#spookysanta

You don’t notice it right away; when you first step through the door, cheeks flushed from the laughter still echoing off your lips, heels clicking gently on the hardwood. Not even when Michael’s deep voice calls out a casual, “Hey baby,” from somewhere in the kitchen, where you hear the gentle clink of ice settling in lowball glasses.

It’s subtle at first… but then it hits you.

Not like a slap. No. More like a slow drag of silk along the skin, warm and smoky, curling through the air and pulling. There’s a richness to it, something dark and magnetic beneath the top note you can’t quite place. Something downright sinful and so overwhelming that your knees almost buckle.

You blink once, then again, that’ll settle whatever the fuck your body just did in response to that scent.

That’s new.

Your friends trail in behind you with the easy chaos of post-dinner tipsiness, none of them seeming to notice the way your breath just stalled in your throat.

You try to shake it off. Try to stay cool. “Y’all can make yourselves at home,” you call over your shoulder, forcing a little laugh into your voice, even as your spine straightens and your pulse stutters like it just skipped a beat. “I think he made drinks.”

Michael rounds the corner from the kitchen just then, glass in hand, sleeves pushed up, beard shaped to perfection, and…oh, hell. You feel it all the way down.

Your clit pulses on instinct.

It doesn’t even matter what he’s wearing — just a fitted black tee and sweats that cling to the curve of his hips — but your whole body sways slightly like you’re being pulled forward on a leash. Your eyes flicker up to meet his and of course, he fucking knows.

One side of his mouth twitches, a barely-there smirk, cocky and warm and knowing. And that’s when you realize this man has set you up.

“You change your cologne?” you ask lightly, clearing your throat, head tilted like you’re not already half-feral and shifting your weight just so to quiet the throb between your thighs.

“Mmhm.” He sips his drink and leans a shoulder against the wall like he’s not wreaking absolute havoc on your body just by standing there. “Came today. Figured I’d try it while you were out. See how it settles.”

Oh, it’s settling alright. Right in your bloodstream. Against your G-spot. In your brain stem.

But you just nod, dragging your gaze away and making your way to the couch. “It’s nice. Real…grown.” You shrug. “Sophisticated.”

Tati throws herself dramatically into a chair. “Girl, you good? You got quiet.”

“Yeah,” you lie, tucking your legs under yourself as if you’re not soaking through your panties. “Just tired.”

Except you’re not. You’re overstimulated, your nerve endings are singing, and all because that damn cologne is clouding every corner of your brain.

Lex is halfway through asking about dessert when you cut her off with a sweet smile and a stretch. “Actually, y’all, I might call it early. Got a long day tomorrow. And…Michael looks like he wants some one-on-one time.”

Michael blinks once, slow. He doesn’t say a word. Just watches.

Tati squints at you. “You just said we could stay for a nightcap.”

You nod. “I did. But then my man hit me with that scent and now I need y’all to leave.”

Kris cackles. “I knew it. I knew you looked like you were about to slide down the wall.”

But you’re already on your feet, ushering them up, tossing them their purses with one hand and opening the door with the other.

“Love y’all. Text me when you’re at the hotel. Don’t let the door hit you. Kisses all around.”

The second it shuts behind them, silence blankets the space like a heavy curtain.

Michael’s still standing there, barely moving, watching you with that unreadable expression. His glass is still half-full.

You breathe in again and it practically burns through your chest. “What is that?”

He smiles slow, lazy, like a man with all the time in the world. “Just something new.”

“It’s evil,” you mutter, already walking toward him. “It’s a weapon. You bought that cologne just to ruin my life.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “You like it?”

Your hand slides up the front of his chest, fingers curling in the collar of his shirt. Your voice dips to a whisper, trembling and low. “I’m about to get on my knees just to breathe you in properly.”

Michael hums, glass forgotten as his hands find your waist. “Then do it.”

Your mouth opens… Closes… Then opens again. No sound comes out at first because you’re too busy reeling, spinning, from the way he smells, the heat of his chest under your palm, the smirk playing on his lips like he’s got you strung up on puppet strings.

“I’m not playin’ with you tonight, Kari,” you mumble, fingers balling into fists. “I’m serious.”

“You think I’m playin’?”

His voice is low and heavy, dragging across your skin like velvet soaked in bourbon. And he smells unholy. Expensive, deep, warm… like the kind of scent that belongs in sin and silk sheets and locked doors.

You tug him down by his collar, just enough to brush your lips over his jaw. Just a taste, enough to let it burn across your tongue.

“Bedroom,” you breathe against his skin.

He pulls back, eyes dark with something smug, something territorial. “Already?”

“I told the girls I was tired, remember?”

Michael’s fingers slip down your waist. “You don’t look like you’re tired yet.”

You don’t even feel your feet move upstairs, every thought clouded by that fucking cologne. Your back hits the bedroom door and he follows like a storm, drinking glasses long forgotten, his scent soaking the air.

“Take it off,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Take what off?”

“That shirt. Before I rip it.”

Michael raises a brow like is that a threat or a promise, but obliges. He peels it slowly, arms flexing, abs catching the warm light from the hallway, and tosses the shirt somewhere over your shoulder.

You don’t even look where it lands — you’re too busy licking your lips.

You step forward, hands dragging down his torso, nose grazing his chest just to inhale again. You moan without meaning to, like a reflex, like your body can’t even process how feral this cologne has made you.

“I can’t think,” you whisper, dragging your lips down the center of his chest, tongue flicking against his sternum. “It’s in my fucking brain.”

He watches you drop to your knees, burying your face in his abdomen and just breathing.

When you look up, pupils blown, hands trembling as they find the waistband of his sweats, your voice is hoarse with greed. “Please let me suck your dick.”

Michael’s jaw flexes. He nods once, low, controlled. “C’mon then.”

You drag his sweats down with shaky fingers, lips parted, moaning again when the scent deepens and mixes with his skin and his sweat and the weight of him in your palm. You don’t even bring your mouth to him yet; just stroke him slowly, twisting at the tip, watching him throb in your hand while you press your nose right against the crease of his thigh and whimper.

“You’re outta your mind,” he mutters, voice gone gravel-thick. “You just needed a reason, huh?”

You mumble out a pitiful “mhm”, licking a stripe along the side of his shaft.

Michael groans loud, fist bracing the wall above your head as your mouth stretches around him, lips shaking as you sink down slow, greedy, nose brushing his stomach. You hum and moan around him, lost to it. Not just sucking him off, but like you’re trying to breathe him in, swallow his soul, imprint him in your fucking lungs.

And that damn cologne is making it worse.

Michael’s hips twitch. His eyes roll back. He’s trying to talk but it’s coming out broken. “You’re gonna make me — fuck, baby — you want me to cum already?”

You nod with his dick in your throat, gagging around him.

You don’t stop. Not even when spit is dripping from your chin, puddling into the fabric of your dress. Not even when he’s panting above you, whispering curses, calloused hands fisted in your hair.

You suck harder, sinking onto him deeper, as if that were possible, clamoring to feel him in your sternum.

He finally yanks you off by the back of your head, thumb swiping your soaked bottom lip, eyes wild. “You’re not tired yet?”

You shake your head. “I don’t even need sleep anymore.”

He laughs hard, utterly breathless. “Oh you’re gone,” he says, voice coated in disbelief. “You’re gone. What the fuck did that cologne do to you?”

You stand then, hand wrapping around his wrist. You tug at his hand, crawling back toward the bed.

Michael doesn’t even let you settle all the way onto the bed.

You crawl back, trying to catch your breath, but the scent of his cologne follows you like smoke. Still clinging to his skin, his breath, the air around you. You try to focus, try to speak, but it’s like your brain is underwater and all you can feel is want.

“On your back,” he orders, voice low and mean now. “Legs up.”

You flinch at the tone of his command but obey anyway.

“Good girl,” he groans as you scramble to get your outfit off — hands fumbling, tugging the thin straps of your dress down your shoulders while your breath saws uneven in your chest. “You wore this little dress out with the girls like I wasn’t gonna see it? Hm? Titties just out and on display.”

“I-I didn’t think—”

He cuts you off with a look. “Don’t lie to me.”

You freeze. Then whisper, “I wanted you to see.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You wanted me hard all day, waiting for you to get home, just so I could take you apart?”

You nod helplessly, already spreading your legs for him, already dripping.

Michael drops to his knees at the edge of the bed and pulls you down toward him with one strong arm hooked behind your thighs. His face dips low and that scent rolls off his neck again, thick and concentrated now, and it wrecks you.

Your whole body jolts.

“I’ve had you this worked up since you walked in the door. Can’t even think straight, can you?”

“No,” you gasp, fingers tangling in the sheets as his tongue licks a slow stripe from your opening to your clit. “Michael—fuck—”

He moans into you like he’s drunk off the taste, spitting and lapping and spreading your lips with his thumbs and goes deeper, tongue fucking you slow and mean, letting you grind against his face like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“Nah. Don’t you run from it.” He grunts against your clit, “Take it like a good girl. Smell my cologne while I eat this pretty pussy.”

He reaches up, palms your throat while he eats you out, squeezes just enough to make your head buzz and your eyes roll. You start to shake, thighs clenching around his ears, and he just laughs into your pussy like the sick bastard he is.

“Go ahead. Black out if you want to.”

You do… just for a second. The pleasure spikes white-hot and your scream punches straight from your chest before your body sags, twitching. You barely register him climbing onto the bed, yanking your hips up, lining himself up behind you.

“You’re not done.” He demands like a punishment. And then he eases in with a stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs and leaves your eyes wide, mouth open, silent.

“Where’s all that noise now?” he hisses into your ear. “You were begging to get ruined. What happened?”

He fucks into you hard and mean, his hips slapping against your ass. The other wraps in your hair, jerking your head so he can spit into your open mouth, his own lips brushing your cheek. “Swallow it.”

You do, fully incoherent now, mewling, clawing at the sheets.

His cologne is in your nose, your tongue, your brain. It’s like it seeped under your skin and now you’re his, nothing but nerves and gasps and need.

