does no one else notice when someone uses ai in their writing?? i feel like it's so obvious but then there's 500 likes and thirty comments saying how good it is
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scenario: michael always walked the line, a devoted servant of the lord. but everything changes when he meets you. torn between religious guilt and overwhelming desire, he completely surrenders, trading his salvation to fall on his knees and worship his new goddess.
he doesn't know when his love for you started. but at the first glance he gave you, he knew it. you were a beautiful sin.
maybe it was a rotten love since the beginning. michael always walked the line; he did everything for his family. he tried to be a good servant of the lord.
but when he met you—he started to change.
he wasn't sure about you. he felt as if he knew you, as if he could see through your soul. a faithless woman. he recognized your maliciousness; the way you would hold his hand and let it linger—how you would slide your gloss over your mouth while staring at him on purpose. a breathtaking beauty indeed.
however, beauty is only skin deep. you would give him a smirk when no one was watching, and your eyes were like an abyss. he would lose himself if he looked too closely at them.
between hidden touches and looks, you were somehow able to catch him alone in the studio. he should have kept his distance from you. but it was too late.
oh god, forgive me, cause i have sinned. i thought about her again; she's like a poison. i know that i shouldn't—i shouldn't think about how her lips taste, but it's inevitable when i see her. god, help me forget about her. amen.
he naively thought that he could fix whatever was wrong with you.
“what are you doing here?”
“i was waiting for you, mike.”
he was foolish. that same night in the studio—he finally tasted your mouth. it tasted like forbidden fruit. he thought that you were his eve—but eve was seduced by satan first. and you? you were the fallen angel. you were satan yourself; you were his forbidden fruit.
he started searching for you first. searching for your eyes, searching for your delicate hands—he became addicted to your touch. innocent touches. there was nothing wrong with the way you hugged him a bit tightly, pressing your shapely breasts against his chest.
you were just a more affectionate person.
he tried to mask his reaction to you—but you knew, just as he knew, that this was already a losing battle. and you were the champion.
“mike, if you love me, let me do it. i promise i’ll make you feel really good, huh?”
he couldn't say no to you when you set your magnetic eyes on him. he was intoxicated by you; you were his poison but also his antidote.
how could a sin taste like a dream?
“baby, we should marry first, we can't—” your dangerous lips were on his blue jeans. you were caressing his bulge with your face; he had never been so hard. not even when he woke up after dreaming about you. your mouth was on his zipper—you were undoing his zipper with your teeth. witch. devious woman. wicked. not even a minute later, you were swallowing around his cock. lips darkened and wet with saliva. he came in your mouth. you swallowed every drop of his cum. “i love you, mike.”
at a certain point, he genuinely thought he could change you. it would be just one more time. you looked so good in his arms, and that was his mistake—he didn't bring you to god. but he made you his goddess.
“forgive me, lord, i tried my best to keep my distance. but every time she looks at me, i become a flawed man. it's not her fault; she doesn't know what she is doing. it's all mine. but i accept my destiny, lord, i can't be away from her. so please, forgive me.”
he didn't try to fight against you anymore, but somehow it made him feel guilty. he was no longer a good man—he wasn't trying to be a good man. he surrendered to you. the guilt in his chest was wickedly sharp; the hard truth he tried so hard to ignore was that he loved you.
he loved you the way you were.
“don't look at me like that, mike.”
“like what?”
“like i did something else besides loving you.”
you did. without even realizing it, you broke that thick shell wrapped around his core. he felt overwhelmed, because who was he without vehement spirituality? was it wrong to feel—to finally feel free?
“do you believe in god?”
“why are you asking me that, mike? you already know my answer. no, i don't believe in him.”
“is that right, mama?”
“but sometimes, i like to believe that he exists. maybe he is not like we think he is….i think god is in the little details…. every time you smile at me…. i think yeah. he might be real.”
god exists in the little details. he knew that god was in his music—he knew that his purpose was to reach people through his voice. perhaps mike was wrong about you. you weren't a faithless woman. you were kind-hearted in a way that only he could see.
when you would take his hand to visit the closest hospital, or when you would let him fall asleep in your lap, stroking his curly hair and whispering sweetness, you showed him nothing more than love.
lord, i’m grateful to have this woman by my side. i thank you for her. amen.
you became his muse. his goddess.
“what are you doing, mike?”
“let me show you how much i love you, mama.”
he spread your legs on the mattress, tracing your wet cunt with his fingers. he gently pressed his tongue against your clit—delving his tongue into all your juices. he was drunk on your taste, on your moans. you were so soft, squeezing around his fingers. he was drowning in the pleasure of tasting you for the first time.
“i love you, mama. i love you. i love you.”
you became his divine inspiration, every time he would be on his knees—bowing down to you. it was the most sacred love he could possess. it was not a sinful love; it was a love sent from god.
i’m ngl i kinda forget that Michael was a dork, just because of how ppl write him. but then i’ll see a video or hear something new about him and it’s just like “wow, what a nerd!” like wtf you mean he put a “please kick me in the ass” paper on someone. who else would add a please to this?
content: !MDNI! fingering, masturbation, sugar daddy mike, age gap, im missing stuff but it's honestly just filth guys
wc: 993
a/n: based on this request! (thank you •ᴗ•)
...
When you first started being a cam girl and creating… suggestive content for strangers on the internet, you never really thought about how many creeps would be online.
Your main thought was about how you were going to pay for your fourth and final year of college. So, you took it upon yourself to explore the corners of the internet where you could actually earn money easily.
And as the weeks went by, each day you kneeled in front of your computer on your bedroom floor, camera on, wearing a small tank top and shorts that barely covered your ass.
You were pressing your tits together and giggling softly, and gifts were flooding in by the minute.
@hbro12: take your top off
sent $50
You laugh softly at the message and donation, as if mocking the person behind the account.
“You’ll have to do better than that ‘hbro12’,” you say, flashing that perfect smile at the camera.
You continued to show yourself off to your audience, which was nearly two hundred people at this point, before one particular donation caught your eye.
@KoolGuy58: You look beautiful.
sent $500
You looked at the message with a sense of infatuation, eyes wide, pupils blown.
What confused you, however, was that they sent a large amount of money only to compliment you rather than ask you to strip.
“Thanks, KoolGuy58,” you laughed softly. Then, after a moment, your voice drops a little lower. “You want to… see anything in particular?”
You wait in front of the screen for an answer, resting your chin on your hand, no longer showing yourself off, only interested in this account you’ve never come across before.
@KoolGuy58: What do I have to do to have a private call with you?
You laugh again at the bluntness of the question before answering. “Usually, they cost $300,” you reply, twirling a strand of your hair around your fingers. “So, it looks like you’ve earned it.”
A moment passes.
@KoolGuy58: See you there, beautiful.
