tinka’s secret blog

Randy Jr.

He was just your sneaky link, nothing crazy. You met at an off-campus party and got along well which led to a night at his apartment. You mutually agreed to keep it casual, too busy and stressed for a relationship.

You didn’t feel like dealing with someone else when you struggled to deal with yourself.

You unlocked your phone, pressing on the notification and reading,

“What you up to?”

You debated on responding, while the bright laptop screen practically yelled at you to lock back in.

Clearly your laptop didn’t scream loud enough as you picked up your phone to respond.

“Just studying, whats up?”

The grey bubbles appeared in no time.

“Can I slide?”

That damned question. If he comes over you know exactly what you’ll be up to, but you need to study. Well…you do understand most of it.

Maybe a little relief won’t be so bad…

“Come on, look at me, mama.” Randy grunted above you. Looking at him was something that felt physically impossible in that moment. Your eyes felt permanently stuck to the back of your head.

He filled you to the brim. So full that you had to remember to breathe. The way he was stuffed inside of you made your brain void of everything else. Not a single care about an exam, not a single care about the R.A down the hall, only his dick.

His fingers lightly tapped your cheek, hips still pistoning in you. The tapping brought you back for a small moment, eyes shifting forward to look at him.

“Thank you, mama. Can you keep looking at daddy?” He cooed. His palms found place on the back of your thighs, holding them down to keep you spread open for him. Your knees were damn near touching your ears, and he only pushed deeper. Absolutely folded.

You nodded—not without struggling—and attempted to keep your eyes on him. He looked heavenly from this angle, thick eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and his biceps that naturally flexed.

He was so fine.

“Nngh—Randyyy.” You moaned, back arching against the sheets. “I know baby, you doin’ so fuckin’ good.” He swung your legs over his shoulders, leaning down into a mating press.

You could’ve lost your mind in that moment. The way his tip nudged against your g-spot had you planning a wedding in your head.

Maybe a green wedding dress? Who should be the flower girls? Big or small wedding?

You would be sick to your stomach right now, if you found out some other girl was experiencing this.

“Fuckkkk, waittt.” You cried out, hand pressing against sculpted abdomen. “Shhh, you can take it. You been stressing right?” His voice could’ve soothed you to sleep if it wasn’t for him digging you out.

“Y-yes.” You whimpered, finally getting the small reminder of your exams but that didn’t sit in your head for too long, diminishing with every stroke from Randy.

“Exactly so let me take care of you.” He delivered a soft kiss to your cheek. The tenderness made your eyes roll back, and you fought the urge to say I love you.

Good dick just does that to you.

“Randy, I’m gonna cum.” You moaned. “Yea?” He sat up, angling his hips till his tip kissed your g-spot making your legs shake. “FUCK!” You cried, palms pressing against his abdomen.

“Move.”

One simple demand that you did not bother listening to. He gathered your wrists into one hand, holding them in the air as he rolled his hips against yours.

So how should you propose to him?

“Cum for me, mama.” He said. The knot in your stomach broke, releasing and creaming all over him. He thrust you through your orgasm, refusing to take his eyes off the bliss on your face.

You clenched repeatedly around him, chest heaving from the waves of pleasure. "Mhm, keep takin' that dick." He muttered, pace not faltering. Your legs shook from overstimulation, your back arching towards him.

"You creamin' all on me, fuck!" He groaned, listening to the wet squelch of him pumping into you. You felt brain-dead at this point, body jolting with every pump, hyper-aware of the thumb stroking your thigh.

"You look so pretty, mama." Oh, he knows what he's doing. You couldn't help but clench around him practically keeping him stationary inside of you. Maybe it's a good thing you can't speak because you would have absolutely told him to nut in you. Baby trapping doesn't sound too bad right now.

Maybe he was thinking of you the same way. Probably not, but the way he's looking at you, you couldn't help but wonder.

You felt his large body weigh on you, burying his nose into the crook of your shoulder. Another ball of heat began to unravel in your stomach as you smelled his sultry, cedar wood cologne. You were quite literally covered by him, and it only made your maddening obsession worse.

You were so hyperfixated on the feeling of him thrusting and stretching you out, you didn't realize your orgasm overtook you once again. Shaking underneath him while he peppered wet, gentle kisses on the side of your neck.