He grabs your jaw, tilting your head so you’re forced to look at him. “Say thank you.”

You choke out, “Th-thank you—fuck, Daddy—thank you.”

Michael growls out a real, chest-deep sound. He fucks you so hard the bed creaks, the headboard slamming angrily against the wall. You yelp, but he doesn’t stop. He adjusts, hikes your hips up higher, and goes deeper.

“Open your mouth,” he pants. “Let me see how far gone you are.”

Your tongue falls out, drool smeared across your chin. You can’t even form words.

He pulls out, flips you over, and slides back in from behind — his hand around your throat again, forcing you to bow your back, the scent of him surrounding you like a drug. “There she is. Lemme tire that pussy out.”

You black out again when you cum, your vision goes white. Your hands fist the sheets, gripping like you’ll fall off the planet if you let go.

And even after, when he kisses you through your tears and lays you flat against the torn sheets, you’re still shaking. Still whining for him, even as your body tries to shut down from overstimulation.

Michael brushes your hair back, chuckles low, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re gonna ask what it was tomorrow,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna ask what cologne this is like it wasn’t laced with crack.”

You hum weakly, lips parted, breath gone. “I’m gonna burn every other bottle you own.”

He grins. “Good.”

—

Sunlight slips through the curtains in gold ribbons, warming the edge of the duvet, filtering across tangled limbs and damp sheets that still smell like sex and sweat and him.

You don’t want to move.

Your body is fully wrecked. Every inch of you aches in the best, filthiest way, like you’ve been broken open and rearranged. Your legs are tangled with Michael’s beneath the covers, and his hand is still resting on the curve of your ass, like he fell asleep claiming it.

He stirs first, nuzzling into your neck, and presses a soft kiss to your jaw like last night didn’t happen. Like he didn’t just do deeply unspeakable things to you with his scent as the weapon of choice. “You awake?” he rasps, voice heavy with sleep.

You hum. “Barely.”

He grins into your skin. “You good?”

“Can’t feel my legs.”

Another kiss. Smug. “So that’s a yes.”

You groan as he rolls out of bed, stretching those ridiculous arms overhead before disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the shower turn on, the sound of water cascading onto tile. For a second, you think about moving.

But your bones are liquid.

Still, the promise of hot water and his hands massaging lotion onto your skin pulls you upright with a hiss. You pad into the bathroom slowly, and he looks over his shoulder when you open the glass door.

“Morning, pretty girl,” he says, pulling you in. “Still feral?”

You grumble. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s smiling bright. Like he didn’t fuck you senseless, proud of the damage he inflicted. And truly, you’d let him get away with it because his hands are so gentle right now. Rinsing you off and kissing your shoulder while steam wraps around both of you like silk.

By the time you’re dried off and moisturized, dressed in something cute and brunch-worthy, your muscles are a little looser, your brain a little less scrambled. He’s pulling on jeans, a white tee, his watch. You sit at the edge of the bed slipping on your sandals when you hear the faint pssst-pssst.

You freeze in your tracks.

Michael turns, confused. “What?”

Your eyes narrow, sniffing once, then again. And that same warm, smoky, deliciously unholy scent curls under your nose and claws its way through your chest.

You actually gasp.

He raises a brow. “What’s your problem?”

“My—” You stand abruptly. “You’re my problem.”

Michael stares. “What the hell did I do?”

“You sprayed that cologne again!”

“…yeah? And?”

You march up to him, completely unhinged. “You and that cologne and the way you just…exist. You’re banned from wearing that unless I have a clear schedule and a safe word.”

Michael blinks, then smirks. “You mean the cologne that made you black out last night?”

You whimper. “Don’t talk about it.”

“I shouldn’t talk about how you were shaking on my face?”

You throw your head back and groan. “Oh my god, Michael—”

“Or the way you gave me head like you were addicted to my—”

“Sir!”

He laughs and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close until your nose is in the curve of his neck. You inhale on instinct and moan. Audibly.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m gonna hump your leg like a dog.”

“We’re going to brunch.”

“Well I’m not gonna make it to brunch!”

Michael leans back just enough to look at you, smug and smugger. “You want me to change?”

You pause. “Yes.”

He starts walking toward the closet. “Okay.”

“Wait. No,” you whimper, following him. “Actually… y’know what? Yeah. No. Don’t.”

He cackles. “So which is it?”

“I hate you.”

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it.”

He kisses your forehead and turns to grab his wallet and keys, ushering you downstairs. “You gonna act normal at brunch or am I gonna have to carry you out?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Michael opens the door for you, still smirking stupidly as you walk by. “I wore this for you, baby.”

You follow him out with a huff, muttering under your breath. “I hope you get jumped by a pack of women who think you’re single.”

He just laughs.

——

The brunch spot is warm and buzzing, all soft sunlight and the low clatter of plates. You should be relaxed. The restaurant’s full of good vibes, mimosas, and waffles. But instead… you’re vibrating in your seat like a bottle of shaken soda. Barely capped and about to burst.

Michael’s sitting next to you in the booth instead of across, because he’s annoying like that and certainly wants you to suffer, and the second his thigh brushes yours, you damn near jump out of your seat.

He notices. “Oh, we're still sensitive this morning?” he murmurs, smirking over the rim of his water glass.

You glare at him. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m just existing, having a nice brunch with my lady,” he replies smoothly, cutting into his chicken and waffles like he’s not a walking, smirking, scented crime against humanity. “You did say you didn’t want me to change.”

You look at him.. like, really look at him.

Beard clean, brows perfect and resting contentedly as he chews slow. He wets his lips, licking syrup off the corner of his mouth because he knows you’re watching.

And he smells so fucking good.

That cologne is in your lungs, winding around your spine. Every time he shifts, it stirs the air and you catch another wave of it — and it’s like brown liquor in the back of a velvet-draped lounge.

You cross your legs under the table. Tight.

Michael notices that too. “Oh,” he says, feigning surprise. “We crossed the legs. That’s strike one.”

You stab your fork into your potatoes.

He leans in close enough for you to hear him exhale through his nose. Close enough for the scent of his neck to sucker punch your ovaries again. You swear the air gets thicker when he speaks. “What’s wrong, mama?”

Your jaw clenches. “I’m gonna flip the fucking table.”

Michael hums in amusement. His hand finds your thigh under the table and rests there, his warm, intentional, thumb tracing lazy circles too close to dangerous territory.

“Mmhm,” he says. “I knew you weren’t tired.”

“Michael,” you hiss, but it comes out desperate. “Please stop.”

“Stop what?” He’s full-on teasing now, voice low and cruel and playful. That scent is driving a nail into the center of your body and twisting. You’re throbbing, clenching, borderline panting. You haven’t even touched your food.

“You don’t even realize what you’re doing,” you whisper.

“Oh honey,” He leans in until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Your hands grip the edge of the table. You look down and exhale, trying to regulate your breath, trying to see straight.

Michael chuckles and sits back. “Eat your food, baby.”

Oh, but you can’t. You’re done for.

By the time the waiter comes to clear the plates, Michael’s finished his entire meal and your food is practically untouched. You’ve been squirming in silence, pressing your thighs together, biting your bottom lip until it’s red and swollen.

And he’s been enjoying every second. “You ready to go?” he asks sweetly, kissing your cheek.

You nod.

He tips well, slides out of the booth with an exaggerated stretch, then reaches for your hand. You grab it but don’t say a word until you’re out of the restaurant and halfway to the car.

Then you stop walking. “Get in the car,” you grunt out.

Michael blinks. “What?”

You grab his shirt and haul him close, voice shaking. “Get in the car, Michael. I’m not gonna make it to the house.”

His brows lift. “You tryna act up in public?”

“I will ride you on the sidewalk if I have to.”

Michael swallows. You see his jaw tick.

And then he grins. “Oh, so I’m the problem?”

“You’ve been the problem!” you whisper-shout, shoving him toward the car. “You did this to yourself.”

He unlocks the doors without breaking eye contact. “Backseat or passenger?”

You don’t answer. And you don’t even remember who opened the back door. Might’ve been him, might’ve been you.

Michael’s back hits the leather and you’re on him, straddling his thighs, grinding your hips down, clawing at his shirt like it personally offended you. The scent of that cologne is even stronger now, locked in the car with you, hot and swirling and obscene.

“You still smell like sex,” you hiss, dragging your tongue up his throat. “You still smell like last night.”

He groans, thick and low in your ear. “You didn’t get enough?”

“I couldn’t even get breakfast,” you snarl, yanking your panties to the side.

Michael laughs, but it dies on his tongue when you reach down, free his dick, and sink down on him in one long slide.

“Fuuuuck—” he grits out, grabbing your waist with both hands. “You still this wet for me?”

“You’re still wearing that fucking cologne,” you growl. “What the fuck did you expect?”

He watches your face, your eyes fluttering, your mouth falling open, then shifts, rocking up into you with a slow, deep roll of his hips.

“You wanted me to ruin you,” he murmurs, voice like molasses, like thunder. “Now look at you. Actin’ stupid and gettin’ fucked in a parking lot.”

You ride him like your life depends on it, like brunch was never an option, like his cologne is poison and the only antidote is taking his dick raw in the back of his car with the doors unlocked.

And it’s obscene — the wet and filthy slap of skin-on-skin, your moans, his cursing. The squeak of leather, windows fogging.

Horny ghosts and peeping Toms would be impressed.

Michael leans back just slightly and lets you grind on him faster, harder. He watches the way your nails dig into his shoulders. The way you pant when your clit catches just right. The way your body clings to his like you’ll never be full enough.

He unclasps your bra, exposing your tits. He takes your nipple in his mouth while his thumb finds your clit.

“You don’t even care where we are,” he mutters, tongue flicking. “You just needed it that bad?”

“Michael, shut the fuck up, I swear,” you gasp. “I’m fighting for my life right now.”

He chuckles through a moan and grips your ass, bouncing you harder.

You slap your palm against the window to steady yourself, forehead pressed to his, eyes rolling back. “Fuck! I hate you so fucking much.”

Michael snarls and snaps his hips up, dragging a scream out of you.