Your stomach flips at the message. Your cheeks flush slightly, feeling flustered and embarrassed that you’re feeling this way about a random stranger on the internet.
“Alright guys, I guess that’s it for today. See you tomorrow, and don’t forget to donate if you want a private meeting with me!” you tell the audience before blowing a kiss into the camera and ending the stream.
Slightly trembling, your fingers work across the keyboard and mouse pad as you set up the private call with the account.
You couldn’t tell if you were nervous or excited. Either way, you silently reprimanded yourself for the uncontrollable feeling deep in your stomach.
After slipping your shorts and panties off, you get into position in front of your computer.
You leaned against your bed, still on the floor, knees to your chest, and you waited for the mysterious account to join the call.
And when he did, your stomach flipped again.
“Hey,” you smirked slightly, spreading your legs open, revealing your glistening pussy, already pathetically wet.
@KoolGuy58: You look even better like this.
You giggle, feeling your cheeks and ears grow rosy. Slowly, your fingers trailed down your body and slid across your folds, collecting your arousal, before circling your clit. You whimpered softly, staring into the camera, waiting for another message.
Feels good, huh?
You nod, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth. Your hips bucked up involuntarily when you pinched the sensitive bud, a loud moan falling from your mouth.
Tell me how good it feels.
You lost yourself in his words, sliding two of your digits into your tight pussy. Your head falls back against your bed at the stretch before looking back into the camera, a pouty, needy look on your face.
“It feels so good,” you gasped softly.
Filthy, lewd sounds fell past your lips as you played with yourself, pumping your fingers in and out of your cunt. The most pathetic part of this whole ordeal was that you were doing this in front of a random stranger, and you were actually getting off on it.
Curl your fingers for me.
You read his message, eyes twinkling, and obliged quickly. You curled your digits, hitting the sensitive gummy walls of your pussy. You squirmed slightly, struggling to control your sounds and your body.
“God— Oh, fuck.”
You felt yourself getting so close, so fast. You continued curling your fingers in your hole, soft sobs slipping past your puffy, pink lips.
Before you could gain an ounce of self-control, your back arched, mouth falling agape slightly.
You worked yourself through your orgasm, feeling your walls clench around your fingers as a soft sob rose from your throat.
The filthy sounds of your fingers pumping in and out of your cunt filled the room, accompanied by the uncontrollable whimpers from your mouth.
You barely had any time to catch your breath before another message popped up on the screen.
Taste yourself.
Your eyes widened slightly before you brought your fingers to your mouth and tasting a mix of your arousal and release. You sucked on your fingers, looking into the camera, completely dazed and ruined.
Good girl.
You watched yourself on the screen, taking note of your disheveled appearance. Your messy hair, flushed cheeks, blown pupils, and the fresh sheen of sweat on your skin all hinted at the filthy act you had just committed.
Your juices slowly ran down your inner thighs, tickling your skin slightly. Your mouth made a soft pop noise once you had finished sucking your fingers.
I have to go now. You did so well, sweetheart.
You felt your walls clench around nothing at the praise, about to reply to the message before another one popped up on the screen.
@KoolGuy58:
sent $1,300
Your jaw fell at the sight of the huge donation. Before you could thank him or even say anything at all, a notification popped up saying the account had left the call.
You stared at the screen for a good minute before snapping out of it.
Maybe you won’t have to worry about college, after all.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: you know those guys your age aren’t good for you.
content: (MDNI), smut, age gap, power imbalance/dbf, loss of virginity/inexperienced reader, religious themes, emotional vulnerability, possession, soft!dom michael, sub!reader, praise, consent checks, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it !)
w/c: 4.7k
a/n: just a little something to ease yesterday's pain. i'll do jackie for you guys in the next one.
based on this poll. | masterlist.
The key stuck in the lock, jamming for a heart-stopping second before finally turning.
You shoved the door open with your shoulder, your whole body heavy with exhaustion, the ‘lame-man-fatigue’ as you would call it.
The lame-man-fatigue that came from pretending to have a good time when you very, very much weren't.
Your apartment greeted you with the faint, lingering smell of last night's microwave popcorn and the sterile chill of air conditioning.
Home.
You dropped your bag by the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. The date had been a shit show. Daryl — or whatever the fuck his name was — with his overly firm handshake and his insistence that you 'just hadn't given indie men a real chance.'
What kind of bullshit. That sentence alone pissed you off.
You padded into the living area, your eyes automatically drifting to the one nice thing in the room: the large, framed poster of the BAD album cover your dad had given you. Michael's face, frozen in a moment of defiant cool, watched you slump onto the couch. His face a stark contrast to your tired features. God what a night this was. One of the fifty million pointless dates from lonely dating apps. It was exhausting.
After a few coincidental minutes, a soft knock at the door made you jump. You weren't expecting anyone, and you prayed it wasn’t your date following you home, again. You dreaded the thought of calling the police for the third time this month.
Peering through the peephole, your breath hitched. Standing in the dim hallway light was Michael himself, looking oddly casual in a dark button-down and slacks, his hands tucked into his pockets.
You unlocked the door, pulling it open. "Michael? What are you doing here?"
He offered a small, almost shy smile. "Your dad mentioned you had a date tonight." He gestured vaguely. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in."
In the neighborhood. Your apartment was decidedly not in any neighborhood Michael would ever just 'be in'. But you stepped aside, letting him in anyway. His presence immediately changed the energy of the small space, making it feel both smaller and more significant.
He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with a practiced eye before landing on you. His smile faded into a look of gentle concern. "You okay? You look tired."
Tired wasn’t even the word for it. Defeated, sure. Mortified, absolutely.
"I’m fine. The date was fine," you mumbled, retreating to the safety of the couch.
He didn't push, just closed the door softly behind him. "Can I get you something? Water?"
"Wine. But it’s okay, I can get it. Just… I dunno. Make yourself comfortable."
The words came out more brittle than you intended. You pushed yourself off the couch, heading for the kitchen to give your hands something to do. You didn’t know his true intention of being here, but you were too tired to ask.
He nodded, moving to the couch but not sitting. Instead, he picked up the discarded Thai food menu from the floor. "You eat?"
You pulled a wine glass from the cupboard, the clink of glass the only sound for a moment. "Not really. Lost my appetite."
He set the menu down, his voice was low, a bit humored. "That bad, huh? How many does that make?"
You sigh, grabbing another glass and pouring the wine in both of them, a common curtesy for him being in your company once again. The deep red sloshed into the glasses, your reflection wobbling in the dark surface. Part of you felt ashamed. How could you even tell him? How could you admit that yet another guy made you feel invisible? Inferior? So fucking stupid for allowing him to waste your time?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You carried the two glasses back to the living area, the wine threatening to spill over the rims with your unsteady steps. You handed one to Michael, your fingers brushing against his. A tiny, electric shock of contact. He took the glass, his eyes never leaving your face. "Thank you."
