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𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓷 💿 ･ﾟ; * ✧ ･ﾟ.

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 (hoard) x virgin!reader (fem)

✦ Michael teaches you how to ride a bike, among other things. ✦ 1.4k ⟡ AO3

18+ 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 !! ⟡ 𝗔𝗴𝗲 𝗴𝗮𝗽; Michael (29) + Reader (22). Heavy touching, teasing, pet names. Minor injuries. Brief oral, v. 𝗩𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀, piv. 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗲. Foster sibling incest; they’re out of the system. ੈ♡‧₊˚ ,

✦. Author’s Note: Reader was 19, when they met. They grew up in the same foster house, but they didn’t live together; they met later. Michael has moved back in with his foster mum, Reader is visiting. Don’t like, don’t read. 🤍

“22 years old, and you’ve never ridden a bike? Fuck off.”

And he’s laughing at you. He’s laughing at you — ushering you out in the garage after nightly tea, in search of the cycle in question.

When he finds it, he maneuvers you, kicking and screaming, onto the pivoting wheels of death. The bike is too big for you, clearly Michael’s size, though it seems no bother to your manic confrère.

“Up you go, pet,” Michael’s broad arms encircle your waist, guiding your plush legs up the thin metal seat. You straddle the faux-leather curves, cool to the touch beneath your billowing skirt, lurching with heat when he draws nearer.

Cat and cream, he’s spotted you staring, the amusement written plain on his face. His eyes crinkle in delight, that shit-eating grin ever-present.

“Come on, bird. Hands on the wheel,” he jests. His thick digits curl over your knuckles, willing you to hold on loosely. “These are the breaks…” Under the heat of his palm, he flexes your fingers on the trigger. “And this is the gas,” Michael squeezes your thigh, making you yelp, that sly smile easing the tension in the room.

“And what if I fall?” You ask stupidly, picking a hangnail.

“I’ll be right here,” he reassures you for the umpteenth time, cupping the scruff of your neck like a stern rugby coach. When you look back at him, he’s inches from your face, the summer sun melting his brown eyes a golden cream.

You kick your legs, brushing up against his cock, and turn your face to the light.

“Fuck it, let’s go.” You murmur, swallowing hard.

Michael lets you turn loose, stout hands fanning out in the air as you find your footing. When he cranks open the tiny garage, muscled arms refracting in daylight, you peel onto the street with little preamble.

You’re soaring, skidding on air — until suddenly, you aren’t. In a flash of skin and blood, you find yourself face-first on the cracked cement, your wrist bending in a way that it shouldn’t.

“Fuck,” he shouts, tearing the resident handkerchief from his left pocket to blot your skull. “Supposed to watch out for the curb, petal,” he laughs, though not unkind.

You want to hit him, for talking you into this, but the warmth of his hands at the back of your neck feels something like a dream. Callused fingers map the base of your skull, stroking up and down as he appraises your wound. It’s… Nice. Affectionate.

Without a shot at redemption, Michael leads you back inside, icing your sprained wrist with a bag of snap peas. It doesn’t take long for your whole hand to go numb, the frumpy pillow bidding little relief to your throbbing skull.

“You should really see a doctor,” Michael speaks for the first time, as if this much were obvious. Rummaging the kitchen cabinet for a jar of loose pills, he turns to face you with disdain.

“And you should really see a shrink,” you retort. “But I don’t think either of us will get that lucky.”

He leans down, his eyes wrought like knives, and slips the pills into your mouth with his forefinger and thumb. Rough digits trace your quarreling tongue, feeling the pharmaceuticals begin to dissolve under his grasp. Prodding your injured joint with the pad of his thumb, brown eyes flicker to meet yours, glazen with something dangerous.

When you cry out in pain at a particularly sharp touch, Michael crooks a weathered brow.

“That what you sound like during sex?” He scoffs, defaulting to his roguish ways.

You set your jaw in plain defiance. “Suck it and see.”

His eyes darken; you should not have tested him. He kneels down between your parted thighs, sprawled out on the settee, and tears the sticky panties from your crotch.

“Such a whore,” he chuckles, mollified by his findings, nuzzling his nose up into your cunt. “And such a sweet cunny…”

“Quit teasing,” you whine, using your good hand to press him closer to your clit.

