make eye contact with me and i’ll kms. i’m horny and homesick, eat my ass.
sabor a mi; 7k ; afab latinx reader
You know how these stories go.
“Are you hungry?” The red hot liquid trailed down your ladle, pooling around your wrapped fingers. You ignored the burn, standing perfectly still as you stared at the man before you. He tilted his head just a bit. You couldn’t follow his eyes at all, but the movements of his mask told you he was looking between you and the rubbery spoon. He straightened his head and moved no further.
“It’ll be ready in a little bit, just sit at the table and I’ll get you a plate.” You gestured to the little table by the window. It looked comically small, even feet away from the towering killer. Against your better judgment, you turned your back to Michael, dipping the ladle back into the soup and giving it a gentle stir. The floorboards creaked. You carefully followed the sound, pulling the spoon back out and resting it on the counter when the steps stopped further away than they had started.
You continued your normal routine as if one of your chairs wasn’t groaning under a weight it had never encountered. You wrapped half a package of tortillas in a cloth, tossing it haphazardly into the microwave. Grabbing two plates, you tore two napkins with your free hand. You looked through your drawers for a brief moment before pulling out two metal spoons - one slightly bigger than the other. You avoided eye contact with the Shape of Haddonfield when you set a plate, napkin, and the big spoon in front of him.
The microwave dinged. You quickly grabbed the hot towel and dropped it into a container, barely covering it with a lid before putting it between the two cream-colored plates. Michael stared at it with a blank expression. You filled his bowl first, jamming as many solids as you could into the ceramic. You weren’t sure what he liked - if he liked anything in particular - so you packed more meat and potatoes than anything else. A few green beans, bits of squash, and a chunk of chayote floated in the dark red broth. Good Lord, you hoped this worked.
You walked to the table. Your own bowl was filled with the full expanse of flavors, and you were careful to not mix it up with his in the few steps you took. You set them down gently, wincing at the light click they made against their plates.
In the sterile kitchen light contrasted by the pale moonlight, you could vaguely make out the whites of his eyes. He almost glared at the food you’d placed in front of him.
“Go ahead,” Your chair cried against the floor as you took your seat. You willed yourself steady, but he could feel the fear roll off you in waves. Especially when his eyes darted up to you, causing you to jump back and hit your knee against the cold wall. You spoke through a hiss, “It’s hot.”
That it certainly was; hot enough to feel its radiating warmth through the thick latex. The aroma alone flooded his mask, filling it with a dangerously inviting smell he couldn’t place. He didn’t particularly mind. He had eaten a dog raw just yesterday, anything but sanitarium food would be better than that. Still, he studied you, watching as you took a thin disk from the container and tore it apart, scattering its pieces in the blood bowl.
It wasn’t until you took your first bite that Michael raised his mask, stopping just above his nose. His lips were dry and chapped, probably split in more than one place, but they were delicate as he silently blew on a piece of meat. You watched him - and he watched you - as he chewed thoroughly, swallowed, and stuck his tongue out.
“Shit.” You hurried to your feet, adamant about not giving this serial killer a reason to kill you. Digging through your fridge, you pulled out a can of nectar and a bottle of water. You opened both for him. “Water. Juice.”
He took the juice and downed it in a few gulps, dropping the can back onto the table. You took it back, tossing it in the trash and grabbing another one for safety. “Sorry,” You mumbled, leaning back in your seat, half expecting to die. “I make things a little spicy.” The masked man didn’t move, tongue still half resting on his parted lips.
Well if you were going to die, you weren’t going to let yourself die hungry.
And it seemed that neither was Michael. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he brought another spoonful to his lips. A nice soft carrot and a piece of chayote. He stuffed them in his mouth, willing himself to ignore the burn he had never been exposed to.
You couldn’t help but smile, watching the giant at your table silently suffer from a spice burnt tongue. Wordlessly, you handed him a tortilla. You rolled yours up and took a dry bite. He mimicked you, leaving it on his tongue for a second before chewing properly. Despite the clear pain, he managed to empty his bowl rather quickly.