At this point the only thing you were thinking is, where is the nearest ring store?

mims yaps. it's about time that i posted something new! sorry it took so long. i'm going through a rough patch w my writing (who am i kidding—life in general actually 😭). anywho, i just recently had this idea and jumped on it immediately. surprised myself that i stuck w it! it was supposed to be a short drabble but evolved a little. it's short though. does this still count as a drabble in tumblr's eyes?

also, for some reason i wrote this with fall in mind... perhaps because i've been thinking about fall a lot today. idk. silk press season. my birthday. school back in session. yk. regardless, enjoyy! and if you would, disregard any errors. probably missed them in my impatience and eagerness to post this. also, i should note that i prefer not giving the reader a specific outfit or features, but i did with this one (just reader's jacket and nails, but still).

lastly, this is also published in my imagines book on wattpad, dreamers.

Pushing through the flock of fangirls and boys, you advance towards the front. The darkly stained, wooden buttons of your faded, dusty-raspberry-pink corduroy jacket were fastened, keeping close the heat your body exuded. In your manicured hands, a felt plush of Walt Disney’s Bambi is clutched tight, the length of your natural nails digging into the smooth, resistant material.

In front of Hayvenhurst, Michael’s stalling vehicle was surrounded by various individuals—mostly young ladies—the window agape beside the backseat in which he sat. A pale pink, cotton button up covered his torso and arms, tucked into a pair of denim jeans that trailed down to his dress shoes—worn, but polished nonetheless. The first few buttons of his shirt were left undone, his engraved heart locket nestled in the exposed space of smooth, chocolate skin.

As you make it to the forefront, you call out, “Michael! Can I give you something? Please?” His gaze flicks over to you, baby-doll eyes fixed on yours before taking a quick detour up and down the expanse of your figure. “Of course, mama.” He smiles shyly, teeth sinking into the supple flesh of his lower lip, reaching his right arm out. You hand him the Bambi merchandise, fingers brushing one another’s. “I bought it 'cause it reminded me of you, but I wan' you t'have it.” You explain, an instinctive smile seizing your lips.

Your pulse flutters rapidly in the side of your neck, like the wings of the butterflies inhabiting your stomach. You feel your breath shorten as his smile evolves into a grin, his entire face lit up—so much so, that in the eyes of those around him, there's no longer a need for the sun to break from its cloudy concealment. “Oh, thank you! You’re too kind. ‘S very cute—like you.” Michael chuckles, leaning towards you with the plush clutched against his abdomen. “Gimme a kiss?” He queries, though you’re already tilting in to meet him.

You anticipate a mutual kiss on the cheek, but are pleasantly and unbelievably surprised when your lips meet the plush of his in the softest, shortest exchange. You would have lingered, had the other girls not been pulling you back—some jealous, others excited for you. “Be gentle!” He chides them on your behalf, as a chorus of complaints and requests for his affection arise.

“Sorry.” He apologizes for subjecting you to the girls’ enthusiasm with a chortle and equally sheepish grimace, rolling up the window. “‘M sorry I gotta go now, but thanks for tha deer! Disney’s my favorite!” He expresses, quickly adding, “‘N I love your hair!”, before the glass division is fully up.

You stand speechless with an impossibly warm, fuzzy feeling, as Michael’s driver, Bill, pulls off while the singer waves goodbye. The kiss replays in your head as you ponder to yourself, “I jus’ kissed Michael Jackson.”

when you're both making love, he wants you to know that you're undoubtedly his. he shows this by grabbing onto your throat as he drills his cock inside of you; the pressure his fingers put onto your neck make you feel so lightheaded. you pathetically attempt to hold onto michael's waist with your legs for support.

just putting one finger inside already sends you over the edge. michael is more than able to hit your cervix—it's that long and thick. when another finger enters into your folds, you can't help but start to cry. he doesn't admit it, but the sight of you trembling under his hands puts a hard tent on his pants.

michael was so shy to do this at first, but over time, he realized how much he loved slapping your ass. he enjoys how plump and hot it becomes, feeling the heat as he rubs the same spot to soothe the sting. your whimpers only make him want to do it harder, but he knows that he can't bring himself to. he loves you too much to risk actually hurting you.

he loves putting fingers down your throat to see you choke on it. the way your eyes water, your lips tighten, and your moans muffle through his digits is his favorite kind of foreplay. it gets him so hard that it makes him so, so impatient to replace his hand with his cock. “just a little more, baby," michael coos.

