he said, voice low and rough. “deeper. let me see how good you take it.”

you did. you arched as deep as the hand between your shoulder blades would allow, presenting yourself. he made a dark, approving sound and lined himself up again. the head of his cock dragged through the mess between your legs once, twice, before he sank back into you in one thick, unforgiving stroke that forced a broken cry out of your throat.

the new angle was deeper; every time he pushed himself to the hilt, you could feel him in your stomach. his hand stayed planted between your shoulder blades, the other tangled in your hair, not pulling yet, just holding, using the grip to keep your back in that deep, obedient arch.

“that’s it,” he muttered. “just like that. good girl. taking me so fucking well.”

you could barely answer. every thrust punched little broken sounds out of you that you couldn’t swallow. your fingers clawed at the sheets. the pressure in your stomach was building too fast, too sharp, the earlier fight still sitting under your skin even as your body opened for him completely willingly and desperately.

he felt it. the way you started tightening around him. the way your thighs started to shake harder.

“you close already?” he asked, almost mean with it. “after all that anger you came at me with, you’re about to cum on my cock this fast?”

you tried to speak. it came out a desperate, high sound. he answered by fucking you harder, the hand in your hair finally tightening so he could pull your head back just enough to deepen the arch even further. the stretch of your throat, the burn in your scalp, the relentless drag of him inside you, it all stacked too high.

you finished hard around him, a full-body shudder that made your arms give out. the sound that left you was raw and helpless. he kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs were trembling and you were gasping into the sheets, oversensitive and still pulsing around him.

he pulled out before he could follow you over the edge.

the sudden emptiness made you whine. he didn’t give you time to recover. he flipped you onto your back again with the same effortless strength, climbing up your body until he was straddling your chest. his cock was slick, and he wrapped one hand around the base and used the other to tip your chin up, and slapped the tip against your lips.

you opened your mouth without him needing to say a word, and he fed his cock back into your mouth slowly this time, not thrusting, just letting you taste. the flavor of the two of you mixed together was thick and unmistakable: salt and heat and the evidence of how hard you’d just come for him. he held himself there, watching your lips stretch around him, watching the way your tongue moved under the head like you couldn’t help it.

“that’s it,” he said quietly, almost gently under the filth. “clean it up. taste what you just did to me.”

he stayed like that, not fucking your throat, just letting you clean him with your mouth while his free hand stroked your hair. the earlier anger had softened into something darker and more possessive, but the edge was still there; satisfied, claiming, and completely locked on you.

“good,” he murmured. “just like that. take your time.”

after a minute or two of letting you worship him with your tongue, he pulled free with a wet sound, moved back down your body, and pushed your thighs apart with both hands. for a second you thought he was going to fuck you again immediately. instead, he lowered his head between your legs and put his hot mouth on you without any warning.

the first long, flat lick made you cry out sharply. you were still sensitive from your orgasm, and his tongue was relentless. broad strokes over your swollen clit, then pointed and precise, then dipping lower to push inside and taste exactly where his cock had been minutes ago.

he ate you like he was starving and angry about how much he needed it at the same time. two fingers pushed back inside you while he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked in a steady, devastating rhythm. the dual sensation built another orgasm almost immediately, faster than you thought possible.

“fuck” was all you managed to get out as you slammed your thighs tight around michael’s face.

he lifted off of you for a second, just long enough to shove your thighs back down onto the mattress, opening you up again. his mouth was shiny. his eyes were dark.

“don’t you dare cum yet,” he warns, voice dripping with lust. “you cum when i say. not before. you hold it.”

you whimpered, already shaking, the edge so close it hurt. he watched your face for a second longer, making sure you understood, then dropped his head again.

this time he was even meaner with it. his tongue worked in tight, focused circles while his fingers curled hard against the front wall, dragging over the spot that made your vision blur. every time the pressure started to tip too far, he eased off just enough to keep you right on the edge, panting and trembling, your hands fisting the sheets.

“michael—” you choked out.

he hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.

“not yet.”

he kept you there, holding you open with his forearms, eating you like he had all the time in the world and zero intention of letting you fall until he decided. your thighs were shaking so hard the muscles burned. every breath came out broken. the need was so sharp it almost felt like pain.

“ask me nicely,” he commanded.

“please—” you choked out, the rest of your plea turning into loud moans as you started wiggling against his grasp, the sensation being too much.

“use your words.”

“please let me finish. please, michael, please. i need it. i’ll be a good girl, i promise.”

he sealed his mouth over your clit again, sucked hard, and curled his fingers deep.

“give it to me,” he ordered, voice rough and right against you. “right fucking now.”

your body broke on the command. the orgasm ripped through you so hard your back arched clean off the bed, a raw, helpless cry tearing out of your throat as you pulsed around his fingers. he stayed right there through all of it, licking and sucking every wave until you were shaking and oversensitive and trying to twist away.

only then did he slow down, pressing one last open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh while you tried to remember how to breathe.