You took a large gulp of your own wine, the bitterness a welcome distraction from the lump forming in your throat. You collapsed onto the couch, putting a cushion's worth of distance between you.
He finally sat down, the fabric sighing under his weight. He took a slow, deliberate sip. "You don't have to talk about it."
"It’s not that," you hesitate, your breath hitching as you try to find the right words to describe your emotions. "I just.. I’m just so tired." The words felt like a confession, heavy and true in the quiet room. Tired didn't even begin to cover it. It was a soul-deep weariness from trying to fit into a mold that never felt right.
You half scoff, half chuckle at your own disbelief, "They are just so fucking stupid." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. It felt good to say it, to give a name to the frustrating, hollow feeling in your chest. And the floodgates opened. All the pent-up frustration from the night, from months of bad dates, came pouring out. You gestured wildly with your glass, the wine sloshing precariously.
They're all the same.
They talk at you, not to you.
They're obsessed with being perceived as deep, but they have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon.
And he listened, his expression unreadable. He took another slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving you as you vented about your love life struggles.
You ranted about Daryl’s conspiracy theories about the music industry, about how he'd tried to explain Michael's own album concepts to you as if you were a child. The irony was almost painful.
A part of Michael felt relieved that he was no longer your age, along with the challenges that came with dating. However, another part of him was astounded by the way men treated women these days. There was no chivalry, no love, no respect, and no desire to court a woman. It was almost pathetic to him.
He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet, definitive click. "They don't know how to respect women." His voice was low, but it carried a new weight, a sharp edge that hadn't been there before, laced with platitude and judgement.
He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "They don't understand the aspect of making you feel... cherished. It’s a sense of entitlement." His words sounded nothing short of intimate and old-fashioned, and while you would’ve made fun of him for it in any other moment, your words died in your throat.
His gaze was intense as it searched your face, and you try to blame the wine for your breathlessness. "It's not you, you know. It's them. They're boys."
"You need a man."
You pause.
"What?"
He didn't look away, his dark eyes squinting for a moment. "You ain’t hear what I said? You need a real man. Someone who knows what he wants and," he stammers a bit. "and knows how to treat you right."
Oh, he was dead serious.
The air in your small apartment felt thin, charged with an electricity you’d never felt with him before. He leaned back slightly, breaking the tension for just a moment, but his eyes never lost their focus. "They don't see you. Not really."
"And you do?" You speculate, this felt all too real for you. The red wine felt heavy in your stomach, the room tilting on its axis.
"Well, yeah," he scoffs, like it was a silly question to ask. His gaze swept over you, taking in the way you were curled into the corner of the couch, the frustrated set of your shoulders. "You're smart. Y'got a good head on your shoulders. More than any of those lil boys could ever hope to have."
He shook his head slowly, a sad, almost pitying look on his face. "And you're... breathtakingly beautiful. You gotta know that."
"Michael — I don’t understand —"
He turns his head towards you, slightly closing the distance between you. "I think you do understand." His voice was low and soft. "You're too smart not to."
Your mind was racing, a frantic scramble to make sense of the shift in the air. Your dad’s best friend, the same famous man that still took the time to spend time with you when you were in college. Your father would kill you if he found out.
A cold dread mixed with a hot, sharp thrill coiled in your stomach. You thought of all the times he’d been there, a constant, quiet presence in your life. The hugs that lasted a second too long. The way his hand would sometimes linger around your waist.
The silence was deafening. His words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a terrifying, undeniable pull. He watched the internal conflict play out across your face, his expression softening from intense to something more patient, more understanding.
"You’re scared."
"I’m not.." You shake your head, your gaze flickering to the empty glass in your lap with a soft sigh. The denial was weak, even to your own ears. Your fingers tightened around the stem of the empty wine glass, a flimsy anchor in the sudden, swirling intensity of the moment.
He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently took the glass from your hands, setting it aside on the table. "S’okay to be scared. This is a…” he exhales. “a lot to process."
His hand returned to yours. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken desire and the weight of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. He didn't pull his hand back completely. Instead, he let his fingertips trail softly over the back of your hand. "I, uh, I watched you for a long time, y’know… become this incredible woman,"
His thumb stroked a slow, hypnotic pattern on your skin. "I wanted to wait a lil longer, 'cause I have waited. Out of respect f'your father." A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "But as much as you're tired of boys not seeing your worth, it's gettin' to me too."
The confession was staggering, and you know it wasn't a sudden impulse he felt from the confines of your cozy living room, because it didn't sound like it. It was a years-long, simmering yet quiet desire that he was finally letting boil over.
"Now, you've been awful quiet." He laughs softly, gazing down at where your hands connected. His glasses fell slightly on his nose. "I just wanna know what you're thinkin'. If this isn't what you want..."
"I do, Michael.. I'm just tryna... process it all."
You weren't necessarily lying. It was true. You would be absolutely stupid to say no to Michael, especially with your attraction to him in mind. The attraction you thought you'd have to bury away for the rest of your life because it never crossed your mind that this would be possible.
His soft laugh was a vibration you felt more than heard; it settled deep in your bones. He gently lifted your chin with his fingertips, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Then stop processing. Just feel." He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. The first brush of his lips against yours was achingly soft. Nothing like the rushed, sloppy, nasty kisses you'd experienced before. His lips were reverent against yours.
But when you didn't pull away from him, he deepened the kiss, his hand moving from your chin to cup the side of your face. His other hand found your waist, pulling you gently closer until you were flush against him. The sheer size of him, compared to yours, was a dizzying revelation to you.
The kiss was a slow and deep exploration. His lips moved against yours with a practiced patience that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't like anything you imagined from him — it was so much better, the intensity and realness giving you goosebumps alone. The way his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your pressed hair, it was too much.
His lips trailed down from your mouth, a slow, deliberate path of soft kisses along your jawline. He took his time, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of your throat, his kiss there lingering, warm and damp against your cool skin. "You're so soft."
A shiver ran down your spine as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point.
He pressed a soft and open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below your ear, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "That feel good?"
A breathy sigh was your only answer. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, slowly came up to rest tentatively on his shoulders, and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through you.
"Good, that's it. Just relax for me, sweetheart."
His lips continued, alternating between soft kisses and sucking nibbles that made your head spin. The contrast between the gentle exploration of his mouth and the solid strength of his body pinning you gently to the couch was intoxicating.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched your face, his glasses crooked on his.
"You're trembling a little, you okay?" His thumb stroked your cheek, and his question hung in the air. You could only manage a weak nod before mustering up the small yet revealing words from your throat.
"Y-Yeah, it's just — I... I haven't done this before. 'm so sorry.."
You watched his face, waiting for the shift, the judgment, the disappointment you were always fearful of.
His thumb stilled on your cheek, and for a long moment, he was perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "Haven't done... this?"
