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You both took off to have your day of fun, permission granted by Ms. Mead. Michael is in need of clothing and you volunteered to accompany him to the ever growing wonders of the overly populated mall, much to both your pleasures. It's no secret that you engage in massive feelings for the growing Anti-Christ, yet you're unsure if he even knows the extent of exactly how you feel. Maybe he isn't into things like that, doesn't get them? But then again, your Michael is smart.
You should've known that you would end up in a situation like this one if you came along. You sit on the leather bench, watching Michael lace a pair of leather boots, licking his lips in concentration. You're mesmerized by every action he completes. His fascination at the freedom he was given by Mead giving him money to get himself things, it's enough to make tears prick the corners of your lids. He turns, always knowing you're staring.
You bite your lip, not breaking his glance this time. Michael boxes the shoes as he moves towards you, grin already denting his handsome features. "So, what do you think, Y/N? Are these cool enough for the guy who is supposed to end the world?"
You shake your head, snorting, reaching out to snatch a shoe from the paper tissue. "You make them look fucking fantastic, baby."
Fuck....
At your usage of the certain endearing pet name, Michael's eyes dilate to this mischievous glaze that warms between your legs, snapping down your spine, making your toes curl in your converse. You backtrack, nerves gnawing their holes inside your belly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
Michael cuts you off, edging closer, his voice raspy. "Yes you did."
You think you might've been sucker punched in your gut. You try to find words but you can't. There's a red hot tension building inside, an ache so violent you can't breathe right. Michael doesn't falter, you sway into him, damn near licking the air. There's no more dancing around now.
You're not sure where it came from, what it means, you just know you have to do this. Glancing back to the tan doors covering the square boxes lined along the walls, you lean towards Michael until you're almost meeting mouths. "I'll meet you in the changing rooms."
Spinning on your heel, it's a giddy satisfaction that you leave with, a tickling adrenaline getting you into the changing room and waiting for him. You check your hair, blow your breath onto your palm, before undoing the elastic tie from around your wrist and pulling your hair back. You try to remain calm, steady your galloping heartbeat. Michael's worn high tops come into view below the door, the silver handle seemingly twisting in slow motion. Your back collides next to that simple hanging mirror, watching.
Michael steps in with you, closes the door and stares curiously. You shift, moving your back off the wall, proximities meeting.
"You want something from me, don't you?" He reaches out to thumb your ponytail off your shoulder.
You nod slowly, correcting him. "I want to make you come."
You can't quite believe you're actually bold enough to do this, so sure, ready. But as you look at Michael with his gentle smile, cheeky smirk to follow, respect for you, it's perfectly sensible. You two share a giggle, Michael pursing his lips together, blue dimming to the want. He starts to unbuckle his jeans, already half hard through his plaid boxers. You are zoned in, mouth watering, Michael breaking in with a request.
"Can I see you? I've thought about what you look like there for so long."
He's bashful, commanding riding in on undertones. You chew on your bottom lip, removing yourself from your jeans and panties, shivering into a sigh as you cup yourself, slippery wet. Michael gains footing, matching where you stand, reaching in for your hands, taking them away. You're glistening, swollen apart, your clit demanding attention. There's a growl that comes from him, a possessive deep set husk. "Perfect. Soaked."
He's fully erect and you can't wait, dropping like lead anchors are built into your knee caps. You stare up at him, asking silently and he nods, purposely snapping your hair band to release your hand, wrapping it around his fist. You can't describe how many times you've came at your own hand thinking about this moment. You cup firmly on his thick ass, pushing the material. His cock is heavy, nestled between strong hips, wet.
You lick your palm, pumping him, relishing in the delicious power that it gives you, that first contact of holding. He moans, pleads in his arches. You kiss, nip teases of promises at his thighs. The tide of innocence has turned. You don't overthink, closing your lips around that head, eyes fogging over at the taste. He's your fucking addiction.
He twists, purchases in your hair that stimulate your scalp, your hips humping mid air. He's trying to keep himself in check, focus, but all he can do is feel your mouth take him deeper until he's thrusting, you're gagging, it's lewd, it's drenched. You're going to take it, but should he pull back? A slap to his ass from you is all it takes and his warmth is filling your throat.
Surprised by how much you love this, you lap it all up, uncaring about your watery eyes, messy mouth. You just made your best friend come undone. You did that. He releases his hold on your head, stuttering as you let go of him, settling back onto the bench. It's a few quiet moments, ones where you don't need to talk.
Michael moves this time, dropping in front of you. "I think it's my turn now."