You moved to take his plates, leaving them in the sink for you to deal with later. But when you turned around, you were met with a vacant seat. Your fridge had been propped open, and you could tell a can of juice was missing from the white door.
You finished your meal as if nothing had occurred. Storing your leftovers in the fridge, you grabbed a nectar can. You placed it outside the back door before locking up, pulling the tab back just enough for it to be easy to grab.
The can was empty in the morning, sitting beside another can with a bloody stab wound in its middle.
The next time he raised his mask you noticed a tender split running across his bottom lip.
“Michael,” You didn’t really know what else to call him. “Is that from the can you took?” You weren’t expecting a response and he didn’t give you one either, simply taking small pieces from the bowl of cut fruit in the middle of the table.
You sighed. Stepping out of the kitchen, you made your way to the bathroom to look for your first aid. You found it in the bathroom cabinets and walked back towards the kitchen. On your way back you noticed a cassette you had accidentally left out of its case. Not wanting to spend another evening with a wanted criminal in complete silence, you popped it back into its player and waited for the reeling sound to fade into music.
Michael was there when you turned around, his chest parallel to your back. You choked down a scream. “Christ…”
He tilted his head, a mannerism you didn’t really understand. You set your first aid box down on the living room table, shuffling through its contents for an alcohol wipe, vaseline, and a cotton swab. He stood perfectly still as you dabbed the bloody flesh with the damp towelette, watching you under his mask. The light in the main room was dim and warm, making his eyes near impossible to find.
You coated the cotton swab in vaseline after you cleaned the area. You pressed it to his lips, coating the fatty surface with a generous layer of creme. One hand held his face steady and another held your wrist in a vice. You finished quickly, pulling both your hands back. He dropped your wrist once you brought it to your side.
“Press your lips together.” You instructed. He mimicked, scrunching his nose at the sticky coating on his tender flesh. You wiped off the excess that spilled onto his skin. “Good.”
“I didn’t know if you were coming today so I didn’t make anything too special. But with that lip of yours, it’s probably for the best.” You returned the first aid kit to the bathroom before getting to work preparing a simple dinner. You groaned looking at the lack of contents in your fridge. “Ugh, I’ll have to go to the market this weekend.”
Michael sat on the same chair he had a few days prior. Picking apple slices and sticking them in his mouth, chewing carefully - mindful of the dull ache in his gums. He hadn’t eaten hard foods in over a decade and there wasn’t a great opportunity to adjust while on the lam. The first meal you had served him was soft and malleable, perfect for someone still remembering how to chew properly. The red liquid burned his tongue and irritated his throat but he didn’t mind. It only meant you’d give him a drink, something so thick and sweet it made it hard to breathe. Much sweeter than his vague memories of juice. He hoped you’d give him another can, and preferably opened it for him as well.
You did pull out a can of nectar from the fridge. A blue can with a fruit he couldn’t identify on the side. He supposed that would be happening a lot; Smith’s Grove only gave him apples in the form of sauce and oranges in the form of sour juice. You gave the can a little shake and poured it into a glass, taking a plastic straw like those from milk cartons and dropping it in. You placed the glass in front of him. “Here you go.”
The liquid looked as thick as it felt in the glass. It filled the space nearly to the brim, opaque and mushy. He could confuse it for apple sauce if he hadn’t watched you pour it. You watched him take the straw between his lips the way he had blown on his spoon the other night - delicately, antonymous with his menacing facade. He finished the glass within a few seconds, glaring at its bottom when all he could drink was air. He let go of the straw. You couldn’t help but think he looked like a child when he handed it back to you, two heavy hands wrapped around its circumference. The tiny pout - well, maybe it was the swelling from his cut - told you everything. More.
The taste lingered in his mouth after you took the glass. It might’ve looked like apple sauce but it wasn’t. He popped another apple slice into his mouth just to be sure it wasn’t the same. No, the drink was sweet and assertive, coating his tongue in a vague graininess that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how much saliva he rolled around in his mouth - like he had just stuck a spoon of white sugar in his mouth. He wanted more, and he was happy you recognized it.