“there it is,” he murmured. “that’s two. my turn, mama.”

he didn’t give you long to come down.

he moved up your body slowly this time, almost deliberate about it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he settled between your legs again. you were still trembling, thighs weak, the aftershocks of the second orgasm still flickering under your skin. he looked down at you for a long second: flushed, wrecked, lips parted, chest rising too fast. the sight made his cock twitch.

he hooked both of your knees over his elbows and folded you open, pressing your thighs back toward your chest until you were nearly bent in half. the stretch pulled at your hips. the position left you completely vulnerable, completely exposed. he held you there, looking down between your bodies at where you were still shiny and swollen from everything he’d already done to you.

“look at you,” he murmured, voice low. “still so wet. still open for me. so beautiful.”

he lined himself up and pushed in with one long, thick stroke that made you gasp and pull on his hair that was dangling in front of your face. the angle was devastating. he sank so deep you felt it in your stomach, every inch dragging against places that made your toes curl, and your back try to arch even in the folded position. a high, shattered sound tore out of your throat before you could stop it.

he stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, just breathing, letting you feel the full stretch of him. then his hand came back to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady. the light pressure was enough to make you flutter hard around his cock on instinct. the sudden clench dragged a low, rough sound out of him.

“fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping against yours for a second. “that’s it. just like that.”

he started to move.

slow at first. deep. every thrust rolled all the way in until his hips were flush against you, then dragged back out almost to the tip before pushing in again. you could feel every ridge, every thick inch, the way your body stretched to take him. his hand stayed on your throat the entire time, the steady pressure keeping you grounded while the rest of him took you apart.

“you wanted nasty,” he said, voice completely wrecked now. “you wanted a fight. you wanted to push until something broke. this is what you get. my cock rearranging you until you forget every single word you said.”

you tried to answer. the words came out broken and shaky as he bottomed out again.

“you were such a bad girl earlier. going through my phone. coming at me the way you did. and now look at you. all you can think about is how full you are. how deep i am.”

you shook your head weakly, barely able to form words. every thrust forced little helpless noises out of your throat that you couldn’t swallow. your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.

“say it,” he ordered, breath hot against your mouth. “tell me that’s all you can think about right now.”

“you—” you gasped as he ground against you especially deep. “you’re so deep i can’t. can’t think about anything else—”

“good girl,” he dropped his forehead against yours again, still rolling his hips in those long, deliberate strokes.

he kept the pace deep and measured on purpose, grinding against you on every inward thrust just to watch your face change. the third orgasm built slower this time, heavier, coiling low in your stomach and spreading outward until your thighs were trembling against his arms. every time he buried himself completely, you clenched around him harder, and every time you did, he made a low, satisfied sound like he could feel exactly how close you were.

“that’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. “squeeze me just like that. show me how sorry you are.”

his hand on your throat stayed light but constant, the pressure making everything feel sharper, more intense. you could feel your pulse against his palm. you could feel how hard he was inside you, how he still hadn’t cum, how every deep stroke seemed to push him closer too. the air between you felt thick. every breath mixed. every small sound you made seemed to pull another rough noise out of him.

“you’re getting so tight,” he said, voice starting to strain, the rhythm losing a little of its control. “i can feel you shaking. you’re close again, and i’ve barely been back inside you.”

you nodded frantically, eyes locked on his because he wouldn’t let you look away. the pressure in your stomach had become almost unbearable. every thrust dragged against the front wall, every grind of his hips pushed you closer, the hand on your throat keeping you right there in the moment with him.

“michael—” his name came out cracked and pleading.

“i know, baby. i know.” he drove into you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. “you’re gonna cum with me this time. i want to feel it. i want to feel it while i fill you up. don’t you dare look away.”

you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. his eyes were locked on yours, dark and focused and almost desperate under the control. the coil inside you kept tightening, low and heavy and relentless, until it felt like you were balanced on the edge of something that might ruin you.

“take it,” he ordered, voice rough and breaking. “take all of it. cum with me, mama. right now.”

you came with a raw, wrecked cry, your whole body locking up around him so hard it almost hurt. the way you clamped down dragged him right over the edge with you. he buried himself as deep as he could go with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you in thick, pulsing waves. you felt every single one of them; hot, heavy, flooding you while your body kept fluttering and squeezing around him like it was trying to pull him even deeper. the shared orgasm rolled through both of you in long, overlapping waves that seemed to last forever. your thighs shook hard against his arms. his forehead stayed pressed to yours. both of you were breathing like you’d been underwater for too long.

he stayed locked against you through all of it, hand still on your throat, cock still buried to the hilt, letting every aftershock pass between you. he stayed inside you for a long time after, longer than he needed to, like he wasn’t ready to break the connection yet.

neither of you spoke. the only sound in the room was the slow, uneven pull of your breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the nightstand. his hand had slipped from your throat at some point and now rested against the side of your neck, thumb stroking absently over your pulse like he was checking that it was coming down. his forehead remained pressed to yours. every few seconds one of you would shift the smallest amount and both of you would feel it; the residual heat, the wetness, the way your bodies were still soft and open and tangled together.

eventually he eased out of you with a quiet, careful sound. the loss made you flinch. he noticed. he always noticed.