You smoothed down the front of your dress, taking a deep breath to steady the fluttering in your chest. It was a simple, elegant A-line piece in a light sage green, that complemented your rich, brown skin beautifully. Michael had picked it out for you himself, as he often did. He loved dressing you up, treating you like the rare, precious jewel you were to him.

To the rest of the world, he was an untouchable, larger-than-life icon, but to you, he was the man who brushed your curls out of your face with trembling devotion, who held you like you were made of glass, and who anchored you when the world became too loud.

At twenty-four, you were significantly younger than your husband, a fact the media loved to chew on and spit out in sensationalized headlines. But inside the gates of Neverland, the age gap didn't exist. There was only the deep, unyielding bond the two of you shared.

Right now, however, the weight of the outside world was knocking on your front door.

Michael stood by the tall French windows, looking out over the sprawling amusement park rides and manicured gardens. He looked magnificent—a striking vision of sharp angles, sleek lines, and undeniable power. His black hair fell in perfectly sculpted, glossy curls around his chiseled face, a few damp strands framing his sharp jawline. He wore a crisp, crimson button-down shirt with black armbands, tucked into tight black trousers that accentuated his lean, dancer's frame. His hat rested on the side table, and his dark eyes were temporarily shielded behind his signature aviator sunglasses.

He was nervous. You could tell by the way his slender fingers rhythmically tapped against his thigh—one, two, three, four.

"Michael, honey," you murmured, stepping toward him. The soft click of your heels drew his attention instantly.

He turned, the rigid tension in his shoulders melting the second his eyes landed on you. He reached out, his large, warm hand instantly wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against his chest.

"You look beautiful, ‘y/n’," he whispered, his voice a soft, breathless rasp near your ear. He used your full name only when he was feeling intensely affectionate or incredibly anxious. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? You don't have to be on camera if you don't want to. I can tell them to leave."

"I'm sure," you said gently, resting your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid, steady beat of his heart beneath the silk of his shirt. "We agreed on this. A documentary to show the world who you really are. Martin Bashir promised he wanted to show the truth, right? I'm right here by your side. We’re a team."

Michael smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your lips. He tasted like the peppermint he'd been chewing to calm his nerves, his mouth tender and warm against yours. "My brave girl," he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped.

"Just stay close to me. Don't leave my side."

A chime echoed through the house, signaling the arrival of the production crew. Michael’s grip on your waist tightened for a fraction of a second—a quiet, protective squeeze—before he reluctantly let you go, slipping his sunglasses off and placing them next to his hat.

The heavy oak doors opened, and in walked Martin Bashir, followed by a small crew hauling cameras, tripods, and lighting equipment.

Bashir looked exactly as he did on television—shrewd, calculated, wearing a sharp, dark suit and a smile that felt a little too perfectly practiced, a little too eager. But as his eyes scanned the room, they bypassed the gold records on the walls, bypassed the sprawling art installations, and locked straight onto you.

Michael stepped forward, his posture instantly shifting into that of a global megastar—polite, poised, yet intensely guarded. "Martin. Welcome to Neverland," Michael said, extending a hand.

"Michael, an absolute honor," Bashir said, shaking his hand firmly. But even as he spoke to Michael, his eyes flicked right back to you, taking in the curve of your collarbone, the warmth of your skin, and the youth radiating from your face. "And this must be the lovely lady of the house. The elusive Mrs. Jackson."

Bashir stepped closer, stepping right into your personal space, and extended his hand to you. "Martin Bashir. It is an absolute privilege to finally meet the woman who captured the Michaels heart."

Before you could even raise your hand, Michael shifted. It was a subtle movement, but incredibly deliberate. He didn't just stand next to you; he partially stepped in front of you, his broad shoulder cutting off half of Bashir’s view.

"My wife," Michael said. His voice was still soft, but there was a distinct, icy drop in his pitch that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "Her name is Y/N."