You set the same glass, filled to the brim once again with the same delicious substance, in front of him along with a square plate and napkin. Michael drank slower this time, suckling in short bursts. You weren’t sure but you almost convinced yourself he was excited to eat what you had made.
You placed three warm things on his plate. Three of the bland things you rolled up for him after he’d burned his tongue, folded over themselves, and stuffed with what he assumed was some type of cheese. Sanitarium food. He pushed the plate away.
“Michael,” You set it back in front of him, only for him to push it away again. “Michael, please. It’s not bad.”
Sanitarium food. He pushed it away, shifting his focus back to the sweet drink. You sighed, placing two quesadillas on your own plate and setting the pan back on the stove. You sat across from him at the edge of your seat. “Come on Michael, at least try it.”
You took one of your things in your hands, tearing it down the center to reveal its insides. Steam clouded around your fingertips and you pulled the two halves apart. He watched, still sucking on the plastic straw, as the cheese inside struggled to stay together, stretching before finally snapping under a harsh pull. He didn’t know cheese could do that, he’d only ever seen meat and flesh behave that way. You offered him a half, the one with more cheese that brushed over his fingers when he took it.
It was still steaming even as he blew on it. Careful with his busted lip, he took a tentative bite letting the gooey strings fall over his teeth. He dropped the rest of the thing on his plate and ground his teeth when the cheese refused to break. You watched him chew as you had a few nights before, relaxing when he swallowed and lifted the quesadilla to his mouth again.
“I told you.” You laughed, now relaxed as you ate your meal. The soft music from the other room filled the air, relieving you of the tension that had lingered from his last visit. You imagined the corners of his lips raised as he finished his half and started on the next piece.
You were right: this wasn’t sanitarium food. It was simple and plain but it wasn’t bland and disgusting. It was warm and full and hot in his mouth. It wasn’t spicy or especially flavorful but it was a good unfamiliar taste. The cheese was perfectly pale and gooey, soft and mild. Nothing like the cold rubber on bread given to him whenever the cooks didn’t feel like cooking. You had done something to the floppy bland thing to make it neither floppy nor bland anymore. You had given him something good.
You let him pick out a can of juice when he was done. It wasn’t until a moment had passed that you realized he wanted you to open it for him too.
His third visit was an odd one.
He sat unmasked at your back porch, fiddling with the tab on a juice can you had left out for him. The door was locked and, while that normally wouldn’t be a problem, your car was missing from the driveway. So Michael sat on your steps - mask stuffed into his back pocket - struggling to open his beloved juice.
He debated using his knife and shotgunning the drink as he had the first night, but he split his lip doing that and a split lip meant you would give him not-sanitarium-food. It was nice, sure, but he was tired after chasing his sister around for the last few days. All he wanted was something a little more than nice to eat and to maybe lay down on your couch for a while. You didn’t seem to mind his presence.
People passed by your house often, he noted. It was a miracle he’d managed to come by twice in his full getup without being spotted. He attributed it to the early sunset, blanketing him in shadow whenever he walked around. But now it was closer to midday on a Saturday. The November air was chilly but nowhere near cold enough to dissuade people from enjoying an afternoon walk. They ignored him, probably mistaking him for a man enjoying an early beer. He tried to ignore them too.
He had never seen the fruit on the label before. It was brown and weirdly shaped like dog shit. It felt thinner than the other juices you had given him, though he couldn’t tell much just by sloshing it around its can. He was suspicious, but you had never given him anything bad. You wouldn’t leave out something you thought he’d hate, at least he didn’t think so.
He was about to pull out his knife and stab the top when a small herd of children clambered onto your front porch. Their hushing laughs accompanied the sound of old wood as it filtered right into his ears. “What’s that?”
He rose from his spot on the back steps, staying flush against the building, juice can tucked into his pocket. The Earth masked his footsteps as he moved. A small group of kids had amassed by your front window. “I bet it’s like some demon god. Just look at those weird skeletons!”