His voice was quiet and carefully neutral, which you hated. He wasn't pulling away, but the intensity in his eyes had shifted from desire to something more contemplative. He searched your eyes, which were angled down to the purity ring that still sat on your finger.
"I haven't really been with anyone, Mike. Not like that."
The directness of the answer sent a fresh wave of heat to your face; you couldn't help but feel ashamed. Not about the fact that you were raised in such a religious way, where you were practically forbidden to hold hands with a man until you were of age, let alone kiss one. Your father made that very clear from the moment he forced the purity ring onto your dainty little finger.
And from the guys you've been around, evidently, they proved that they weren't worth "corruption" — as your father would call it — so you didn't bother giving in. No matter how much your dates tried to push for it.
That didn't mean you didn't explore in your alone time. The box of toys underneath your queen-sized mattress was proof of that.
But it was about the idea of being judged. Since you were a freshman in college, you were ironically made fun of for still wearing the worn-down, busted-up purity ring your daddy got you on your 16th birthday. Shamed for being the only virgin in the group, insecure for being the only one who had no fun sex stories to share throughout undergrad.
They made you feel like a child, something fragile, like you couldn't understand the fundamentals of lovemaking.
But you don't see that with Michael.
Michael gently tilted your chin back up, forcing your eyes to meet his. There was no mockery in his expression, only the familiar softness you've grown fond of. "Hey, look at me."
His voice was a low, soothing murmur, a tear you didn't realize you were holding back escaped and traced a path down your cheek. And he caught the tear with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. "There's nothin' to be sorry for. I was the same way when I was your age. Don't let anyone tear down your faith."
The reassurance was so immediate, the endearment a caress as he pressed a small kiss on your forehead. "You sure you want to do this? With me?"
You let out a meek nod, his fingers tucking messy strands behind your ear.
"I need words, sweetheart."
"Yes, Michael. 'Want it to be you. No one else."
A genuine smile spread across his face, his features impossibly tender, his voice a soft promise as he leaned in again. But this time, the kiss was different, still gentle, but now with underlying possession.
He broke the kiss, and his hand slid from your back, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path up your side, just brushing the curve of your breast. "Is this too much?"
A jolt of pure electricity shot through you at the unfamiliar yet comforting touch. Your eyes were half-lidded and fixed on his. "N-no. Feels good..." You shake your head.
His eyes darkened, his other hand stroking your hip with his thumb. "Or this?" His hand slid lower, palm flat against your thigh, applying a small, firm pressure. You swallowed hard, shaking your head again. The sheer size of his hand, the confidence in his touch, was overwhelming yet not enough simultaneously.
Nothing had ever felt like this, especially by yourself. A soft sound escaped you, and your body slightly into his touch, a silent plea for more. His gaze on you was intense, watching every tiny reaction that flickered across your face as he studied you.
He had to; he couldn't allow anyone else to learn you the same way he did. He wanted to take the time to learn exactly what made you feel good and what didn't.
And one thing he did take note of was how expressive you were.
Every sigh, every twitch under his touch, he's never seen anything like it. You were so open when you responded to him — so honest. A pure, unfiltered reaction, and it was all for him. Only for him to see.
His fingertips continued slowly upwards, skating along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch was feather light, but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. It was furnace-like, sending waves of anticipation through you.
"Wanna know what you're feeling. Could you tell me?"
You took a shaky breath as your mind went blank for a second, your focus only narrowing to the point where his hand rested too close to where you needed him most.
"Hot."
His lips curved into a soft smile, and his gaze was stuck on your beautiful face.
His hand shifted higher, his fingers applying a slightly firmer pressure against the seam of your jeans, moving in slow and deliberate circles against your clothed pussy. "And now?"
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Your hips jerked involuntarily against his hand, a purely instinctive response. And before you had the room to feel embarrassed, his voice was low and approving, whispering sweet praises in your ear.
"...I want more."
"Say what?"
"I.. I want more, please."
You guided his hand from the seam of your jeans, towards the button, pleading for him to move further. You were practically aching for his touch, his sensation turning from unfamiliarity to unadulterated lust and sexual desire. His touch was a revelation. All the shame, the insecurity you'd carried for years, began to melt under the heat of his presence and the certainty of his touch.
His breath hitched at your plea, his eyes dark pools of the shared desire, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation. When he found none, only desperation, his slender fingers deftly worked the button of your jeans. The pop of it opening sounded impossibly loud.
The zipper slid down with a soft, metallic whisper. His hand slid inside, his palm warm and firm against the thin fabric of your panties, feeling the wet spot against your lips.
"You're so wet... barely touched you."
The pressure of his middle finger was sure as he moved your underwear to the side, his cool skin tracing soft circles against your clit. Cooing softly as your head falls back. Every nerve in your body was alight and hyper-focused on the rhythm of his fingers. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible. It was like you finally understood the language you had ever heard in hushed whispers from the women around you.
It was almost embarrassing how his soft praises washed over you —mingling with the increasing speed of his fingers — built your orgasm. And he could tell from another soft moan that escaped your lips as you relaxed against the couch. Your fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as your orgasm threatened to overwhelm you.
He then pulls his hand back slowly, his touch retreating, the sudden absence becoming a physical ache. And your eyes fly open, a desperate sigh leaving your lips as you meet his unwavering gaze.
"Mike," you whine, "Why'd you stop?"
He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. "Relax, girl, 'want you to cum on my tongue first."
The words shoot directly into your ears, and they send a fresh wave of desire through you. He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. "Is that something that you'd want?"
You nod eagerly, and he stands from the couch. His movements were fluid as he offered you his hand, and you took it. Your heart grew loud in your ears, anticipation sending shock waves through you.
The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open, his gaze sweeping through the room before landing on your bed. The cozy, warm space suddenly feels sacred in his presence.
He stops just inside the doorway, turning to face you. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
"Lie down for me."
His voice is a low command, softened by the reverence in his eyes. You moved to the bed on unsteady legs, settling against the duvet. He follows you, kneeling on the floor at the edge of your bed. The position was startingly intimate, submissive even, but he didn't have a care in the world how he looked. Especially when his focus was solely on your pleasure.
You lift your hips slightly as he pulls off your jeans, leaving you in your tank top and your thin panties, so soaked that they're practically transparent. The cool air hit your bare skin as he tossed the jeans aside. His hands slide up your calves, to your thighs, then hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties.
His gaze lifts to meet yours, a silent question, and you give a slight nod.
He pulls them down, his sharp exhale tickling your sensitive clit as he sees you. So pretty and so exposed. He was the first to see you. And he'd be the first to take you. The first to ruin you so sweetly.
He leans forward, his face inches from you as his warm breath ghosts over your most sensitive skin. "So beautiful, sweetheart."