“Shitshitshit I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. “I’m gonna fucking die in this backseat.”

He fucks you through it, through the first orgasm and into another wave, like he’s trying to kill you with pleasure. His thumb never leaves your clit as he rubs ferocious circles into your skin. His mouth is on your throat, licking and sucking and biting, his scent everywhere, and your body is convulsing around him like a prayer.

You cum twice before he even finishes.

And when he does, it’s with a groan punched straight from his chest, hips jerking, arms locked around you so tight you can’t move. You feel him spill inside, thick and hot, and your eyes roll back like you’re possessed.

It’s silent after, save for the sound of your breath and the beat of your heart in your ears.

Michael drags his nose along your cheek, voice smug and syrupy. “Now you ready to go home?”

You blink, dazed and boneless. “…You still smell like it.”

He grins. “Want me to keep it on while you nap?”

“I want you to burn the bottle.”

He kisses your neck. “No you don’t.”

The car ride back is silent. Not the awkward kind, just the wrecked kind.

You’re stretched out in the passenger seat, thighs still trembling, panties missing (you think they’re somewhere in the backseat), your dress haphazardly tugged back into place like it’ll fool anyone.

It won’t.

Michael’s driving like a man on a mission, one hand on the wheel, the other resting low on your thigh, fingers trailing light and lazy patterns against your skin.

Every few seconds, he glances over at you, grinning. “You good?”

You scowl. “No. I’m still mad at you.”

“For what?”

“You ruined brunch.”

He shrugs. “You ruined brunch. I was minding my business.”

“You wore that demonic scent and then sat next to me like everything was fine!”

He smirks. “I was being sweet.”

“You instigated me!”

He squeezes your thigh. “You weren’t complaining twenty minutes ago.”

You go quiet. Because the memory is still fresh, his scent heavy in your lungs, his cum dripping down your thighs, your voice bouncing off the car windows as you begged him not to stop.

You glance at him, flushed. “The girls are gonna have a field day with this.”

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It starts like every fight does: with something small.

A text left on read leads to a shift in tone. Or an errand she didn’t run, or one he didn’t ask for nicely enough. The fuse was already lit, but neither of them could ever leave it at a low simmer.

“Why you always gotta say shit like that, Michael?” she snaps, pacing the living room with her phone in one hand, speaker on, while her friends sat on FaceTime on her laptop. “You don’t ask – you tell. Like I’m supposed to jump when you tell me to.”

Michael’s sigh is heavy on the other end. Too calm. Too deliberate. “Because every time I ask you to do something, you catch an attitude like you just did.”

“Because I don’t like being bossed around!” she fires back instantly, heat rising in her voice. “I’m grown. I don’t need to be managed.”

“I’m not trying to manage you. I’m trying to help you not burn yourself out–”

“Then stop acting like I don’t know how to handle my own shit!” she cuts in again, voice sharp and unwavering.

He goes quiet. Not defeated… Calculating. She knows that silence by now. It’s not retreat, it’s containment.

But her blood’s already boiling. That headstrong fire in her chest keeps pushing. “You don’t get to tell me how to do me, Michael. I don’t care how many times you think you’ve been around the block–”

He cuts her off this time. Firm. “Will you shut up for one goddamn second?”

The air shifts. Her mouth opens, then closes. No one’s ever told her to shut up like that. Not like that. It’s not cruel, not abusive. But it is authoritative. Stern and low, laced with a patience so razor-thin it could slice clean through her next sentence.

Her throat tightens. It’s instinctual, the way her pulse thuds. The silence on her end stretches for a moment too long.

“Are you done?” he asks, quieter now. More like a warning, than an actual question to be answered.

Something about his tone makes her feel cornered, like a match pressed too close to oil. So instead of backing down, she doubles down.

“Y’know what?” Her voice is cold now. “Bye.”

And just like that, she hangs up.

That’s the part she should’ve thought twice about. Because if there’s one thing Michael doesn’t do, it’s being hung up on. Not by producers, not by directors, and definitely not by her.

But in the moment, it feels like a win. She tosses her phone on the counter and exhales, shaking out her hands. Her friends are mid-FaceTime, witnessing the entire blow-up from their side of the screens – jaws agape and eyes wide.

“Whewwww.” Tati whistles, “You really hung up on him?”

“Sure did,” she says, her chin lifted. She squares her shoulders like she’s proud. Like she didn’t just pour gasoline on a lit bonfire.

Nas cackles. “You know that man is probably already on his way.”

“He can try.” Her lips twitch upward. To no one’s surprise, defiance is a badge she wears proudly. “Ain’t nobody scared of his ass.”

But less than ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. A deliberate, slow, three-count knock that sounds like it was carved out of brick.

Kris’s eyes widen on the computer screen. “Oh. My. God.”

“You better go answer that before he kicks the door in,” Tati whispers with glee, gleaming with secondhand chaos.

She squares her shoulders and stalks to the door, heart pounding, jaw tight, her phone in hand. She doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when she opens it and finds him standing there: grey sweats, black tee, jaw sharp enough to cut a diamond.

Michael doesn’t say a word. Not at first. He just glances at the phone in her hand… then at her… then steps inside like it’s his apartment. (And the way he moves, it is.)

“Hang up on them,” he says, voice steady. 

She doesn’t move.

“You heard me.” He closes the door behind him and locks it, chocolate eyes fixed his eyes on hers. “Hang up on them like you did me.”

She hesitates, lips parted like she wants to say something clever—but nothing comes.

Tati’s voice chirps faintly from the laptop on the table. “Girl…”

Michael leans in, slow, invading her space like smoke slipping under a door. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

That does it. Hurriedly, she pads over to the coffee table… and she ends the call.

He takes her phone from her gently, places it face-down on the entry table, and doesn’t look away once. Not when she shifts. Not when she swallows. Not even when she tries to stand taller, like that’ll save her.

“You got your little audience hyped. You got your last word. You done?”

“Are you?” She squeaks.

His brow ticks. “You keep pushing like you want me to remind you what happens when you act like this.”

“What, you gonna yell at me?”

He steps even closer, his voice dropping to something low and coiled. “No. I don’t yell. I don’t need to.”

She tries to keep her expression even, but her breath stutters. Because she knows exactly what he means.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice to break her down. He can do that with a look, a touch, a command whispered at the just right frequency. And the worst part is that she likes it. Loves it, actually: The challenge of pushing because she knows he’ll push back.

And still… this time feels different. He’s not playing.

“You wanna act grown, talk reckless, hang up on me? Cool. Be that girl.” His gaze narrows. “But don’t forget who you do that with.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, but he’s already closing the space between them. Backing her up until her spine hits the wall by the door. His palm braces the wall beside her head, and suddenly she feels very small.

Not in a bad way. In the way that makes her toes curl, that reminds her that for all her fire, he’s the flame that started it.

His voice is barely audible now. “You like to mouth off. You like to see how far you can take it. But now I’m here. So go ahead, baby…”

A pause.

“Talk your shit.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out besides a shaky breath, caught between pride and surrender.

And he smirks. A dark, knowing kind of smile. “Hm.”

She swears her heart skips a beat when he leans in just a little closer, breath brushing her cheek like a whisper lined with warning.

“You had a lot to say earlier.” His hand doesn’t touch her yet, but it’s so close it feels like it does – his palm against the wall by her head, his body radiating heat like a second skin. His tone is slow. Deliberate. Mocking. “Where’s that mouth now?”

She lifts her chin in a futile attempt at pride and tries not to blink too fast. Still bold, still standing tall, but the tension is in her shoulders now, coiled and tight.

She wants to answer. She wants to clap back and grab that smug smirk off his face and remind him she’s not scared of him.

But her tongue won’t move the way she wants it to and her pulse betrays her.

Michael watches all of it with sharp, steady eyes. His lips twitch once at the corner, smug and low. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. Then he drops his hand and steps back, only slightly, just enough to make her feel like she can breathe again.

But the air is heavier now.

“Go ahead, run that mouth again,” he says as he steps back, “Go ahead. Tell me how independent you are. How grown you are. How you don’t need me telling you what to do.”

She doesn’t respond. Or rather, can’t. Not because she’s afraid, but because he knows exactly how to hit the spot between irritation and need. 

Between rebellion and submission.

“You don’t like being told what to do?” he asks softly, voice like black silk. “That’s too bad, baby. ‘Cause I’m not asking.”

He stops in front of her again, lifting her chin between his fingers. Not rough, but not soft either. She meets his eyes and feels her knees threaten to give.

“You think I pulled up just to argue?” he mutters. “You wanna hang up on me like I’m some random nigga? Run that mouth around in front of your friends and think I’m not gone handle it?”

She swallows hard.

“You think you grown?” he asks again, lips brushing her jaw as he leans in close. “Then act like it. Apologize.”

She blinks at him.

For a split second, she thinks about pushing back or cracking a joke. But he’s looking at her like he’ll put her through the wall if she tests him again … and not in a way she wouldn’t love.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, voice quiet.

He hums condescendingly, cupping a hand behind his ear. “Huh? I didn’t quite hear that.”

“I’m sorry.” Stronger this time but still tight-chested.

Michael’s eyes narrow, but he nods once. “Better.” Then he leans in again, closer this time, his  lips at her ear.

“But that mouth still got too much confidence,” he whispers. “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”

He reaches down, takes her hand, and laces their fingers.

“You’re gonna go to the bedroom. You’re gonna keep that same energy. And I’m gonna remind you why you don’t ever do me like that.”

She gasps – quiet and involuntary – but it’s already too late. He’s leading her down the hall, not looking back.

“You wanna be a brat?” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

She stumbles slightly, heart in her throat, thighs already pressing together.

The bedroom door shuts behind them with a soft click, but it may as well be a jail cell clanging shut.

Michael drops her hand the moment they cross the threshold. He doesn’t say a word – just walks toward the edge of the bed and sits down, legs spread, gaze sharp. “Take off your shorts.”

She pauses. Just for a second.

“Now.”