“shh,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “i got you.”

he reached down between your bodies and gently wiped the mess from your thighs with the soft inside of the discarded towel from his shower, slow and thorough, like the act itself was part of the apology. only when you were clean did he guide your legs down from where they’d been folded against your chest, rubbing the faint ache out of your hips with warm, careful hands.

then he pulled his oversized black shirt back down over your body, smoothing the soft fabric over your stomach and thighs like he was tucking you back into something safe. only then did he shift onto his side and gather you into him.

you went willingly. your face found the warm hollow of his neck without thinking. his skin still smelled like clean soap and sex and the faint trace of cologne that always lived at the base of his throat. his hair was still slightly damp against your cheek, the soft curls brushing your temple every time he shifted.

one of his arms slid under your shoulders. the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the full length of his body until there was almost no space left between you. he even hooked one heavy leg over both of yours, the weight of him becoming its own kind of comfort.

for a while, he just held you like that, breathing you in. you felt the soft press of his mouth against the side of your neck, then higher, against the hinge of your jaw, like he was grounding himself the same way you were. his hand moved in long, absent strokes up and down your back. every so often he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, or your temple, or the damp hair at your hairline. the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. it was quiet in the way that felt earned.

then, soft against your hair:

“i’m sorry.”

the words were quiet. honest. no edge left in them.

he exhaled slowly, the breath warming the side of your face.

“i’m sorry i got so angry. and defensive.” his hand kept moving on your back, steady and gentle. “i should’ve just reassured you instead of shutting down. i love you, and i hate that i made you feel like you had to go looking for answers.”

you felt the apology settle somewhere deep in your chest. your fingers curled lightly against his collarbone.

“i’m sorry too,” you whispered into his neck. your voice came out small and a little rough. “i shouldn’t have gone through your phone. i should have trusted you. i just… i heard you laughing with her, and it scared me. i thought—”

his arm tightened around you immediately.

“hey.” he pulled back just enough to look at you. his eyes were soft in the low light, the earlier darkness completely gone. he lifted one hand and brushed a few strands of hair away from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “i’m not going anywhere. you hear me?”

you nodded, but he wasn’t finished.

“i’m not leaving you.” his thumb stroked once over your cheekbone. “she’s just someone i’ve worked with for a long time. that’s all it was. i promise.” he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the space between your brows. “you have nothing to worry about. not with me. not with this.”

the words landed deeper than you expected. something in your throat tightened. you closed your eyes and let yourself lean into the touch of his mouth against your skin.

he kept talking, voice low and steady, like he needed you to feel every word.

“you’re the one i come home to. you’re the one i ask to stay. you’re the one in my bed every night. i know the album has been taking too much of me. i know i’ve been distant. but none of that means i’m pulling away from you. it just means i’ve been tired and stupid about how i handle it.” his hand slid up into your hair, cradling the back of your head. “i’m still here. i’m still yours. nothing about that has changed.”

you turned your face further into his neck, breathing him in. the solid warmth of his body, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers kept moving gently through your hair… it all wrapped around the leftover fear and started to quiet it.

“i got so scared,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “talking to her sounded so easy. and things between us haven’t felt easy in a while.”

“i know.” he kissed the top of your head again. “and that’s my fault too. i should have been better about making sure you still felt chosen even when things get busy. i’m going to be better about it. i promise.”

he shifted slightly so he could pull the covers up over both of you. the sheets were cool at first, then warmed quickly from the heat of your combined bodies. he tucked them carefully around your shoulders, then settled you more firmly against his chest, one leg still draped heavily over yours so you were completely surrounded by him.

for a long time after that, he just held you. his hand kept up its slow path along your spine. every so often he would tip your chin up and kiss you; soft, closed-mouth, lingering kisses that had nothing to do with the earlier heat and everything to do with reassurance. you kissed him back the same way, slow and quiet, letting the tenderness settle into your bones. between the kisses, he kept murmuring things, half against your mouth, half against your skin. you could hear the whispers, little broken pieces of “i’ve got you” and “you’re safe” and “i’m right here.”

the house around you felt different now. the earlier emptiness had eased. the dark beyond the windows no longer felt quite so large. his heartbeat under your cheek was steady and real. the scent of his skin, the weight of his arm, the quiet way he kept murmuring soft things into your hair… all of it wrapped around you until the last of the fight finally loosened its grip.

you fell asleep like that, tucked against him under the covers, his hand still moving slowly up and down your back, his mouth occasionally brushing your temple in the dark.

and for the first time in weeks, the quiet didn’t feel like distance.