He doesn't rush. His lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh, his barely noticeable stubble a rough, thrilling contrast to the softness of his mouth. His hands spread your thighs wider as he gets closer, then his tongue darts out, a quick, experimental action that makes you jolt. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat on your clit, laving slow strokes that make your back arch.
He hums at the taste of you, so clean, so sweet, and it was all for him to devour. His hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly to get a better angle, and his tongue finds a rhythm. Circling your clit then moving downwards to push his tongue against your entrance, grinding his nose against your sensitive bud in the meantime.
You can barely hear the words coming out of his mouth, and he doesn't put in any effort to pull away from your pussy. You could only manage choked sobs and high-pitched moans as the vibrations of his praises shot through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his tongue grows relentless. Worshipful. It became a sensation you were only just beginning to get used to, but he was anything but patient. His mouth worked you over in building intensity, his groans of approval sending your orgasm over like a freight train.
Your hips buck against his face, but his hands hold you steady. Strong and firm, allowing no escape from his mouth.
"Fuckfuckfuck — Mike, slow down, I-I'm gonna —"
He focuses his attention, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit. "Come on, baby. I can feel you shaking. Give in to me."
The world dissolves into pure sensation. A broken cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, violent and overwhelming. Small whimpers flow from your lips at the sensitivity of him tonguing you through your orgasm.
He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His glasses were long discarded as he kissed your inner thighs softly. He rose from his knees, his movements fluid and deliberate, and joined you on the bed.
He loomed over you, his larger frame caging you gently against the mattress. The scent of your arousal and his cologne mingled in the air. His thumb brushed a stray tear from your cheek, and his gaze was soft as the hard line of his bulge pressed against your thigh. He leaned down, kissing you claimingly, possessively, his hand anchoring himself beside your head while his other worked at the fastening of his own pants.
He didn't have to be fully exposed to see the sheer size of him. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room. He shifted, then you felt him, heavy against your thigh. He pressed his tip, achingly hot against your entrance.
"Look at me."
You obeyed, your gaze trapped in his. The first push inside you was an immense pressure that stretched you wide, making you gasp.
"Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. I'll go slow."
You took in a shaky breath, and he pushed forward again, slowly, inexorably filling you. The sensation was overwhelming — a fullness you'd never known, coupled with a sharp, fleeting sting. His body trembled with a low groan, evidently showing the effort of his restraint before sinking into you completely.
And for a moment, he stilled, the initial discomfort you felt began to fade, replaced by a throbbing ache of pleasure. Your shaky gasps transformed into breathy moans as you clawed at his shoulder. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm. The pace was patient, and his eyes never left yours, reading every flicker of emotion on your face.
He grabbed your face gently, lifting you up slightly into a deep kiss, muffling your shared moans, and the feeling built again. but different than before. His dick kissed your sweet spots so tenderly, and your hips began to move tentatively with his, meeting his slow thrusts.
The rhythm found its own pace, a building cadence that had the world narrowing to the feeling of him inside of you. His breath was ragged as he moaned against your ear, loud and unshameful. You could tell his control began to fray, his hand sliding between you to rub firm circles against your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.
"F — Shit, sweetheart, I can't... you're so warm around me... Gonna make me cum —"
His confession sent a thrill through you. You arched into him, a silent plea for more as you felt your second orgasm shoot waves through you. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body tensing as his release washed over him. His breath was harsh in your ear, his heart hammering against your chest.
He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you, his expression soft and searching. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" You immediately shake your head, pulling him back down as you wrap your arms around his neck in the comfortable silence.
And it was like that for a while. Before you feel him inhale softly in your ear.
"Nobody else gets to see you like this. Ever. You understand?"
warnings: bad grammar, dom!michael, slight dirty talk, smut, literally just filth, reunion sex, makeup sex if you squint, no use of y/n, slight angst, edging, fingering, !MNDI!, p in v, no protection, SLIGHT choking, public sex
synopsis: after eight years of separation and an engagement call-off, you and your ex-fiance, Michael, finally reunite at the 1993 Grammys.
a/n: loosely inspired by one of @devochkanextdoor 's posts (can't find it but go check out their blog!) this is barely proof read, sorry (•́ ᴖ •̀)
…
as your stylists did your stunning makeup and hair, you tried your hardest to convince yourself that Michael's presence at the 1993 Grammy's tonight wouldn't affect you.
you really thought you'd stay strong, too. you two haven't seen each other since you called off your engagement eight years ago.
every time you two were in close proximity after that, like for award shows or charity events, the tension felt absolutely suffocating.
so, you took it upon yourself to cancel your attendance at every event if there was even a slight chance he’d be there.
a lot went on eight years ago when your relationship ended.
Michael had just gotten done with the victory tour and began filming for Captain EO, all while working on his Bad album and preparing for that tour, too.
safe to say, he had no time for you. when he started to come home late every night, claiming that he was working in the studio, you completely shattered, maybe thinking he was cheating on you.
all those nights of falling asleep alone and being utterly neglected, physically and emotionally, really took a toll on you.
so, in the heat of the moment, you threw your ring at his feet, swearing that you'd never speak to him again.
and that had been true, at least until tonight. because as Michael took the stage to claim his award presented by Janet, you felt as if your breath was stolen from you.
he was wearing a gorgeous white blazer, black pants that fit him perfectly, and a pair of black gloves that matched with the rest of his outfit. his outfit looked almost as beautiful as he did.
you'd almost completely ignored him ever since you called it off. when he called late at night, you'd pull the phone cords out of the walls.
when he'd showed up on television, you wouldn't hesitate to snatch the remote and turn in off.
and when his music came on the radio, which was constantly, you turned it all the way down.
it took a lot of effort to ignore him, because the man was everywhere. and no matter how much you hated it, you had to admit that he was addicting.
Michael gave an surprisingly emotional speech, which was followed by a huge applause. He sat down quickly afterwards, a huge, humble smile on his face.
the only reason you came to this award show tonight was because you were nominated for Song of the Year with your newest single.
so, when your name was called, you stood up, hugging your producers and friends, and took the stage. you embraced the announcers before thanking your loved ones and everyone who made the song possible.
while giving your short speech, you accidentally locked eyes with Michael, causing you to stumble over your words slightly.
your legs nearly gave out, and it felt as if your brain fogged up for half a second as memories you shoved away long ago flood your mind uncontrollably.
in a large crowd of famous, talented people, your eyes somehow still managed to find his, even eight years later.
so, you sat back in your seat a minute later, award in hand, feeling a little more unraveled as a familiar yet terrifying feeling begins pooling in the core of your chest.
it was harder to breathe at this point, so you quickly excused yourself from your friends and bolted to the bathroom.
when you got there, after what seemed like forever, you leaned against the sink after locking the door, looking at your reflection in the mirror.
the reflection showed a distraught woman with flushed cheeks and blown pupils. you resist the urge to splash cold water on your face to calm you down.
the bathroom was oddly warm and comfortable for a public space. it was lit by warm candles and a beautiful chandelier above your head.
as soon as you began to calm down, your heart rate slowing to a normal level, you heard the doorknob rattle slightly and then a soft knock on the door. you took a quick deep breath before calling out,
“just one moment!"
you washed your trembling hands before unlocking and opening the door, only to see Michael.
you froze for a moment, eyes wide, as you scanned his face for the first time in eight years. his features had turned more masculine, specifically his jaw. his hair was longer and straight. he was a little taller, his shoulders broader.
but his eyes looked the same as they did all those years ago. those doe brown eyes that never failed to make you smile and blush.