"Y/N," Bashir repeated, his voice dropping into a smooth, performative cadence as he bypassed Michael's defensive stance to take your hand anyway. Instead of a standard handshake, he brought your knuckles close to his lips, his eyes locked onto yours, lingering far longer than courtesy required. "An absolute vision. Michael, you are a very lucky man. She possesses a quiet... captivating youthfulness."

You felt a sudden, sharp spike of discomfort. The way Bashir said youthfulness felt dirty, like he was trying to probe a bruise, analyzing the dynamic between you and your husband with a clinical, judgmental gaze. You gently but firmly pulled your hand back, offering a tight, polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bashir. Welcome to our home."

Behind you, you heard the sharp, distinct sound of Michael clearing his throat. When you looked back at him, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath his smooth skin. His dark eyes, usually so warm and full of gentle light, had narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated ice. Michael was a man fully aware of his power, his sensuality, and his territory. And right now, someone was stepping on it.

The interview began in the grand living room, seated on a pair of opulent, gold-trimmed velvet couches. Michael sat closely beside you, closer than he normally would on camera. One of his long arms was stretched across the back of the sofa behind your head, his fingers lightly playing with a stray curl at the nape of your neck, effectively branding you as his in front of the lenses.

Initially, the questions were standard. Bashir asked about the music, the inspiration behind his latest projects, and the creation of Neverland. Michael answered eloquently, his soft voice filling the room, but his body language remained rigid. Every time Bashir asked a question, his eyes would wander from Michael's face down to you.

"Now, Michael," Bashir said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes sliding down to your legs, which were crossed elegantly beneath your green dress, before flicking up to Michael. "The public is endlessly fascinated by your private life. And, of course, your marriage. Your wife is quite young. Quite beautiful. A stark contrast to the chaotic world you inhabit. Tell me, how does such a young woman adjust to the... unique lifestyle of Michael Jackson?"

Michael’s fingers, resting on the velvet behind your head, twitched. "She handles everything with grace," Michael said, his voice clipped and precise. "She is my rock. She doesn't just adjust to my world, Martin. She is my world."

Bashir smiled, a slow, greasy smirk that made your stomach turn. He turned his gaze entirely to you, ignoring Michael completely. "And for you, dear? It must be overwhelming. Being married to a global icon. A man so much older, with so much history. Do you ever feel... isolated here? Do you ever feel like you're living in a gilded cage, trapped by a man who demands your total isolation?"

The bluntness of the question made you gasp softly. "No, not at all—" you began, but Bashir cut you off, leaning even closer, his eyes scanning your face with an intense, invasive scrutiny that felt borderline predatory.

"Because looking at you now," Bashir murmured, his tone dripping with a faux-sympathetic warmth, "one can't help but see a beautiful, vulnerable young woman. A woman who perhaps needs a different kind of... protection. A different kind of attention. Are your needs truly being met here, Y/N?"

The room went dead silent. The camera crew held their breath, the heavy silence stretching thin.

You felt a cold dread wash over you, not because of the question, but because of the sudden, terrifying change in the atmosphere next to you. The air in the room felt like it dropped twenty degrees in a single second.

Michael slowly stood up.

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He never raised his voice at you, and even now, his fury was entirely directed outward, away from his precious girl. But the sheer aura of dominance he radiated as he stood was suffocating. He stood at his full height, looking down at Bashir with a look of such lethal contempt that even the seasoned journalist visibly blinked, sliding back into his seat.

"We're taking a break," Michael announced. His voice wasn't soft anymore. It was deep, commanding, and absolutely final. It was the voice of a man who commanded stadiums of a hundred thousand people with a single flick of his wrist. "Turn the cameras off. Now."

The director scrambled, instantly barking orders to cut the feed.

Michael didn't wait for them to pack up. He turned to you, his expression softening instantly into one of pure tenderness. He reached down, his large hand gripping your wrist firmly—not enough to hurt, never to hurt—but with a bruising, unyielding possessiveness that left no room for argument. He pulled you gently but quickly up from the couch.

As he led you past Bashir, Michael stopped. He didn't look at the journalist, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his voice cut through the room like a blade. "If I catch you looking at my wife like that again, Martin, this interview is over. And you will be escorted off my property by armed security. Do you understand me?"

Bashir swallowed hard, his face turning a pale shade of grey. "Michael, I merely meant—"

"We are done for the day," Michael snapped, cutting him off entirely.