Amused at your petulance, he works your button with his tongue, stirring your precious petals on his lips. He’s too good at this — too experienced, given his inability to live alone. By luck or misfortune, he’s moved back into the old foster house — the biggest cockblock of them all — helping your “mother,” for all intents and purposes, with the auto repairs.

It’s strange to be here with him now, all crumbling walls and cracking windows, knowing your love for him is anything but holy. Mercurial memories, unspooling like twine.

You can’t bring yourself to regret the decision to come home. Michael knows you. He’s known everything about you, from that very first glace. You are kindred spirits, parallel lives in the succession of love and grief. Two halves of a fucked-up whole.

Still, you’ve never done anything like this. Michael was your first kiss; your first heartache; the first man that you ever slept with naked. You wouldn’t want anyone else to show you pleasure, but those days have long since passed, or so you thought.

Who is he now, with his face in your cunt?

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, hands snaking up to grope your tits. You’re a dream, and he doesn’t want to wake up. You wonder idly what more he could do, with those massive fucking fingers.

“Michael, please. Please, just fuck me.”

But you didn’t have to beg — he’s wanted this, from the day that you met. 26 and 19, he has always needed you in the very worst way.

He wrestles his jeans onto the ground, shucking his little briefs to align with your aching hole. Michael paints his cock with your juices, your pebbled tits flush to his hairy chest, his soft stomach brushing your navel. You wrap your legs around his waist; you want him, you want him, you want him; cracking open the shell of yourself, if only for his pleasure.

It’s raw, needy; a kettle that has boiled over far too long. You feel him deep in your stomach when he punches his cock, wet and raw, into your sweet little cunny. You rub your fingers over the freckled constellations of his back, tugging a hand through his gel curls. Your eyes start to sting; he’s much bigger than you would have thought; a man so large, with a dignity to match.

“Come here, baby. Wanna hold you.” He ushers you on top of him, watching your tits jiggle as you ride his fat dick, slamming your hips down on his thighs. Michael fucks you like a dog, ramming his cock in your wet hole with the frenetic intent to breed. His fingers dig deeper in your waist, a strenuous grip on your perfect peach.

“Good girl, bird. Just like that,” Michael whispers, petting your clit to make you sing. He throws his head back, eyes falling shut. “Needed you so bad.”

You arch your back, clapping your ass on his thighs, watching him keen into the fractional change. You’re losing steam, a pathetic failure at his lessons to ride, though your greed is infectious.

“I’m your dog,” you whine, blinded by lust. You belong to him, in every sense of the word. The feeling settles inside you like a blazing heat — You belong.

Impatient, he bodies you down on the settee, humping your cunt with his fuzzy balls slapping your legs. When he peaks, his husky frame bullies you further in the sofa, forcing his cum as deep as it can go. You can’t breathe, when he kisses you, dipping his tongue toward the back of your throat like a dying man’s wish. All you can see or smell is Him. Him.

“Michael,” you cry, and it’s the only name you’ve ever known. He cups a hand over your mouth, and you lick his callused palm until you scream.

“That’s it, biscuit. Be a good little whore,” he coos, folding you firmer in his arms, as if to save you from the world. You can’t see straight, you’re so breathless, spasming like a seizure around his spurting cock.

“Good girl,” he repeats, breathing hot in your ear. He tugs your panties into place, patting your wet pussy. “Good girl.”

You fall asleep to him cupping your neck, holding you closer than a corpse. It’s been so long since you’ve felt at home, you’d forgotten what he smells like. Spearmint, tobacco, sweat and sex. When he leads you up the stairs, toward the refuge of his room, you follow him into the sea of sheets, craving shelter in his arms.

“I’m yours,” you murmur, gentle as a child, when the ache settles deep in your cunt.

Michael kisses you deeper, knowing now.

“Always yours.”

✦ Author’s Note: To get real for a second: I’m a victim of abuse, and I related a lot to Maria’s character. This story is a way for me to rewrite my ending, on my own terms. 🤍 I hope you don’t mind.

Thanks as always @lorecraft for letting me vent in your DM’s. Thank you @stveharringtn for inspiring the ending. Go read her Michael fic here 🤍 Please REBLOG + COMMENT, if you enjoyed :)

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✧ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 💫

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