"Michael..." you whispered in disbelief, eyes roaming his body.
"you seemed a little sick up there... i wanted to come check on you," he said, his voice low yet gentle.
"you wanted to check on me?" you repeated, your voice laced with slight sarcasm.
he nodded, as if there was nothing weird about this situation. "why now? after eight years of silence?"
then, his brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly. "silence? i called you. you're the one who never spoke to me again after that night," he shot back defensively.
you scoffed. "and you're the one who cheated on me!"
then, without warning, Michael's long fingers wrapped around your wrist, dragging you back into the bathroom. he slammed the door behind you, locking it quickly before turning back to you.
"i never cheated on you. you know that," he said, his voice dangerously low now.
your eyes widened in surprise as a tense feeling began to form in the pit of your stomach. subconsciously, his hands found your waist, gripping softly.
“no, i don't know that," you nearly whispered, your voice much less confident than before.
he pushed you even further in the bathroom, your lower back now pressing against the counter of the sink. his body trapped you in; you had nowhere to go now.
"how? i was working my ass off constantly to give you a good life as my wife. and you— you just threw it all away!" he exclaimed in a hushed tone.
"and all those late nights? what about those, Michael?"
"i was working! i was always working for you. how could you even think i was cheating?"
"you never made time for me!" you said, your voice louder.
apparently, too loud for Michael's liking, because he immediately flipped you around, bending you over on the counter, ass against his bulge.
you gasped at the feeling of him. even through his pants and your dress, he felt bigger than you remembered.
"Michael! what are you—" you get cut off by the feeling of his finger slipping under your dress, feeling your wetness through your panties.
he groaned softly behind you before pulling aside the fabric, your arousal coating his fingers. "you're already wet?" he asked in disbelief, almost mocking you.
you groaned, too, when he began rubbing controlled circles on the most sensitive part of your body.
you shuddered, gripping the edge of the counter for balance. "Michael— the award show," you moaned as he slides a digit in your tight, neglected core.
"i know, baby," he said, a sliver of fake sympathy in his tone as he began slowly stretching your cunt.
“you've missed this, haven't you? ‘can feel how tight you are."
you moaned in response, already losing yourself in his touch. you can't help but revel in his unfamiliar, new confidence that came with maturity.
"tell me," he whispered in your ear, sliding another finger in your hole. "tell me you missed me."
"i—oh god," you whimpered when he hit that tight, sensitive spot deep in your core. you felt your legs begin to tremble, but you continued to speak. "i missed you."
and when you were nearly at your most vulnerable spot, he pulled away completely, leaving you bent over the counter, shaking, and pathetically needy.
you looked back at him, seeing his chest rising up and down quickly, his hard-on straining in his pants, and the undeniable lust flooding his dark eyes.
"that's not even a piece of what i felt that night. the night you left me," he said, slightly breathless.
you looked at him; really looked. you saw a different person from that night eight years ago.
that night, you stood in front of a tear-streaked boy, begging you to stay, making empty promises. but now, you saw a man who had a newfound confidence. he didn't need an apology from anyone, even you.
it was... incredibly attractive.
"do you really want this?" he said after a moment of tense silence, his voice laced with desire.
all he needed was a tear to fall down your cheek and a nod from you to step forward, connecting your lips in a messy, passionate kiss after years of hatred and miscommunication.
his hands found your waist before bending you over the counter again, positioning you exactly how he liked.
you heard his belt unbuckle behind you before he bunched up your dress, pushed your panties aside, and lined himself up with your entrance.
you felt his tip slide against your folds, eliciting a moan from your mouth.
Michael kissed below your earlobe before thrusting in you slowly, making sure you felt each and every inch of him.
your head fell forward, your forehead almost hitting the counter due to the pure bliss coursing through your body.
he set a rough, devastating rhythm as his hand moved to your neck, gripping slightly.
"god, ‘y perfect," he moaned in your ear.
"hate how we were apart for so long. pro’lly fucked other men, didn't you? but i fuck you better, right?"
you sobbed softly, because of course you had.
you had multiple boyfriends since the breakup, trying to numb the pain of losing Michael.
every time you guided those men to your bedroom, drunk and heartbroken, you knew deep down that Michael always made you feel so much better.
and now that time had done its thing with Michael, you wished you had been there throughout the years to see it.
to witness as he slowly changed, slowly gained that beautiful, attractive confidence.
but you hadn't been there, and it was your fault.
as your sobs and moans grew louder, his hand moved from your neck to your mouth. he hushed you, reminding you of the hundreds of people just a hall down.
his other hand stimulated your bud, rubbing tight circles on the sensitive area.
"Mike—," you moaned loudly, the old nickname slipping from your mouth, even surprising yourself.
sex with Michael before was good, but now, you felt so deliciously full and different than before. usually, he had you ride him, too shy to take control.
and now, he was practically telling you to shut up while fucking you in the bathroom of a public award show. you felt so pathetic for loving it.
you felt fresh tears develop in your eyes as Michael hit that gummy, perfect spot deep inside you repeatedly, and before you knew it, you fell limp in his arms, body convulsing violently as waves of pleasure coursed through you.
“i got you, baby," he groaned, feeling your walls clench around him as your orgasm washed over you.
and with a final moan and grunt from Michael, you felt his seed spill in you as you stared back at him with dazed, half-lidded eyes. he collapsed over you, catching his breath, trying to regain his composure.
your eyes fluttered closed, remembering late nights at Hayvenhurst with Michael. you were so happy back then, before everything fell apart.
another tear slipped from your eyes, falling down the curve of your inner eye and nose before landing on the counter.
Michael saw this, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips and brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. he stared at you for a moment, memories maybe coursing through his mind, too.
"i still love you," you whisper, voice slightly hoarse from orgasm.
he froze for half a second before smiling softly, as if he knew that all along. "i'll always love you."
you shared one last kiss before Michael grabbed some paper towels, doing his best to clean you up with the surroundings available, all while mumbling soft praises.
“did so well, baby,” “felt just as good as i remembered,” “missed you so much.”