It slices through the air. The kind of command that doesn’t need repeating. Her fingers go straight to the waistband.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t argue. Just slides them down, revealing the soft cling of cotton panties underneath, the faint tremble in her thighs, and the defiance still flickering – nay, dying – in her eyes.

But he sees the way her chest is rising faster. Sees the goosebumps crawling up her skin even though the room’s warm.

“Come here.”

She steps forward slowly, like she’s daring him to do something.

He does.

The second she’s within reach, he grabs her wrist and yanks her over his lap. She lets out a gasp, balance thrown, hands hitting the mattress to brace herself.

“You wanna act like a brat?” he growls low, one strong arm locking across her back. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

CRACK.

The first spank lands sharp and sudden, and she jumps. Half from pain, half from the shock of it. But doesn’t give her a second to process.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Each one lands harder than the last. She writhes against him in his lap, biting her lip, fists clenched tight in the comforter.

“Mouth runnin’ like a faucet all night,” he mutters to no one in particular. “But now you got nothing to say?”

She gasps, trying to twist. “Michael—”

SMACK. His hand slides up her back, to the nape of her neck, pushing down just enough to pin her head down to the mattress. “What happened to all that attitude, baby?” he taunts. “What happened to all that grown shit? Huh?”

Her voice breaks. “I–fuck, I’m–”

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“You’re what?” he whispers. “You sorry? Or you just sorry you’re in trouble?”

She whimpers. And he loves it.

He yanks her up, flips her effortlessly onto her back. She lands on the mattress with a bounce, wide-eyed, breathless, thighs pressed tight together.

He climbs on top of her, knee between her legs, fisting a hand in her hair.

“You hang up on me again,” he warns, face inches from hers, “and next time, I’ll spank you in front of your little friends. You understand me?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“…Yes, Daddy.”

He crushes his mouth to hers, a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that drags the air from her lungs. His tongue slides deep, claiming, devouring, then he pulls away with a growl.

“Strip.”

She scrambles, breathless, pulling her shirt off, her panties down until she’s completely bare and her skin’s still flushed from the spanking. Her upper thighs are slick, mouth parted in something between fear and desire.

Michael sheds his clothes with a terrifying calm, like a predator uncoiling as he stalks his prey. His cock is hard, thick, already leaking. When she reaches for him, he grabs both wrists and shoves them above her head.

“Don’t you even think about touching me.”

He keeps her wrists pinned with one hand while the other trails down her body. Across her throat, between her tits, down to where she’s soaked and trembling.

“Drippin’ like this, but swore you didn’t need me,” he growls. “Independent, huh?”

She’s panting, squirming, aching, trying to roll her hips toward him.

He slaps her pussy once – just once – and she chokes on a moan.

“That mouth got you in trouble,” he murmurs, settling between her thighs. “So I’m gonna fuck it outta you.”

And then he does: one thrust, fully to the hilt. No time for her to even think of taking a breath. One hand still holding her wrists, the other gripping her hip so tight she’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. He’s talking the whole time, each word filthier than the last.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m–fuck–I’m yours!”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Daddy!”

“That’s what I thought.”

He leans down, one hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing against her pulse point until she’s gasping for air. 

Her raspy moans turn into choked sobs. Her legs shake as her body thrashes beneath his, overwhelmed and unraveling.

“You wanna cum for me?” he pants, voice rough.

“Yes–please! Please, I–”

“You’re grown – earn it.”

He flips her again, face down, ass up. Doesn’t bother with any pleasantries as he buries himself back into her, pounding mercilessly with one hand tangled in her hair, the other spreading her cheeks.

“Yout better not ever hang up on me again,” he growls through clenched teeth. “And you better say thank you when I put you in your place.”

She’s babbling now, just a mess of whines, moans, broken pleas.

“Please–Daddy! Please, I can’t take it–”

“You can. You’re a big girl, right? You can do it..”

He reaches around, rubs her clit in tight, fast circles, and she screams when she cums again, her back arching, walls fluttering around him like a fucking vice.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t event slow down.

She cums again. Then again.

And by the time he spills inside her with a deep, guttural groan, she’s shaking, face buried in the sheets, crying from overstimulation, whispering “thank you” like a prayer.

—-

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just breathes heavy, catching his breath. Then he pulls out gently, and she gasps, more from the loss of contact than the pain.

He gathers her in his arms without a word and carries her to the bathroom. Sets her down in the tub while warm water washes over her legs. He grabs a cloth to wipe her face free and thighs, and pressing soft kisses to the bruises he left on her skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs against her temple, hand stroking up and down her back.

“Mhm.” She hums with a nod, still dazed. “I’m good.”

He chuckles softly. “And still hardheaded.”

She smiles weakly, nuzzling into his kiss. “Still yours though.”

—-

The next day, her thighs are still sore. Though kissed every bruise, massaged her legs in bed, cooked her breakfast like he didn’t fuck the attitude clean out of her the night before, he remembers. And he expects gratitude in silence.

So when he calls later that evening, his voice low, calm, and affectionate, and she’s got the audacity to hang up on him again?

He doesn’t call back. He doesn’t text.

He just gets in his truck and drives to her building. 

She hears the knock, knowing what (and who) it is before she even turns her head toward the door. Her stomach flips with the kind of anticipation that tastes like sin.

She opens the door, leaning against the frame. “Oh. We doing this again?” she says, arms folded.

Michael doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. He just walks past her into the apartment, locks the door behind him, then turns. “Get on your knees.”

She raises her brows. “Michael–”

“Don’t speak.” He raises a hand to stop her interjection, stepping in close. “Not one word. You lost mouth privileges.”

Her lips part, almost reflexively, but his expression kills the thought where it stands. He’s not playing. 

She drops to her knees. And for the record, it’s not because he asks. It’s because she has to – because her body’s already aching for whatever punishment he’s been planning since she ended their call.

Michael walks behind her, then back to the front, slow like he’s circling prey. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, his voice terrifyingly gentle. “You hung up on me again.” He notes simply.

She doesn’t answer.

“After everything I gave you last night. After I made your little bratty ass cry into the sheets.” He brushes a thumb across her lips. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Her heart hammers in her chest.

“You wanna act like you don’t need me?” His zipper comes down slowly, tauntingly. “Fine.”

His cock is already hard. She reaches for it with open lips, but he grabs her wrist tight. “No hands. No talking. You just take it.”

He ushers his cock into her mouth with no preamble, filling her throat so deliciously she could cry – and she does. He doesn’t give her time to adjust; just buries himself to the hilt, one hand on the back of her head.

“There she go,” he mutters. “That mouth that wouldn’t shut up yesterday.”

He rocks his hips forward again, slow and punishing. Her throat stretches to take him, eyes fluttering with effort as she gags around him.

“You so loud when you’re on the phone.” His voice is low, like a dark wave crashing inside her skull. “But you can’t even breathe when I’m in your mouth.”

She whines around him as she tries to pull back for air.

Michael growls. “No. You asked for this.” He fists her hair tighter, holding her still as he fucks into her throat. Her eyes are glassy now, spit dripping down her chin. Her mascara is ruined, her knees are aching, but she just can’t get enough.

“Go ahead, baby. Cry on it.” He doesn’t stop or soften. “You wanted to act out. You wanted to hang up on me again.”

He pulls out just enough for her to gasp, then shoves back in again, deeper than before.

Her nails dig into her own thighs, holding herself still as her throat spasms around him. She’s choking, drooling, absolutely wrecked, and loving every second of it.

He finally pulls out, letting her collapse forward onto her hands, coughing.

“Up.”

She shudders.

“Up. On the couch. Now.”

She scrambles to obey, tears streaking her cheeks, chest heaving.

The second her knees hit the cushions, he’s behind her, yanking her leggings and panties down her thighs, spreading her wide. He spits once on her pussy then slams in with a growl that could test the strength of her couch.

“You don’t get to be smart and disobedient. Pick one.”

He fucks her silent, with each stroke heavier than the last. He’s grabbing at her neck, her hips, her wrists, pressing her face into the cushions as he makes her take it, over and over.

“I told you,” he snarls into her ear, hips snapping, “I don’t play when it comes to that phone. I don’t play when it comes to you.”

She sobs out. Choked, gasping sobs of pleasure so overwhelming her whole body trembles. She’s completely wrecked: can’t think, can’t talk. 

All she can do is take it.

And he doesn’t stop until she’s limp under him.

Later, he pulls out gently, breathing hard, and scoops her up in his arms before she can even sit up. Like last night, he carries her to the bathroom again, runs a bath, and holds her in the water until she stops trembling.

His lips brush her temple as she leans into his chest. “You okay?”

She nods faintly. Then whispers, barely audible: “…yes, Daddy.”

Michael chuckles, warm and deep.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

---

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The night of the Academy Awards didn’t feel real, but rather, like something suspended in time, the room sheathed in gold and velvet and light, the kind of night people spent their entire lives chasing.

The theater glowed, both in glitz and glam. Rows of stars draped in couture, the orchestra humming softly beneath the tension, cameras sweeping across faces that had mastered composure.

But at Michael’s seat, his composure had already started slipping. His hand hadn’t left yours since they announced the category. Your fingers were threaded together tightly in his lap, his thumb dragging slow, absentminded circles over your skin… not to comfort you, but to ground himself.

On his other side, his mom sat upright, eyes locked on the stage, lips pressed together in a thin line like she was holding everything in. Khalid leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Jamila had her hands clasped together beneath her chin.

Nobody dared to breathe, to blink.

“And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to…”

Then came unbearable, stretched-thin silence.

“…Michael B. Jordan.”

The room erupted into applause, a thunderous standing ovation that seemed to shake the entire theater. People were already on their feet, clapping, shouting, but at your row, time stuttered.

You gasped in shock. Michael didn’t move, and for a split second, he just stared at the stage like he hadn’t processed the words. “Baby,” you whispered, your voice shaking, gripping his hand tighter. “Baby, get up.”

His mom grabbed his arm. “Go,” she said, already crying. “Go!”

Michael turned to you, eyes already glassy.

“Go,” you repeated, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “Go.”