Without another word, Michael guided you along, his grip tight and protective around your hand as his long legs ate up the distance across the marble floor, leading you out of the living room and straight toward the private wing of the house.

The heavy mahogany doors of Michael’s private master bedroom shut with a loud, definitive thud, and the lock clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.

The moment the world was locked out, the tension in the room exploded.

Michael let go of your hand, turning around to pace the length of the massive bedroom. His hands flew to his hair, pulling at his curls, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. The calm, collected global superstar was gone; in his place was a man consumed by a raw, primal protective instinct.

"The nerve," Michael muttered, his voice shaking with a dangerous mix of anger and adrenaline. "The absolute, disgusting nerve of him. To come into my home. To sit on my furniture. And to look at you... to look at my wife like you were something he could analyze, something he could covet."

"Michael, baby, breathe," you said softly, stepping toward him. You weren't afraid of him; you knew his heart, knew that his anger was born out of a fierce need to protect you. "It's okay. He was just trying to get a reaction—"

"I am not angry with you, Angel," Michael interrupted quickly, his voice instantly softening as he turned to face you. He stepped toward you, his eyes wide, dark, and filled with a desperate devotion. He reached out, his large hands framing your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. "Never with you, my beautiful girl. Please know that. But the way he looked at you... it made my blood boil. He looked at your lips. He looked at your body. Thinking about what's mine. Thinking he had any right to even breathe the same air as you."

He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "Do you know what that did to me? Sitting there, having to watch another man look at you like that?"

"Michael..." your voice was a breathy whimper. The sheer intensity radiating from him was making your heart race, a sudden, intoxicating heat pooling in your lower abdomen. You had never seen him quite this consumed by possessiveness, and it was deeply, thrillingly arousing.

"You are my wife," Michael growled softly, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so gravelly, it sent a shiver straight down your spine. His hands moved from your face, sliding down to grip your hips, his long, taped fingers digging into the fabric of your green dress, anchoring you to him. "You are mine. Every single inch of this beautiful, soft skin belongs to me. He has no right to look. Nobody does."

"I am yours," you gasped out, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. "Only yours, Michael."

"Prove it to me then," he demanded, his voice a dark, sensual command. "Because right now, I feel like ripping the world apart, and the only thing that's going to stop me is making sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

Before you could answer, Michael’s mouth slammed down onto yours.

It wasn't his usual gentle, worshipful kiss. This was a bruising, dominant claim. He groaned into your mouth, his tongue forcing its way past your lips, tangling with yours in a desperate, hungry rhythm. His hands moved from your hips, sliding down to grip the underside of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a breathless sob into the kiss as he carried you the two steps to the bed, coming down over you like a dark wave.

The mattress swallowed you up, but Michael’s weight pressed you down, pinning you completely. He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his dark eyes burning into yours. His hands flew to the buttons of his crimson shirt, tearing them open with an impatient tug, sending a couple of buttons flying across the room. He threw the shirt off, exposing his lean, muscular chest, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

He looked magnificent. Wild. Driven entirely by his love and desire for you.

"Michael, please," you begged, arching your hips up against his, feeling the heavy, thick ridge of his arousal pressing through his trousers straight against your center.

"Tell me what you want," Michael rasped, his hands grabbing the hem of your green dress and shoving it up past your hips, exposing your lace panties. His dark eyes roamed over your exposed thighs, his breath catching at the sight of you. "Tell me who takes care of you, princess."

"You do," you whimpered, your hands running over the smooth skin of his chest, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You take care of me."

"Say it," he whispered, his hand sliding up your thigh, his long fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your underwear, making you gasp and arch your back. "Let me hear it, baby."

You looked up into his intense, burning eyes, seeing the man who shielded you from the world, the man who provided everything, who demanded your total safety in his arms. The raw power dynamic shifted, settling into a deeply erotic rhythm.

"Daddy," you breathed, the word slipping out like a quiet prayer. "Please, Daddy. I need you."

A dark, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of Michael’s lips, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat. The word acted like gasoline on a fire. "That's my good girl," he purred, his voice dripping with a heavy, possessive praise that made your heart swell. "That's my girl. You don't ever look at another man, you hear me? You only look at me. I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this."