“Gross, do you think they worship them or something?” One of the kids shivered while Michael approached the stairs. “No wonder my mom doesn’t want me near the house, I bet they’re a witch!”
The gaggle laughed obnoxiously, the way kids do. “It’s not the boogieman we should be scared of, it’s the Lampkin Lane witch!” One of the kids, a stick-thin boy, walked backward and tripped on the stairs. He screamed when he made contact with not the ground but Michael’s hard torso. Both hands steadied the boy by the shoulders.
A murmur fell over the children. Michael let go of the boy and straightened his back, watching as they coagulated before carefully walking down the stairs. “We’re sorry Mister, we didn’t know anyone was home.”
“Yeah… Uhm, if you just let us go we promise we won’t come back.”
“We just got curious since our parents don’t let us come here.”
“Please don’t tell the witch- Ah! I mean-”
The group screamed when he pointed to the street. The sudden movement sent them into flight mode and they scurried down the road, sobbing under their labored breaths. Once they disappeared from sight, he climbed up the stairs to the window.
There wasn’t really anything of interest inside: your couch and loveseat in front of the fireplace, a worn rug, and a boxy TV set with a stack of tapes next to it. He could even read a few of the spines. Your home looked so cozy in the sunlight, he could feel the fatigue settle on his back just looking at it. He decided he’d take a nap bundled up on the loveseat whether you liked it or not. It wasn’t like you could move him, even if you tried. Curled up on a plush chair, the soft murmur of the TV and the aroma of your cooking filling the room. Yes, that was a wonderful dream. Nothing of interest yet the makings of a perfect dream.
But in front of the window was an accent table, littered with wilting flowers and little candies he would have to take from you later. There was the vague silhouette of a statue in the center with two frames wrapped in gold and woven strings on either side. Finally, two - dare he say cute - skulls that glistened on a saucer. Glistened like spoons of white sugar.
He whipped around at the sound of your voice. A sudden dread filled his stomach as he saw you in the clear midday sun. You looked confused for a moment then smiled sweetly, like one of the drinks you loved to give him. “You’re here early. Are you hungry?”
He was but he didn’t need you to know. You could see his face, more than just his mouth and the hazy outline of his eyes. You could see the red painting his cheeks and the fresh scar running down one of his eyes leaving it milky instead of blue. You could see the panic flood his face with the most emotion you had ever seen on him.
“Michael, are you okay?” You took a careful step forward, one hand raised just over your hip. As if you were approaching a rabid dog, a dog and not Michael.
Without thinking, he grabbed the can from his pocket and threw it at your head, hitting you square in the eye. Once you hunched over, hands covering your face, he hopped over the porch railing and ran. He’d left his knife on the back porch but he wasn’t going to risk going back for it. Not after you had seen his face.
The little blue can gave you quite the black eye.
You called into work as soon as it started forming. Your boss groaned but begrudgingly gave you a few days off, mumbling something or other you tuned out before hanging up. You leaned against the bathroom door, sighing as you pressed the ice pack to your eye.
“Jesus Christ, that man’s got an arm on him.” You struggled to see through the puffy skin. At least nothing seemed shattered; your eyes were still the same color, they could both dilate properly, if anything the bruised one was a little red around the whites. “Shit.”
You walked back to the kitchen, stepping over the plastic bags waiting to be unpacked. Your door was locked, unsurprising since Michael had been standing outside when you returned. A small shimmer on the steps caught your good eye. His knife. You grabbed a new can of juice from a bag, pulled on the tab, and stepped outside, setting the container of guava juice next to the blade.
He watched as you stepped back inside. The little blue can was smooth. He assumed the original can would have a dent in it or worse it could’ve shattered. This one was shiny and new. He looked away, ducking back behind a thick tree. He wouldn’t take it, he’d find a new knife and drink water from the tap in another victim’s house. He’d snack on whatever he could find, and if worse came to worse, dogs were stupid and easy to lure.