He leaned in without thinking, pressing a quick, trembling kiss to your lips, and then stood. The applause only grew louder as he made his way down the aisle. He looked… stunned. Like every step was happening before he could catch up to it.

People reached out to shake his hand, to clap him on the back, to pull him into quick hugs, and he accepted it all in a daze — smiling, nodding, blinking rapidly like he was trying not to lose it before he even made it to the stage.

But the moment he stepped up and that gold statue was placed in his hands, you could tell, then, that it finally hit him.

The shift from it being just an idea to finally being a reality manifested physically. His shoulders dropped slightly, his jaw tightened, and he looked down at the Oscar like it might disappear if he blinked too long.

The room quieted as he stepped up to the microphone.

He exhaled deeply, his breath coming out as a broken laugh, soft and breathless, that meant he was already overwhelmed. “Man…” he murmured, shaking his head, the audience laughed gently with him.

“I-” He paused, swallowing hard. “I had a whole speech. I really did. But I’m not even gonna pretend like I remember it right now.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

You pressed your hand to your mouth, feeling the lump forming in your throat.

He looked out over the audience, blinking quickly. “First off… thank you to the Academy.”

He nodded, trying to gather himself. “To my cast, the crew, Ryan, my director …y’all trusted me to be a part of something special. And I don’t take that lightly.”

His voice steadied a little as he continued, thanking his collaborators, mentors, the people who helped shape him into the actor standing on that stage.

He looked down at the Oscar again, and his composure slipped. “I grew up loving movies,” he said quietly. “Like… really loving them. Sitting in front of the TV, watching performances that made me feel like… maybe I could do this one day.” His voice wavered. “And to be standing here now…”

He stopped to gather himself, letting out a shaky breath. You could see the labored rise and fall of his chest, as if he were losing a battle between his composure and his emotions.

Then he nodded once, like he was pulling himself back together. “My family,” he said, voice softer now. “My parents, my siblings.”

The camera cut to them, his mother crying alongside you. “Thank you for everything. For believing in me before there was anything to believe in. For every sacrifice you made that I didn’t understand until I got older.”

Applause rippled through the room again.

He paused again, longer this time, his eyes scanning the audience until they found you. And everything about him softened: the tension left his shoulders, his nerves melted into something warmer and steady. “…I gotta take a second to appreciate my lady.”

The room exploded with cheers and whistles and roaring applause that doubled in volume.

Your face flushed instantly, your hands flying to your cheeks as the camera cut to you. You shook your head..

Michael just smiled in that quiet, knowing way. “Y’all,” he said, chuckling softly as the noise settled. “That woman right there…”

He looked at you again and suddenly, it didn’t feel like there were thousands of people watching. It felt like he was just talking to you.

“She’s been my anchor through all of this. She’s seen every version of me. The confident one, the frustrated one, the one that don’t know what the hell he’s doing half the time…But she never lets me sit in that doubt too long.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. “She reminds me who I am when I forget. She reminds me what matters when everything starts moving too fast. And she loves me in a way that makes me want to be better every single day. And I don’t think I’d be standing here tonight without that.”

A collective awww moved through the audience. Michael laughed softly, rubbing his jaw. He lifted the Oscar slightly, eyes boring into yours. “This right here, baby?” he said. “This is ours.”

The room erupted again, in cheers, clapping, people standing.

The second Michael stepped off the stage, the noise swallowed him whole. Congratulations flying from every direction, hands clapping his shoulders, voices overlapping. Camera flashes popped, assistants moved quickly, and publicists hovered just close enough to redirect but not interrupt.

Through all of it, Michael smiled… nodded… thanked people. But there was a delay to him now, his brain processing half a second behind everything. Like his body was there, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet.

Ryan stayed glued to his side, a steady hand on his back, a quiet presence in the chaos. “I got him,” Ryan murmured more than once to people trying to pull Michael in different directions. “Just give him a second.”

Michael nodded absentmindedly at something someone said (truthfully, he didn’t even hear it), his grip tightening around the award in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“Where is she?” he asked suddenly, ignoring the surrounding bombardment.

Ryan leaned in. “She’s coming around from the front. They’re bringing her back.”

Michael exhaled, but it didn’t really settle anything. He ran a hand over his face.

“You good?” Ryan asked, studying him carefully.

“Yeah.” Michael said automatically, his voice was thin.

Ryan didn’t argue; he just stayed close. “Just breathe, bro,” he said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. “We did it.”

Michael let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t-” He shook his head. “I don’t even feel like I’m here right now.”

“I know,” Ryan said. “I feel like that’s normal.”

It certainly didn’t feel normal. It felt like everything at once. It felt like pride, relief, and gratitude … combined with something heavier. Something that had been building for years finally letting go all at once.

“Hey—”

Michael turned at the sound of your voice. And there you were: moving toward him, eyes still glossy, dress catching against the backstage lighting as you closed the distance between you.

Everything else faded instantly.

“Hey,” you breathed again.

He didn’t even think. He just stepped into you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other still holding his award, pulling you in like he needed to confirm you were real.

You wrapped your arms around him just as quickly. “You did it,” you whispered into his chest.

He exhaled shakily against your hair. “I did it.”

Ryan watched for a second, then gave a small nod to himself. “Aight,” he muttered. “He’s good.”

Though he stepped back, giving you both space, he still stayed close enough to keep things moving. “You wanna do press now or—”

Michael pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, pupils dilated and dancing across your face. He wasn’t just emotional.

He was completely overwhelmed.

He glanced back at Ryan, then back at you. “Can we—” He swallowed. “Can we go somewhere private for a second?”

Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I got you.”

He turned immediately, flagging down Michael’s publicist, Paula, speaking low and quick. Within seconds, you and Michael were being guided down a quieter hallway away from the noise, away from the cameras, away from everything.

You were led to a small room. The door clicked shut behind you, and the second it did, Michael broke. Not loudly at first, but just a sharp inhale. A tremor in his shoulders.

Then he turned into you fully, like something in him finally gave out.

His arms wrapped around you tighter this time, the award pressed awkwardly between you for a second before he shifted it, dropping it gently onto a nearby table without even looking before he buried his face in your neck.

All six-foot-something of him folding into you like he’d been holding himself upright on sheer will alone. The first sob hit your shoulder.

Your heart dropped. “Hey—” you whispered immediately, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. “Hey, baby—”

He shook his head against you, trying to catch his breath, but it only made it worse. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your skin, voice thick. “I don’t— I don’t know why—”

“Don’t apologize,” you said softly, holding him tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

He exhaled, but it came out shaky. “I just—” His grip on you tightened. “I’ve been holding that in for so long.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, another breath hitching. “I didn’t know if it was ever gonna happen.”

Your chest ached, cradling the back of his head, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But you did it,” you murmured. “You really did it.”

He nodded faintly against you. “I kept telling myself I was good,” he admitted quietly. “Like… if it didn’t happen, I was still good. I had everything I needed.”

“You do.”

“But I wanted it,” he said, voice cracking again. “I wanted this so bad.”

“I know you did,” you whispered.

He let out another shaky breath, his face still tucked into your neck, his body heavy against yours in a way that told you he wasn’t trying to hold himself up anymore.

You felt it all in him: the joy, the relief, the exhaustion. Years of pressure finally releasing all at once.

“You scared me,” you admitted softly after a moment, your hand still moving slowly, rubbing soothing circles along his back. “You don’t… you don’t cry like this.”

He let out a quiet, almost embarrassed huff against your skin. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were glassy, lashes damp, cheeks flushed.

“Talk to me,” you said gently.

He searched your face for a second, like he needed to ground himself again.Then he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m just—” He choked out. “I’m so happy.”

“And I’m so tired,” he added, voice softer now. “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

Your expression softened instantly. “I bet you are.”

He let out a small, breathy laugh. “And I just needed you,” he admitted.

“Well, I’m right here.” You smiled softly, brushing your thumb under his eye. “I’m always gonna be right here.”

“I know.” He leaned back into you again, quieter this time. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his face tucked back into your neck like that was the only place he wanted to be right now.

Your fingers moving gently, scratching his scalp, your cheek pressed against his temple. “You’re okay,” you whispered.

He nodded against you.

“I got you,” you added softly. “Y’know that, right?”

Another nod.

The room had gone quiet after that, the air feeling like a pause button had been pressed on the rest of the world, muffling the distant chaos backstage, dulling the noise of voices and footsteps beyond the door until it was nothing more than a faint hum.

Michael hadn’t let go of you right away. Even after his breathing started to even out, even after the tears slowed. He stayed close, arms wrapped around you, forehead tucked into your shoulder like he wasn’t ready to separate just yet.

You leaned back just enough to look at him.

The intensity in his eyes had softened, the sharp edge of it was replaced with something quieter.

“You ready to go back out there?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you, then shook his head. “…Not yet.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Okay.”

Soon enough, you found yourselves seated on the floor, having guided him down with you until your back rested against the wall, the cool surface grounding against your shoulders. The fabric of your dress settled around you as you adjusted your legs.

He followed without resistance until he was stretched out beside you, turning just enough to rest his head in your lap like it was instinct, like that was exactly where he needed to be.

You let out a soft breath, your hand immediately finding his hair again, fingers continuing their slow, absentminded scratches.

He stared up at the ceiling, not moving, letting out a sniffle every now and then.

You watched the gears in his head turning. You chose not to interrupt it.

His phone had another agenda, buzzing suddenly in his pocket. Then again. And again. A constant vibration against his thigh.

Michael didn’t move, but let it keep going.

You glanced down, then reached gently into his pocket to pull the phone out. The screen lit up instantly with missed calls, texts stacking on top of each other, and notifications flooding in faster than they could be read. You pressed and held the side button, shutting it off.

Michael’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you. “…What are you doing?” he asked, voice still a little rough.

You shrugged lightly, like it was obvious. “If they need you badly enough,” you said calmly, setting the phone beside you, “they’ll call me.”

Your hand returned to his hair without hesitation. “For now,” you added softly, “let’s just be here.”

He stared at you for a second, his expression melted. “…Okay,” he murmured. His gaze drifted back up.

You could see it on his face: the way his mind was still moving, still trying to catch up to everything that had just happened. You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “So… what now?” you nudged gently.