He slid his hand inside your panties, his long fingers instantly finding your slick, soaking heat. You cried out, your head tossing back against the pillows as he began to stroke you, his thumb rubbing circles over your center with an expert, heavy pressure.

"Look at me, baby," Michael commanded gently, his voice sharp but full of deep affection.

You forced your eyes open, blinking through the haze of pleasure, locking your gaze onto his.

"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" Michael murmured, watching your face twist with ecstasy as his fingers slid deeper inside you, stretching you, testing your readiness. "So tight. All made for me. Bashir can look all he wants, but he'll never know how sweet you taste. He’ll never know how you scream my name."

"Michael—Daddy, please, I'm going to—" You rocked your hips against his hand, the friction driving you over the edge.

"Hold it," Michael ordered, his fingers suddenly stopping, holding you right at the precipice. You let out a whimper of protest, your eyes pleading with him. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when you break. I want to feel every single squeeze."

With a speed that left you breathless, Michael reached down, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers and briefs down his legs. When he freed himself, he was thick, fully erect, and throbbing with a desperate need.

He positioned himself between your thighs, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling them back, opening you up completely to him. He looked down at the contrast of his pale hands against your rich, dark skin, a look of profound reverence passing over his face before the possessive hunger took over again.

"You belong to me," he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Say it one more time."

"I belong to Daddy," you cried out, your hands gripping his hips, guiding him to your entrance. "Please, Michael, now!"

With a heavy, powerful thrust, Michael buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.

The breath was completely knocked from your lungs. He was so big, so full, stretching you to your absolute limit. You let out a high-pitched cry, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back as your walls clamped tightly around him.

Michael let out a loud, ragged groan, his eyes snapping shut as he threw his head back, his neck straining. "God, baby... you're so tight... so perfect," he gasped out, his hips already beginning to move.

Driven by the lingering adrenaline and jealousy, his paces were hard, deep, and utterly possessive. Every thrust was a declaration, his heavy frame slamming against yours with a rhythmic, mesmerizing force. The headboard rattled against the wall, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.

"Ah! Michael!" you screamed, your vision blurring as the pleasure washed over you in intense, electric waves. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, biting his skin to keep from screaming too loudly.

He loved it. He let out a dark laugh, his hands gripping your waist tightly, anchor lines holding you in place as he dominated your senses.

"That's it, take it all," Michael rasped, his pace quickening, becoming frantic, completely losing himself in the feel of your body. "Tell me who owns this body. Tell me!"

"You do! You do! Ah!"

Your words triggered your release. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic spasms. The pleasure was too intense, shattering your mind completely as a loud, sobbing cry escaped your lips.

Feeling the crushing, tight warmth of your orgasm, Michael lost all control. He let out a deep, primal roar, burying himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering as he came inside you. He poured himself into you, his length pulsing inside your warmth as he flooded you, his chest heaving heavily against yours.

He collapsed on top of you, taking care not to crush you, his face buried in your curls, both of you panting as the aftershocks of the climax rippled through your bodies.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon outside, casting long, golden shadows across the bedroom.

Michael slowly shifted his weight, rolling onto his side but keeping you securely tucked against him. His long arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back against his chest in a tight, protective spooning position. He pulled the silk sheets up over both of your naked bodies, shielding you from the world once more.

He began to plant soft, apologetic kisses along your bare shoulder, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your stomach.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice returning to that soft, gentle melody you knew so well. "I didn't mean to be so rough with you, my beautiful girl. I never want to hurt you. I just... when I saw him looking at you like that... I lost my mind. The thought of anyone else thinking they can have a piece of what is ours..."

You turned your head slightly, kissing his jawline, feeling the smooth texture of his skin. "Don't apologize, Michael. I loved it. I needed to feel you, too. I'm yours. No one else matters. Let him look all he wants; he can never have this."

Michael smiled, a genuine, warm smile that finally filled his dark eyes with light. He squeezed you tighter, burying his face in the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, completely content.

"Tomorrow, Bashir will finish his interview," Michael murmured, a quiet, confident edge returning to his voice. "But he will look only at me. Because everyone in that room will know exactly who you belong to."

You smiled, closing your eyes, completely safe, completely worshiped, and entirely claimed by the man who held your heart.