He felt sick. His heart was trying to jump out of his chest and his lungs could neither empty nor fill properly. He wanted to put on his mask, but he was too close to the street and he could be spotted at any moment. His chest hurt as if old wounds had suddenly burst open. He looked back, looking through the window at your shadowy figure. The blackening bruise overtook your face. He wanted to throw up.
You paced around your kitchen, slowly organizing your belongings. Michael vanished into the trees.
The day after the incident, you cleared your altar - leaving only the photos of your parents and your rosaries on the table. You broke their skulls into little pieces and set them on a plate with other miscellaneous treats for Michael. He didn’t come.
The day after the incident, he refused to walk past your house. Moving his exploits west on Lampkin Lane, he stole a tasteless sandwich from a victim’s house. They had juice but it was bitter and processed. He rinsed his mouth out with tap water and took a spoonful of white sugar to mask the taste.
A week or so after the incident, your black eye was starting to clear up. Your vision was hazy and unclear sometimes but you knew it would get better with time. You made a cake to celebrate the little blessing, making sure to leave a generous serving at the door for Michael. For the first time since moving to Haddonfield, you left your door unlocked. In case he wanted any milk, you told yourself.
He moved further up the streets, doing his best to ignore the taste plaguing his mouth. It was almost December, he would have to find a place to go so as not to freeze to death in the Illinois winter. He thought about your warm home, the smells that made his throat hurt in such a sweet way, the worn plush of the living room he only saw twice, the thoughts made him feel warm like he was back home with you. He cursed whatever being cursed him as the fuzzy feeling collapsed over his head.
Finally, a month after you’d last seen him, it snowed and you made dinner just big enough for you. Your black eye faded and you resumed your life as if he had never been there.
He ended up circling back to Lampkin Lane, watching you drag someone out of your car with the brightest smile on your face. The light from the windows was dim and warm, just as he had imagined. He didn’t want to look anymore, and so he made his way to the back porch. Your door was still unlocked and upon further inspection, his old knife had only fallen into a pile of soggy leaves. He cleared a small space for himself and waited for you to come to the door.
“Are you sure you guys won’t be able to come for Christmas?”
Your relative patted your shoulder with a somber look, “I’m sorry, (y/n). Everyone wants to go back to their hometown for the winter.”
You frowned, “I understand. Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Nah, that’s okay. Someone’s coming to get me, so I’ll just let myself out. You should get ready for bed, you haven’t been sounding too good this past month.”
A weak smile crossed your lips. “I’m alright. I’ll just take some medicine and head up to bed.”
Your relative nodded, taking a step out the door before having a seat on your porch, you left the door propped open. You headed for the kitchen, taking a few Tylenol pills from your bottle and downing them dry. Going to turn off your porch light, you noticed a slight glimmer on the steps.
“Michael?” The door opened with a moan. You poked your head outside, shielding your body from the cold with the wood. He turned to face you, slowly rising to his full height. His mask was pulled just over his lips, which were once again chapped and split from the cold air. You leaned out, gently pulling the latex over his mouth. You stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you. He hesitantly walked inside. “Are you hungry?”
You held a wooden spoon in your hand. It dripped a sweet-smelling liquid onto your curved fingers. You glanced back and he nodded. You filled two mugs with the warm drink, extending one to the man in your doorway. He reached out, then moved to pull his mask off his face. You looked at him no differently, even as his blue eyes darted wildly around your kitchen. He jammed the white rubber into his pocket and took the cup from your hand, holding it delicately with both of his.
You pushed the door shut behind him and walked to the living room. The kitchen table was occupied by a few bags and boxes, so he followed you into the main room. Whoever had been with you had already left. You closed the front door and locked it tight. There was a plate of breads he had never seen before on the coffee table. You gestured for him to sit on the floor across the fire. Of course, he did. You waved out the window with a soft smile before closing the curtains and settling next to him, putting your mug on a dolly on the table.