He huffed softly, a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “…I have no idea.”

You smiled. “Well…” you said, lightly tracing your fingers along his hairline, grounding him again. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

He sniffed, turning his head slightly into your hand. His throat worked as he cleared the lingering tightness from earlier. “…Yeah,” he said, voice still a little thick. “Yeah, I like that idea.”

“Not just any celebration,” a small smile tugging at your lips. “Somewhere worth visiting.”

He glanced up at you — and there it was. The flicker of him coming back. “Where?” he asked.

“How about Tokyo?”

That did it. A real smile formed, soft at first, but unmistakable.

You watched it spread across his face as recognition settled in.

“…I like that idea,” he said quietly.

Of course he did. You knew he would.

“There’s a new restaurant out there I’ve been wanting to try,” he added, voice steadier now. “I think you’ll like it.”

You smiled down at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d love it.” He shifted just a little closer, one hand coming to rest against your thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly back and forth like he needed the contact.

You kept your hand in his hair, smoothing it back gently.

Michael’s breathing had finally evened out, his weight resting fully into your lap, one hand lazily draped over your leg while your fingers traced slow patterns.

Then your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Ryan.

You didn’t even have to say anything before Michael’s eyes flicked to the screen, then immediately back to you. “Don’t answer it,” he said, quick but not panicked.

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Tell him I went home,” he added, already settling back into your lap like he was doubling down on the decision. “Or… I don’t know. Tell him I’m taking a shit or something.”

You blinked at him, laughing. “Michael.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “I just need—” he gestured vaguely with his hand, like the word moment was too much effort. “This.”

Your expression softened. But you answered anyway, quietly stepping just slightly into that middle ground between respecting him and not completely ignoring reality. “Hey,” you said softly.

Ryan didn’t waste time. “Yeah, hey,” he replied, voice low but urgent in that controlled way. “Michael good?”

You glanced down at him.

He was listening, one eye open.

“He’s good,” you said gently. “Just… decompressing.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Ryan said. “Listen — his family’s looking for him. And Paula lined up a couple interviews. I told everybody he needed a minute, so they not rushing him, but it’s strongly encouraged for him to … move swift.”

You hummed softly. “I’ll bring him out in a bit.”

“Aight,” Ryan said. “No pressure, just don’t disappear completely.”

“I got you.”

You hung up.

Michael was already looking at you. “…What he say?”

You tilted your head. “Your family’s looking for you. And Paula has interviews lined up.”

He groaned, then let out a long exhale, dragging a hand over his face.

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly across his temple. “Just a few more minutes,” you murmured. “And then we’ll go, okay?”

He nodded. “…Yeah.”

Silence loomed again, but much lighter now.

“So… does this mean we’re moving?” you ask playfully after a moment.

His brows furrowed immediately. “…Huh?”

“You’re an Oscar winner now,” you said matter-of-factly. “Today’s price ain’t yesterday’s price. We'll need a bigger house.”

He blinked at you. “You serious right now?”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” you nodded. “We need space for all the other awards you’re gonna get.”

He snorted. “You’re dumb.”

“I’m not!” you insisted, trying not to smile, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re a hot commodity now. Even though I knew that already.”

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “The house got seven bedrooms already,” he said. “You need more space?”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t.”

You leaned down slightly, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on an important secret.

“But your other Oscars will.”

He laughed for real this time, full and warm, deep from his chest. The kind of laugh that told you he was finally coming back to himself.

You smiled down at him, soft and proud and completely in love, then bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Then another. And another.

“…Also,” you added casually against his skin, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Will the Oscar have a seat at the wedding?”

He paused, actually thinking about it. “…Yes.”

You smiled with a hum in agreement. “Agreed. I also think...” you shifted slightly, “...it’s time to go get hammered.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. He pushed himself up slowly, then reached for your hands, helping you to your feet.

The second you were upright, you didn’t let go. You pulled him back into you, peppering kisses across his cheeks.

“…I didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked tonight, did I?” he murmured as you kissed him.

You raised a brow. “You did,” you said. “Frequently. And loudly.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Well, I’m sayin’ it again.”

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “You do,” he said softly. “You look absolutely radiant.”

Your breath caught.

“Like…” he paused, eyes flicking between yours, something deeper settling there now. “Like my future wife.”

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He noticed it as soon as she stomped down the hallway, barefoot but somehow still managing to clomp like she had something to prove.

PMS week.

His favorite kind of chaos.

The signs were textbook: snippy tone, dramatic arm movements, sudden moral independence. Every offer to help was met with a death glare, like he’d insulted her and her whole lineage.

Still, he knew better than to take it personally. It was a performance. And he always had front-row seats.

So when she rolled her eyes for the third time before 10 a.m. and muttered something about needing to run errands — emphasis on needing, though what she could possibly need from Trader Joe’s that wasn’t fancy bread or mini macarons, he didn’t understand — he met her by the kitchen island with a plate in his hand.

“I made you breakfast,” he said calmly, like she wasn’t fuming in the hoodie she stole from him three days ago. “You’re gonna sit. You’re gonna eat. Even if it’s just a few bites. Then you can go back to having your little attitude.”

She squinted at him. “I said I’m fine.”

“And I said sit down.” He gave a thin-lipped smile that read don’t play with me in no uncertain terms.

He raised an eyebrow as he set the plate down. Belgian waffles with the works: dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar, a small ramekin of syrup on the side, accompanied by three pieces of turkey bacon, fried nice and crispy the way she liked it.

She tried to keep her expression flat, but her body betrayed her — shoulders softening as the smell hit her.

“Mmph,” she grumbled, sliding into the chair like her legs moved on autopilot.

He kissed her cheek on his way to grab her juice. “Good girl.”

She didn’t respond, but he saw her tiny smirk out of his periphery.

After an albeit silent breakfast together, she was back in the hallway towards the door, keys jingling, phone clutched in one hand. “Kari, I’ll be back. Just going to the mall.”

“Cool. Make sure to stop at the gas station,” he reminded her, gloved arms wrist-deep in the sink. You’re almost on E.”

“I know.” she sing-songingly called over her shoulder.

“You didn’t let me fill it last night,” he added, singing back to her in the same tone, gentler this time.

“Because I said I’d handle it!”

The door shut a little harder than necessary.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed. Her name flashed across the screen, followed by a sniffly, high-pitched: “Baaaaby…”

He already knew.

He didn’t laugh — not yet, anyway. That’d come later. “You ran out of gas, didn’t you?”

“I—maybe—I thought I had more! And I was just going to run into Trader Joe’s real quick and—”

He huffed out a breath in (slightly amused) exasperation. “I’m on my way.”

When he arrived at her location, a random mile-marker on the 405, her car parked ever-so nicely along the shoulder, he found her slumped in her seat. Her eyes were puffed, lips trembling, chest rising and falling in small sobs, lashes heavy from tears she swore weren’t real.

He didn’t even speak. He just walked past her car with the gas can, muttering something under his breath about how she never listens. She rolled her window down with a meek “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a look. “You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time!”

“You meant it last time.”

“But I was mean earlier,” she said, voice wobbling. “And you still brought me gas. That’s like… husband behavior, y’know.”

“Mhmm. I’m aware.” He popped the cap and poured.

“You could’ve laughed. Or yelled.”

“I did both in the car,” he smirked. “Got it out of my system.”

She leaned her head against the window frame, watching him like he was the sun. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, hood pulled up, focused and calm and somehow still fine as hell. Even when she was difficult, he never left her hanging. Not ever.

When he finished, he rapped his knuckles gently on the car’s hood. “Where to now?”

“I was gonna go to the mall—”

“Wrong answer.” He interrupted, “You’re going to the fucking gas station.”

She nodded, wiping under her eyes.

“And I’m gonna follow you there.” He continued, “And I’m gonna fill your tank the rest of the way while you finish getting the rest of your sniffles out.”

She sniffled again. “Okay.”

At the gas station, she barely got the car in park before he was out of the Big Truck and around the side. She tried to open her door and he gently tapped it closed.

“I got it,” he said, teasing.

She stayed seated, wiping her cheeks again as he took the pump in hand and slid his card into the reader like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t been a full-blown drama queen a little over an hour ago.

He glanced at her through the window. She looked sheepish.

She stepped out of her car anyway, sliding into his side, and wrapping her arms around him before he could fuss at her again. “Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was an ass.”

He peppered kisses along the top of her head with a laugh. Because now it was funny, and he was allowed to laugh now that she had a full tank and she’s safe and in his arms. “You are an ass.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t listen.”

“I know.”

He hugged her back, his hand smoothing over her hoodie as she melted into his chest.

“But I’m your ass,” she added quietly.

He grinned. “Yeah, you are.”

They sat like that for a minute, her car still running, the scent of fruit and cinnamon still faint on her breath.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look her in the face. “Next time, let me do the damn gas. Please.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t lie when you say you got it.”

“Okay.”

“And eat your damn breakfast without the attitude.”

She squinted. “Okay… husband.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, dramatic ass. Let’s go to the mall.”

—

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The night started with a simple movie, a hoodie you stole from him and refused to return, your bare legs curled in his lap. One of his hands was lazily resting on your thigh, the other nursing a glass of dark liquor.

You were supposed to be relaxing.

But you just couldn’t help yourself.

Michael stretched, arms overhead, back arching slightly, and the obscene series of cracks that popped from his shoulders echoed around the living room. You paused the movie, turned slowly toward him, blinking with faux concern. “…That was your bones?”

He gave you a side-eye. “Don’t start.”

“I thought the popcorn bag was poppin’ again,” you grinned, eyes gleaming. “You okay, grandpa?”

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, sipping slowly.

You leaned in, faux whispering like you were trying to protect his pride. “You want me to grab the Bengay, or you good?”

Michael didn’t respond at first. Just held your gaze. Silent. Calm. Then slowly, dangerously calm, he said with a hum, “Aight. Bet.”

You giggled like it was nothing. But you felt it. The shift. His hand flexed a little tighter on your thigh. His jaw ticked. And you – naive, sweet, stupid little you – kept pushing.