Michael left the bathroom first.
you stayed back for at least ten minutes as to not draw attention to the two of you coming from the same place.
god knows the filthy things tabloids would say about you two if rumors spread.
you looked in the mirror and saw your flushed appearance. your makeup was close to ruined due to the tears and sheen of sweat on your face.
however, you couldn’t help but feel… different. content, even.
with shaking, weak legs and a dazed consciousness, you left the bathroom and made your way back to your seat.
the show was already almost over, and you ignored the pointed looks you got from your friends around you.
you spent the rest of the night practically daydreaming about Michael. you would have felt embarrassed if it didn’t feel so good.
maybe now, at least, when you two see each other, there will be tension for a different reason.
…
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context: michael tries weed for the first time and somehow ends up with his face in between your legs?
The heavy studio door shut out the rest of Westlake Studios, sealing the two of you into an isolated, amber-lit sanctuary of sound. The massive mixing console glowed like the dashboard of a spaceship, its hundred tiny green and red lights casting a warm, technical haze over the room. Through the heavy glass of the isolation booth, everything was dark, but inside the control room, the air was thick, warm, and vibrating with the heavy, unreleased bassline of a rough cut of "Human Nature." The synths swirled through the studio monitors, filling every corner of the room with a lush, melancholic warmth.
Michael was supposed to be evaluating the vocal tracks, but his legendary work ethic had completely dissolved. He was doing a terrible job of pretending to study the soundboard. Every time you leaned back against the plush leather couch, exhaling a thick, slow cloud of sweet, pungent weed smoke, his gaze slipped away from the level meters. First, his eyes would fixate on the lazy, seductive parting of your lips; then, they’d trace the slow path of the smoke as it drifted down over the swell of your chest, before he’d hastily snap his head back to a random dial, his cheeks flushing a faint, dusty rose. He’d had a quiet, burning crush on you for months, hiding it behind soft smiles and polite giggles, but the late hour and the heavy studio air were making his usual shy defense mechanisms disintegrate.
He finally gave up the facade, spinning around in his plush rolling chair. He rested his chin on the backs of his hands, staring intently at the glowing cherry of the joint between your fingers.
"What does it actually feel like?" he asked. His voice was a soft, breathy register, a genuine curiosity practically radiating off his frame. "You’ve been sitting there looking like you’re floating in another world for the past hour."
You took another lazy, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl past your teeth as you smirked at him. " ‘M telling you, Mike, it’s great. It just... unravels your brain. Relaxes every single muscle. It makes the music sound way deeper, like you can feel the spaces between the notes. It makes everything feel better— look better. Even taste better."
Michael’s large, dark eyes widened, a breathless, high-pitched little giggle escaping him. He sat up straighter, totally captivated. "What? No way. Taste better? Like... like candy? Like real sweet stuff?"
"Like everything," you laughed, the heavy relaxation of the high making your voice drop an octave as you leaned your head back against the leather. "Food, drinks... people. Everything."
He slid off his chair in one fluid, cat-like motion, practically gliding across the carpet until he was hovering right over you. His curls bounced softly around his jawline, catching the red glare of the studio lights. "Lemme try. Just a little bit. Just a tiny puff."
"Absolutely fucking not," you said, your thumb instinctively capping the joint as you pulled your hand away. "Michael, you’re a vocalist. Your lungs are quite literally worth more than my entire life. If Quincy walks through that door and sees you smoking a joint, he will actually murder me, bury me under the studio floorboards, and no one will ever find the body."
"He’s not gonna walk in, he’s totally asleep in the back lounge," Michael whined. The transformation was instant; his lower lip jutted out into a full, exaggerated, bratty pout that he knew damn well no one could resist. He reached down, his slender, brown fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly firm, a sudden flash of the commanding performer breaking through his gentle demeanor as he tried to tug your hand back toward his face. "Come on, y/n. Just one little puff. Don't be stingy."
"No, Mike, seriously—"
"Please?" He dropped straight onto his knees by the edge of the couch, looking up at you with those huge, pleading, doe-like eyes. Yet, there was a stubborn, demanding edge to the tilt of his chin. He was Michael Jackson; he was completely used to getting exactly what he wanted. "I want to feel what you’re feeling. Let me try it."
You let out a defeated sigh, completely weaponless against the sheer force of his pout. "Fine. One. You have to actually inhale it into your lungs, Michael, not just hold it in your mouth like a chipmunk."
He snatched the joint from your fingers with a victorious, white-toothed grin. He brought it to his lips with an air of immense confidence, took a massive, greedy gulp of the thick smoke—and immediately turned into a coughing, hacking disaster.
"Oh my god," he choked out, his face turning a deep, burning crimson as he dropped the joint onto the glass coffee table and began waving his hands frantically in front of his face. He bent double, his forehead nearly touching his knees as his chest heaved. “Ew! it tastes like burnt grass! Why on earth do you like this?!” He was coughing so hard that bright tears pricked the corners of his eyes, hacking dramatically, his voice cracking as if he had just swallowed pure poison.
"I told you!" you shouted over his coughing, laughing so hard your stomach ached as you reached for the joint before it could burn anything. "Give it here, you’re gonna drop ashes on the rug and burn the place down."
"No!" Michael snapped. With a sudden burst of stubborn energy, he snatched his hand back, pulling the joint completely out of your reach and ignoring your warning entirely. His voice was deeply raspy and cracked from the smoke, but his competitive streak was flashing. "I didn't do it right. I’m not a quitter. Lemme do it again."
Before you could physically stop him, he brought it back to his lips and took another drag. This time, he clamped his mouth shut, his chest expanding as he forced himself to swallow the smoke down deep. He held it for a split second, his eyes watering, coughed a little less violently into his fist, and then blew out a thick, gray plume, looking immensely proud of his own stubbornness.
Within five minutes, the freight train hit him.
Michael completely melted. The legendary dancer's posture vanished as his spine seemed to turn to absolute jelly. He slid backward off his knees, slumping onto the plush studio floor with his back propped up against the base of the couch, his long legs splayed out in his bright red varsity jacket. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with a heavy, glassy sheen, and fixed entirely on the acoustic tiling of the ceiling.
"God..." he whispered. The register of his voice had dropped into an incredibly deep, slow, resonant baritone that sent a sudden shiver straight down your spine. "Oh wow. My chest... my chest feels so warm. Like a blanket. Y/n..."
"You good?" you asked, leaning over the edge of the cushions to peer down at him.
"The music," he breathed, his head rolling heavily to the side against the leather to look up at you. The weed had completely dissolved his filter. His gaze dropped straight to your chest, staring unashamedly, his eyes tracking the heavy outline of your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt before slowly migrating back up to your face. "Do you hear that synth line? No, listen... really listen... it’s like... a cloud. It’s moving in slow motion through my ears. Did I write that? God, I’m a genius. It’s so beautiful I want to cry."