“Michael, you’re freezing.” He knew that, of course, he knew that; yet he couldn’t bring himself to move when you draped a thick blanket over his shoulder. “You’re gonna get sick.” He didn’t get sick, not unless you made him sick.
A tiny noise came from his throat as you pulled away. You huffed, another soft smile painting your features. You pulled a lip balm out of a drawer, squeezing a generous dollop on your finger. You set an open palm on his cheek, watching his grip on the mug tighten then relax, and gently spreading the sticky coating across his lips. He took a labored breath and stifled a moan, a hot red blossoming across his face.
“Are you okay, Michael?” You rolled your lips and he mimicked the action with a curt nod. You wiped away the excess with the point of your nail. Another broken sound snuck past his lips. “Welcome back.”
You pulled away again. He wanted to follow, keep his face inches from yours, but his thoughts were cloudy, messy with a dozen thoughts running rampant. You took a pillowy bread from the plate and tore it in half once- twice before sticking it in your mouth. Michael watched the topping crumble under the pads of your fingers. You brought another piece between the two of you, holding it up to his lips.
He stared for a second, letting you rest the piece against his lips before gently coaxing it into his mouth. He moaned at the taste, perfectly sweet with sugar and vanilla. You nudged his mug upwards, watching him hum around the rich chocolate drink. It was still warm but not at all hot, the bread in his mouth practically melted into nothing.
“Is it good?” He nodded eagerly, droopy eyes unfocused but desperately trying to stay locked on you. You whispered, “That’s good.”
You turned back to the table, dipping another piece of concha into your cup of hot chocolate. Michael, in all his disorientation, tried his best to copy you. A wobbly hand nearly dropped the soaked bread into the mug. Maybe it was the lack of proper nutrition finally catching up to him, but he felt dizzy. Intoxicated almost. The sudden sugar intake made him jittery, and he felt feverish even if his skin had started to turn blue. He whined quietly when he found himself too unsteady to eat.
Your soft hand took his half-full mug and placed it on the table. You helped him to his feet and guided him to the loveseat, he just barely fit half curled in on himself. You tucked a pillow under his head and wrapped him in a thick blanket. Running a kind hand through his hair, you tucked a few strands behind his ear. “I’ll be right back.” You pressed a kiss to his temple, and he fainted.
He awoke, shocked to find himself in the loveseat of your living room. The fire had long gone out, but the residual heat kept the area perfectly warm. He tried to get up, easy with his headache and got to his feet. A few Tylenol pills sat on the table alongside a bottle of water and a barely opened can of juice. His mask had been taken from his pocket and set beside the liquids.
Where had you gone? The area was quickly growing cold without your presence and he wanted you- needed you there to make the sinking feeling in his chest go away. You had gotten him sick, so it was your responsibility to make him better.
He checked behind the curtains, seeing the street dark and empty. It filled him with a sense of relief, you had to have been in the house. He couldn’t read the clock in the room but he assumed it was nighttime. Silently, he took large steps up the stairs. He was satisfied to find your sleeping figure behind the first door he tried.
He sat on the floor, legs unable to carry him any further, and crawled to the edge of your bed. Taking your limp hand in his, he rested it against his cheek as you had earlier that night. Your skin was so soft, perfect against the dryness of his own. A low hum reverberated from his chest as he continued to guide your fingers along his face.
“Michael?” Your sleepy voice sent a shiver down his spine. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”
No, of course he wasn’t feeling okay! You made him sick and he had no way of fixing it. He slapped the back of your hand against his forehead with a loud groan. You sat up in bed, feeling his face with both hands. He made a choked noise at the touch.
“You feel fine, Michael. Here, why don’t you sleep here for tonight and I’ll get some cold medicine in the morning?” You shimmied to the far end of the bed but raised your hand. “But take off your coveralls. I just washed these sheets.”
He hurriedly peeled the cotton away from his body, leaving himself in a baggy white undershirt and his underwear. You patted the bed, waiting for him to comfortably settle into the plush surface before throwing the duvet over him. Seeing your face pressed against your pillow made his body hurt a little less, but his heart was still beating at miles per minute. He took your hand in his again.