When the credits rolled on The Wood and he said something about seeing it back in the day, you really lost it. “Baaaaaabe,” you gasped through laughter. “I was literally in diapers. That’s crazy. You were watchin’ Mike and Slim get into fights over girls and I was still eating applesauce and watchin’ Blue’s Clues.”

Michael just stared at you. Blank face. The kind of silence that spelled your doom.

And you were wheezing. Bent over, laughing like you paid yourself to do stand-up. You slapped his chest. “I’m–I’m sorry, I’m just saying, that’s before my ti–AH!”

You didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence.

Because in one swift motion, Michael grabbed you by the waist and flipped you onto your back. Your head bounced lightly against the couch pillow, laughter dying in your throat as his full weight pressed down over you. His hand wrapped around both your wrists and pinned them above your head. And his voice, low, deadly, and smug, brushed right along your jaw. “You done?”

“…Maybe.”

He tilted his head. “Oh, you're cute today, huh?”

“Always.”

He smirked. But there was nothing funny in the way his other hand slid down your body, skimming under the hem of your borrowed hoodie to brush over your bare stomach.

“Y’know what’s not funny?” he asked. “You thinkin’ any of these lil boys you messed with before me could ever do what I do to you.”

You blinked. Your mouth parted but no words came out.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then? Then he dragged his hand into your shorts.

You gasped, hips bucking, but he pinned you tighter, shushing you like you were interrupting him. “Still wanna play?” he murmured, fingers slipping into your folds. “Still wanna talk shit?”

Your voice cracked. “Michael–”

“Say it with your chest, baby,” he mocked. “You had all that mouth five minutes ago.”

You were soaked. Embarrassingly so. And he felt it.

“See?” he whispered, brushing your clit in slow, punishing circles. “This is why I don’t take you seriously. You talk like I can’t handle you, but your pussy doesn't know how to act when I put hands on you.”

You whimpered. And that’s when your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The screen lit up. Tati. You knew she’d be asking something ridiculous. Probably a meme. Probably an “is this you and Michael” message. You tried to reach for it against his grip, but he snatched your wrists into a tighter hold.

“Oh no,” he tsked, feigning disappointment. “You're busy right now, remember?”

“Michael–”

He didn’t even let you finish. Slid two fingers deep inside, curling just right, watching you fall apart beneath him. “You gon’ apologize?” he asked calmly, thumb still teasing, pace brutal in its precision. “Or you want me to keep proving my point?”

“I’m–I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I didn’t mean–”

“Oh, you meant it,” he growled, sliding down your body, lips dragging along your inner thigh. “And now I mean to make you forget every one of your little jokes.”

You should’ve known better.

He warned you. Gave you every chance to stop. But no. Your ass just had to crack jokes, had to flex your youth, your smart-ass mouth, like he wasn’t twice the man any of those little boys before him ever dreamed of being.

And now look at you. Legs shaking. Breath caught in your lungs like you had to think about how to exhale. And you weren’t even in the bedroom yet.

Michael tossed the blanket aside, arms hooking under your knees as he stood, lifting you like you didn’t weigh a damn thing. Your shorts were still tangled around one ankle,like  a taunt to modesty. He didn’t bother fixing them.

You clung to his hoodie, face buried in the fabric, chest heaving.

He didn’t say much as he carried you. Just huffed a laugh under his breath and muttered, “Mouth still workin’? Or I finally fucked the jokes outta you?”

You whimpered something that might’ve been a word.

“Mmhm. Thought so.”

The hallway was a blur of shadows and low light, his footsteps heavy and steady. He kicked the bedroom door open and dropped you down in the center of the bed. You bounced once as your back hit the duvet, hair spilling around your face, thighs trembling, eyes wide.

The hoodie came off in one fluid pull, revealing his torso. Chocolate skin, broad chest, sweat-slick abs that flexed with every move. His sweatpants followed, slow, deliberate, dragging down inch by inch until he stepped out of them.

Your eyes darted to the bulge in his boxers. And honestly, you hated how much that made your mouth water. And as if he knew – 

“On your knees.” His voice cracked like thunder.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. “Wh–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” his index finger – the one that was just inside you downstairs, actually, how ironic – pointed to the carpet as if to say duh. 

You obeyed. Legs weak. Sliding off the bed, you stared up at him, lips parted, still dazed from what he’d done to you on the couch.

He gripped your jaw, tilting your face. “You think I’m old, baby?” he asked, stroking the side of your throat with his thumb.

You shook your head.

“No?” he smirked. “Then why you walkin’ around like I can’t break you in half if I wanted to?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His hand slid into your hair, fisting just tight enough to make you gasp, and he brought your mouth to him like it was owed. Like it was yours to worship.

You sucked him off like your life depended on it. Eagerly, desperately, like he was air and you’d been drowning. He groaned low in his throat, head thrown back as you took him slow and deep, letting him guide your movements until his grip tightened and he cursed under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Show me how much that smart mouth really loves me.”

You moaned, messy and wet, tears clinging to your lashes when he finally pulled away and lifted you back onto the bed. You didn’t get a second to breathe before he was over you again, cock heavy and hot between your thighs, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other handling his cock at your entrance.

“You remember what you said earlier?” he asked, tone so low it rumbled in your chest.

“…no–”

He slammed into you in one stroke. Your body arched. “Oh fuck–”

“You remember now?”

You screamed. Not a yell, not a moan. Like an actual scream. He grinned like he was proud of himself, then started moving.

Every thrust hit home. Deep. Unrelenting. Your legs were spread wide, locked around his waist. The bedframe slammed the wall in time with your gasps. He kissed you hard, tongue claiming your mouth, then dragged his lips down your neck, your chest, your breasts – biting, sucking, devouring.

“You like talkin’ shit?” he panted, his strokes turning savage. “Then go ahead. Say somethin’ now.”

You couldn’t. You weren’t even forming words anymore. Just sobbing into the pillow, clawing at the sheets above you like you’d fall apart if you let go.

“That’s what I thought.”

He kept going. Harder. Slower. Rougher. One leg thrown over his shoulder, your body bent and folded to take him as deep as humanly possible.

He watched you fall apart. The way your stomach trembled, your chest heaved, your jaw dropped in that perfect O as your body convulsed around him and you came so hard you forgot how to breathe.

But he wasn’t done.

Not until he’d fucked you through the mattress.

Not until he’d made you cum again. And again. And again.

Not until you were crying his name and begging for mercy.

Not until he collapsed on top of you, both of you sweat-drenched and broken, your body twitching through the aftershocks under his like you were still recovering from an exorcism.

He kissed your temple. Brushed damp hair back from your face. Whispered against your skin. “Still think I’m old?”

You shook your head, unable to form a thought.

“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

–

Morning sunlight streamed in through the blinds, soft and golden, casting lines across your bare legs tangled in the sheets. The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint sizzle of bacon coming from the kitchen.

Michael stood at the stove in nothing but gray sweats, his broad back flexing as he flipped pancakes like he didn’t break you in half the night before. He was whistling. 

Whistling. 

Happy. Clearly very pleased with himself.

You walked in gingerly, hair still messy, hoodie thrown over your sore body, and the slightest limp in your step. 

He clocked it immediately. “Mornin’, baby,” he said over his shoulder, smug as hell. Bastard. “Sleep good?”

You shot him a glare that held no real weight. “You tried to rearrange my spinal column.”

Michael grinned. “Did I succeed?”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t answer. Just grabbed a cup from the cabinet, poured yourself some juice, and leaned against the counter.

“I was nice,” he said. “You had jokes, remember? I was just tryna make sure you remembered who you were talkin’ to.”

“Mm,” you sipped. “Could’ve just shown me your driver’s license, old man.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. The room went still.

You froze.

Michael turned his head slow. Real slow. That little crooked smile stretched across his face like a wolf baring its teeth. “What was that?”

You slapped your hand over your mouth like that would undo it. Eyes wide. Shaking your head like no no no nope didn’t say that, even though the evidence was loud and clear.

His brows lifted. “Really?”

You were gone before he could put the spatula down. “BABE–!” you yelped, darting out of the kitchen, juice sloshing dangerously in your cup.

Unfortunately for you, you didn’t make it very far.

Michael stalked after you, bare feet against the floor like a threat, laughing deep and dark from the back of his throat. “Oh nah. Don’t run now. You were BOLD a second ago!”

You threw the juice cup on the hallway table and made a sharp left toward the bedroom, sliding sock-footed like a cartoon character. “I take it BACK!”

“You meant it!” he shouted, footsteps getting louder.

“I DIDN’T, I SWEAR–”

He caught you halfway through the doorway, arms around your waist, lifting you right off the ground like you weighed nothing. You screamed through laughter, legs kicking. “Kari!”

“Nah, keep that same energy!” he said, tossing you onto the bed.

You bounced once. Tried to scramble away.

He pounced, landing right on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head like last night was muscle memory, like he was built for this. You squealed, squirmed, already breathless with laughter and anticipation. “ See, I was gonna let you rest,” he said, shaking his head like he was disappointed in you. “I really was.”

“You should,” you said weakly. “You’re probably still sore–”

He kissed you hard, swallowing the laugh before it could leave your throat. “Too late.”

His mouth moved down your jaw, to your throat, down to where the hoodie was barely hanging on your body. “You wanna keep acting up?” he grumbled, dragging the hoodie up over your hips. “Cool. Let me show you what happens when you play too much.”

You writhed beneath him, still laughing, but it was panicked now. Desperate. Your body remembered exactly what he did to you last night. The ache between your thighs hadn’t even faded. But Michael wasn’t interested in mercy. Not when you kept calling him old.

He peeled your hoodie off entirely, exposing your bare chest, your soft belly, the deep grooves of finger-shaped bruises blooming along your hips like love notes. “Damn, baby,” he muttered, dragging his knuckles down the side of your ribs. “I did all this?”

You nodded, cheeks hot, lips parted.

He grinned. “Good.”

He moved slow(er) this time, kissing your neck. 

Sweet. Soft. Which only made it worse. 

Ugh. Just punish me, already! You thought, brows furrowed in anticipation.

He worked down your body like he had all the time in the world, tongue tracing lazy circles on your collarbone, his hands kneading your thighs until your toes curled into the sheets. “You remember the rules, right?” he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses between your breasts. “Smart mouths get shut up.”

You whimpered.

“Wanna test me again?”

You shook your head.

He smirked. “Nah, you do. That’s why you ran.” Then he bit your inner thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make you yelp.

You didn’t get to process when his mouth was on you again.

He released your wrists to spread you open with his thumbs, flattening his tongue against your clit and dragging it slowly back and forth. No rush, no mercy. Just languid, wet strokes, over and over, until your back arched and your fingers clawed the sheets.

You moaned loud, tried to close your legs.

He held them open. He made you take it. Made you feel every inch of his tongue, the press of his nose, the scrape of his teeth.

His one – devious, downright evil – goal was to make you cum. As many times, and as violently, as he could. When you came, it hit you like a ton of bricks.

Your whole body shook. You sobbed out his name. Your thighs clamped tight around his face and he didn’t move. Just moaned into your pussy like it got him high.

When he finally pulled away, your eyes were glassy. Michael crawled back up your body, slow and heavy, dragging his cock against your still-throbbing center. “I want you to feel me this time,” he whispered. “Every stroke. Every inch.”

You whimpered, trying to close your legs. But he just slid between them again, lined himself up, and sank into you to the hilt with a deep thrust that knocked air out of your lungs.

Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out at all.

Michael didn’t move. Just watched your face. Studied the way your lashes fluttered, the way your hands scrambled to hold on to something. “You okay, baby?” he asked, voice thick, teasing.

You nodded weakly.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Good. ‘Cause I’m just getting started.”

Then he pulled out painfully slow… and slammed back in.

He kept the pace like that. Slow, heavy, unrelenting. Your nails carved red lines down his back but he didn’t stop. Just kept fucking you like he was trying to leave a permanent impression, like your body was a memory foam mattress and he was trying to stamp his name into it.

“Still think I’m old?” he grunted, biting your shoulder.

You shook your head. “Mm-mm–”

“Say it.”

“You’re not–fuck–you’re not old, Michael, please–”

He snapped his hips harder, and you shattered again, crying out, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave breaking over rocks.

But he still didn’t stop. “You wanted to act up?” he panted, fucking you through it. “Now you gon’ take all of this.”

You weren’t even speaking anymore. Just babbling, trembling, letting him use your body however he wanted.

And when he finally came, spilling deep inside, teeth gritted, groaning your name like a prayer, you were limp. Gone. A complete puddle of ecstasy melted into the mattress, eyes unfocused, mouth slack.

He collapsed on top of you, chest to chest, hearts pounding together. For a long time, the only sound in the room was your breathing and his heartbeat in your ear. And then, Michael pulled back, kissed your nose, and brushed sweat-slick hair off your forehead. “You gon’ behave now?”

You couldn’t speak.. just gave him a dazed thumbs up.

Michael laughed. Laughed, kissed your cheek again, and stood up, stretching like he hadn’t just turned you into pulp. “I’ll get you some water.”

As he walked out of the room, still naked, still grinning, you let your hand fall over your face and whispered to no one in particular: “…I need to mind my business.”

Later, as the morning bled into the afternoon and found yourself tangled in his embrace, eyes closed in a blissful daze, you felt something.

Movement. 

The kind of movement to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your eyes popped open, all inklings of drowsiness leaving your body.

And there he was, towering above you like he was hunting. Michael slid back down your body, eyes locked on yours. He didn’t say a word; just spread you out again, thighs pushed open with his forearms locked tight beneath them. You were too tired to fight his insatiability. And frankly, you deserved more love-making than the brutal punishment he’d provided two days in a row.

But there was no warm-up. He didn’t offer any teasing. No playful licks. His lips locked around your clit and put his tongue to work like his life depended on it. And these are the moments where he was most dangerous.

Because Michael didn’t eat pussy to make you cum.

He ate you out like he was trying to ruin you for every man who would ever think about stepping to you again. 

Like he wanted a piece of you to keep with him at all times.

Like your orgasm was a challenge, and his ego would never let him lose.

Your back arched the second his tongue hit just right at that spot – laid flat and wide.

You tried reaching for something – anything – for purchase, but your fingers just clawed the sheets. Your legs twitched, tried to close, but his forearms locked tighter, his way of saying you weren’t going anywhere, without his mouth ever leaving your aching cunt.

“About to cum already?” he murmured between strokes. His lips glistened, beard damp with your juices, tongue still circling slow. “I just started, baby.”

You whined, almost wanting to climb out of your skin. The pleasure, the overstimulation, the ache that still burned in your hips when you tried to wriggle away… it was too much. 

But then came the fingers.

His index and middle fingers sunk perfectly deep inside, your hole practically begging for them to enter. Curling up with pinpoint accuracy, pressing against that spot that made you curse god. He didn’t even break rhythm, tongue still flicking, lips never letting go, while his fingers pumped in and out of you with intent.

It was absolutely filthy the way he knew exactly how to unravel you.

And before you could even think – you couldn’t stop it. Your body snapped, and the orgasm hit like a tidal wave – violent, raw, loud. “Michael–!”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even linger to come up for air.

If anything, he got hungrier. “You’re not done,” he growled, voice muffled against your clit. “Give me another.”

You cried out, shaking your head. A shallow “Uh-uh” escaped your throat in protest, but your hips bucked into his mouth like your body had already betrayed you.

And then… you felt the build. The tingle. That oh-so sickeningly-sweet, painfully-blissful pressure low in your belly that warned you it was about to get messy. “No–Michael, please, I–”

“You what?” he taunted. “Gon’ squirt for me?”

You whined.

“Go ahead, baby. Fuckin’ drench me.”

Your brain couldn’t move fast enough before your thighs clamped around his face and the gush of it hit hard everywhere, hot and wet like a flood. His face, his mouth, his chest. And the bed – the poor bed – was completely soaked. Your body shook, back arched so hard it felt like you’d ascended to heaven, and you screamed his name like an apology for every utterance of the word “old” within his earshot.

Michael moaned. Like, actually.

Like it turned him on, like the taste of you soaking his face made his cock twitch, made his hunger double. He kept licking, sloppy now, messy, his beard slick and jaw locked like he wanted every last drop.

You tried to crawl back. Pull away. “It’s t-too m-much, Michael, I c-can’t–”

He grabbed your hips, yanked you right back down to his mouth. “I said give me another.”

You sobbed as he dragged it out of you… over and over. Until your body was wrung dry, twitching with aftershocks, tears streaming down your cheeks, thighs sticky and shaking, voice hoarse from screaming.

When he finally pulled back, he looked up at you like he just conquered something sacred – his lips swollen, his beard wet, and his chest heaving. 

You were a ruined, soaked mess on the bed. But Michael… 

Michael looked refreshed. Smug. Charged. Like every drop of you he swallowed sent lightning straight to his cock – and he was still starving. “You still with me, baby?” he asked, even though he could see the answer written all over your face: dazed, eyes glossy, mouth parted and gasping.

You managed a nod. A twitch of your fingers.

He grinned like that was permission enough. “Then turn over.”

You didn’t move – more specifically, you couldn’t move.

So he flipped you face-down into the sheets, hips yanked up and back until you were on your knees, your ass arched high and your chest pressed low into the mattress. You could barely hold yourself up as your thighs shook. Your pussy was swollen and glistening, practically pulsing in desperation

Michael just groaned. “Look at this fuckin’ pussy,” he muttered behind you, dragging his fingers through the slick. You jolted. “Still drippin’ for me. Still open. You meant it when you said I was old, huh? That's why you actin’ up?”

You shook your head into the pillow.

He slapped your ass. Just once. Sharp. “That was a question.”

“No,” you gasped. “I didn’t–I didn’t mean it–”

“Oh you absolutely did,” Grabbing his cock and lining it up with your entrance, taunting the hole with his leaking head. “And now you gon’ take what you started.”

The air rushed out of your lungs as he pushed into you again. Your knees nearly gave out, but his hand was already fisting in your hair, pulling your head up as he started to fuck you deep.

He didn’t dare to fuck you fast. Well, not yet, at least. Just long, heavy strokes that pressed every inch of him into you until you were babbling nonsense. Your mouth hung open. Drool hit the sheets. “Oh my God–”

Michael just moaned behind you, gripping your hip with one hand, your hair with the other, driving into you like he was building something permanent. “You feel that?” he growled, dragging his cock out slow, then slamming back in hard. “Ain’t no little boy ever made you feel like this.”

“Michael–”

He yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear. “Say it.”

You sobbed. “No one–no one ever–fuck, baby–”

“You gon’ behave now?”

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks.

But he wasn’t finished – even though you relented, he still wasn’t satisfied, while your pussy was still fluttering around him like it couldn’t stand to be empty, and while your thighs were sticky and trembling from rounds one and two (and three, honestly) and you still had more to give.

He dropped your hair and pressed his palm between your shoulder blades, pushing you flat into the bed. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them down behind your back, and fucked into you hard, truly punishing you like the ragdoll he loved to turn you into.

Your voice cracked as you squirted again, just a little, just enough to make him growl. “You like this shit,” he spat, slapping your ass again. “You love actin’ up just to get fucked stupid.”

You didn’t even try to deny it. Because you were already cumming on his cock again, a silent scream stuck in your throat, your whole body convulsing as you lost yourself.

And he followed you over the edge not long after – the hold on your hips gripping you so tight you’d feel everything tomorrow, spilling deep inside you with a loud shuddering moan and a gasp of your name, head thrown back.

He pulled out slow, collapsing onto the mattress and pulling you into him, your back to his chest. The mess between you two was evidence of your punishment(s), though all he wanted in that moment was to kiss the back of your neck and shoulders as you both came down from your highs.

“You still think I’m old?” he whispered, smug as hell.

You groaned. “I think… I need physical therapy.”

Michael laughed. “Good. I’ll make the appointment for us.”

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