You sighed, tucking yourself into his side. “Is that better, Michael?” You heard his heart thump against his chest, his core was dangerously warm even through the cotton tee. “Christ, Michael you’re really stressed.” You lifted your head and he instantly stiffened. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll help you.”
A broken moan came from his chest at the pet name. You shushed him by running a hand through his curly brown hair. He grasped at your wrist, unsure if he wanted to pull your hand away or keep it there. He squirmed at every drag of your nails against his scalp. After a few gentle pets, you trailed your hands down his neck and chest. He was big, not terribly scrawny but not exactly muscular. All of his muscles were ill-defined and covered by the softest layer of fat. “Oh Michael, aren’t you just beautiful?”
He squirmed again, pressing his thighs together and pulling his knees to his chest. You hummed with realization, “So that’s the problem. Why didn’t you say so, sweetheart?” He rolled his hips, taking your right hand and burying his face in it. You could hear him whimper through your flesh.
With your left hand and most of your weight, you coaxed the giant onto his back and separated his knees, revealing the notable tent in his boxers. You wrapped your fingers around his palm, he squeezed your hand tightly. “It’s okay baby, I’ll take care of you.”
You sat between his legs, free hand trailing up his thigh to gently cup the bulge in his clothes. He cried. “Does that hurt Michael?” He nodded, his eyes having gone cloudy with the faintest hint of tears. You let go of his hand to wipe them away. One of his hands followed, cupping yours and caging it against his face. “Do you want me to stop?”
He whined much, much louder at the suggestion. He didn’t want you to let go, he wanted you to keep touching him with your soft pets and gentle trails across his skin. He needed you to make whatever was making him hurt go away. “Okay,” You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his sternum. “Let me know if you want to stop.”
He watched with hazy eyes as you crawled lower on the bed. Thinking you were trying to get away, he took one of your hands and laced your fingers together. “Oh honey, I’m not going anywhere.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, half expecting him to let go at the reassurance. He didn’t, only grasping your hand a little harder. “You just want to hold my hand, sweetheart? You like when I hold you like this?” He nodded stupidly. You brought his knuckles to your lips, kissing them once before returning your attention to his thighs.
You planted a chaste kiss on each one. His sweet little noises filled the air and they only got louder when you switched your attention to his covered cock, kissing it through the strained fabric. A warm, wet patch was quick to appear under your lips. He pushed his hips forward ever so slightly. Your hand dug into the flesh on his hip, pushing him back against the bed. Michael melted under your touch.
You mouthed at his cock through the fabric, listening to all the little noises just shy of words Michael made. You ran your tongue up the seam, leaving a trail of kisses from the inner thighs to the light tufts of hair peeking out of his waistband. A broken cry came from his diaphragm, resonating in your room so perfectly. You raised your head, watching quietly as he came in his underwear. Weakly, he held your hand with both of his nuzzling your wrist with each broken sob and rock of his hips.
“Did that feel good, honey?” He nodded stupidly again, tears trailing down the side of his face and disappearing past his ears. “Do you feel better?” He hiccuped when he nodded. “Do you want me to stop?” He whined into your skin.
You crawled over him, brushing his cheek with your free hand. Slowly, so as not to startle him in his daze, you tilted his chin and brought your lips to his. His body shook under you, a short tremor of new stimulation. “It’s okay,” You cooed, “I’ve got you, Michael.”
You kissed him once more before pulling away. He swallowed his breath, still holding your hand tightly. “Sweetheart, you’ll need to let go of my hand. I need to take your clothes off. Don’t they feel sticky?”
He nodded and reluctantly let go of your hand. You started with his shirt, taking the hem and slowly peeling it from his sweat covered skin. You kissed his tummy, feeling his abdomen tighten under your lips at the new sensation. You pushed the fabric further up his torso, accidentally brushing your nails a little too close to his nipples. He whined, raising his arms to cover his face.
“What’s wrong, Michael?” You hummed as you splayed your fingers over his pectoral muscles, just barely avoiding the sensitive peaks. He flexed his muscles trying to move your fingers. “Do you like it when I play with your cute little tits, baby? Hhm?”
“Uuh… auhh…” The word - if he was even trying to form it - came out quiet and fried, lost in his heavy pants. You messaged the fatty tissue, kneading it gently in your palms before pressing a warm kiss to the areola, missing the erect peak by a string. He moaned, the sound stifled by his forearms. You took the nipple into your mouth, prodding it gently with your tongue, mindful of your teeth grazing the base. Two hands suddenly scrambled for purchase on your torso.
You raised your head, taking his hands in yours and resting them on your collar. “There’s my pretty baby.” You hummed, “Are you okay, honey?”
He nodded, grasping at your fingers yet again. You laced them with his, giving him a gentle squeeze before pulling away to remove his shirt. You were quick to steal a kiss, admiring the way his rough lips desperately chased yours whenever you pulled away. You hooked your fingers under the waistband of his boxers, peeling the cum soaked material from his pink body.
A shiver ran up his spine when the cool air hit his skin. His spent cock was still hard, interested in every new sensation inflicted on his body. You stroked it, carefully gathering the cum around the shaft and using it to keep your touch light and feathery. “So pretty, Michael.”
Pretty might’ve been a bad word for it, given how it filled up your hand and stretched your fingers around it’s girth. But Michael moaned so cutely when you called him pretty, melting under your glossed over gaze. “Aren’t you beautiful, sweetheart…”
He thrust into your grip and you squeezed him oh so gently as warning. His cock twitched with a strained groan. “Slow down, baby. You’ll hurt yourself if we go too fast.” You moved forward on his thighs, suspending your hips over his. You let his tip kiss your entrance, coating it with white hot slick. Michael squirmed, bucking his hips with a slow moan. “Are you ready, Michael?”
He nodded, taking your hand in his as you lowered yourself onto his cock. He couldn’t restrain himself, sloppily thrusting into your warm cunt. You pulled back, letting him writhe under you until you speared yourself back on him. He cried, raising your open palm to his chest and keeping your wrist in a vice. You could feel his heart pound against his chest and did your best to match pace.
He whined with every few thrusts, nearly cumming when the head of his cock kissed your cervix. You bounced your hips a little faster, taking his full length with every movement of your hips. Your walls pulsed around him in an imitation of your own heartbeat. The gentle, milky feeling overwhelmed his senses. The muscles under his tummy tightened just as his heart skipped a beat. You could feel his cock twitch against your gummy walls, pressing itself against your cervix as he came in long, hot squirts. Slowly, you lifted yourself from his lap, letting him watch as his cum gushed from your pussy and trailed down your things.
“Sweetheart,” You sat yourself just over his pelvic bone, clit flush with his soft muscles. He made a sweet, strained whine at the feeling of your hot cunt over his bare skin. “Do you want to stay here? With me?”
“Uhuh- ah…” He nodded weakly as he watched your drag yourself over abdomen. His hands settled delicately over your hips, one splaying softly over your stomach. You ground yourself on his muscle, guiding his hands up your shirt and over your breast. His eyes softened, half focused on the plush in his hands and half admiring the way your heart thumped under your skin. He gripped your hips, dragging you over the softest part of his belly. You moaned, rocking yourself on his lap before your thighs began to tremble, dropping you over his torso. The white hot cum coated his skin, mixing with his own on his pelvis.
You rolled onto your side, still pressed against Michael’s body and he blanketed your much smaller form. “Do you feel better now?” His tears had long since dried, but he still hid his face in the crook of your neck. A tiny nod came with a content sigh against your collar. You kissed his crown, brushing out his hair with your fingers. “I missed you, Michael.”
He’d repeat the words to you if he could, but his voice was strained from all the noise he’d made. Like hard food, he wasn’t quite used to it yet. Instead, he kissed the fragile skin over your pulse mimicking the way you worshiped his body with your lips.
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