You choked back a loud laugh, reaching down to tug at the collar of his red jacket. "Yeah, Mike, you’re a certified genius. Come here, get off the dirty floor."
"No, ‘m comfortable," he whined, instantly turning bratty and dead-weight the second you tried to shift him. Instead of getting up, he used his hands to scramble up the side of the couch, dragging his upper body completely across your lap. He was suddenly incredibly, uninhibitedly touchy. He spread his arms out, burying his face for a second against your stomach before his long fingers started tracing a slow, deliberate path up your thigh. His palm dragged heavily over the denim of your jeans, pressing right between your legs with an unbothered weight that made your breath catch in your throat. "You’re really warm. Everything feels so heavy and soft."
"Michael," you warned, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs as his palm shifted, rubbing firm and slow against your crotch. "You’re so high."
"‘M not," he pouted, tilting his head back in your lap to look up at you. His eyes were incredibly dark, the pupils dilated and heavy with a sudden, intense focus. He stared directly at your lips, his thumb rhythmically rubbing back and forth over the tight seam of your pants, right where the friction was already making you slick and wet. He went completely quiet for a long moment, listening to the vocal track of Human Nature fade out on a high, echoing note and loop right back to the heavy, throbbing intro.
"It really does sound better," he murmured, his thumb pressing harder into your heat, his voice dropping into a husky, completely unbothered register that made your skin tingle with goosebumps. His eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of his usual stage shyness, full of a raw, primal confidence. "And you said... you said it makes everything taste better."
"Yeah?" you whispered, your hands tangling into the fabric of his jacket, suddenly unable to draw a full breath.
"I wanna taste you."
Before the words could even fully register in your brain, Michael didn't lean up for a kiss like you expected. His high, hyper-fixated brain went completely, utterly literal. He slid off your lap, tumbling back onto his knees on the carpet, and immediately reached for the waistband of your pants.
"Wait—Michael, what the fuck?!" you gasped, your hands flying to his broad shoulders to push him back.
"Shh, hold still, let me," he whined, entirely impatient, driven by a sudden, intense curiosity. He was fumbling clumsily with the metal button of your jeans, his fingers thick and heavy from the high. He let out a frustrated, bratty little huff when the denim wouldn't unclip immediately. "Let me do it. Don't move, y/n."
"Mike, you've never—you don't know what—"
"I want to," he insisted, his voice dropping all its softness as he finally popped the button and yanked your zipper down. He pulled your pants and underwear down past your hips in one rough, eager motion, dragging them down to your knees. He grabbed your thighs, his large hands sinking into your flesh as he shoved your legs wide apart, forcing his broad shoulders right between your knees.
He didn't even pause to look. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct and the sensory overload of the weed, he dived right in, pressing his open, hot mouth directly against your bare, aching center.
The shock of it made you scream into the empty room. He was way too excited; his tongue was moving frantically, darting back and forth far too fast and incredibly sloppy. He was lapping blindly at you, his nose burying hard into your damp curls, completely bypassing your clit in his frantic rush to taste everything at once. It was a chaotic storm of intense, heavy friction, wet tongues, and hot, heavy breaths blasting against your sensitive skin. Your hips jerked wildly, your hands gripping the leather of the couch as you tried to adjust to the clumsy, overwhelming sensation.
"Michael, wait, wait! Stop for a second!" you cried out, your fingers diving deep into his thick, damp, product-heavy curls, gently but firmly hauling his head back.
He let out a loud, miserable groan, a whiny sound vibrating deep in his chest as he was forced to pull away. He looked up at you from between your thighs with a deeply pouty, unsatisfied expression, his lips completely wet, glistening under the red studio lights with your own escaping juices. "What? Is it bad? ‘M trying really hard."
"No, baby, it’s not bad, you’re just... you’re going a mile a minute," you breathed, panting as you tried to steady your racing pulse. You looked down at him—his cheeks were darkly flushed, his eyes totally dazed, but his gaze was completely fixed on the glistening, wet folds of your skin. "You gotta slow down, Mike. Softly. You have to just follow my hands, okay?"
He whined a little, his brow furrowing, but the exact moment you took control and gave him explicit direction, something in his brain shifted. His perfectionist, deeply musical nature seemed to snap into alignment, overriding the chaotic haze of the smoke.
You gently guided his head back down, your fingers tightly weaving through his black curls to dictate the pace, pressing his lips right against your swollen, throbbing clit. "Like this," you whispered, tilting your pelvis up, moving your hips slightly against his mouth. "Slow down. Find the beat of the song. Use your tongue like a heartbeat."
A soft, deep, rumbling hum vibrated directly against your clit as Michael caught the rhythm. He stopped rushing. His tongue flattened out, wide, thick, and incredibly warm, taking long, agonizingly wet, upward strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the sensitive hood. He became completely, utterly obsessed with the sensation, sucking the sensitive little bud into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it in slow, heavy circles until you were sobbing out loud. He whined low in his throat every time your thighs twitched or your fingers tightened painfully in his hair.
He was a natural with the rhythm, his mouth mimicking the tight, syncopated timing of the track blasting through the monitors. He opened you up wider with his long fingers, his thumb pressing into your perineum while his mouth worked relentlessly on your exterior.
You were swearing loudly, completely unraveled by the sheer surrealism of the moment—the contrast of his sweet, high innocence and the absolute, calculated destruction he was wreaking between your legs. "fuck, just like that."
Hearing you use that dirty language seemed to ignite something even deeper in his high brain. He became more aggressive, more demanding. His large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with enough force to hold you completely still as he buried his face impossibly deeper into your heat, literally devouring you. He was completely intoxicated by the slick, heavy taste of you, entirely focused on the way your muscles were beginning to tremor under his mouth.
He kept up that steady, torturous, rhythmic beat until you were gripping his curls with both hands, your hips lifting completely off the leather of the couch as the climax hit your nervous system like a bolt of lightning. You fell apart, crying out his name into the empty studio, your internal walls clamping hard and fast in an intense, rolling release.
Michael stayed right there through the entire duration of your orgasm, his tongue unyielding, working through the violent pulses of your body, taking a few final, possessive, slow licks to catch every single drop of your sweetness before he finally, slowly slid back onto his heels.
He looked up at you from the floor, his curls beautifully messy, his eyes heavily hooded and thoroughly glazed over with pleasure. A thoroughly smug, dazed, and high grin spread across his wet lips. He slowly swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, deliberately tasting the sweet, thick mix of you and the lingering grass on his palate.
"Yeah," Michael murmured. He leaned his chin heavily against your bare thigh, letting out a deeply satisfied, sleepy, and utterly ruined sigh into your skin. "Taste is definitely better."
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━ ˙⋆✮ SUMMARY: michael can’t stop filming everything with his new video camera, including you.
━ ˙⋆✮ CONTENT: 18+, mdni, established relationship, we makin a sex tape y’all, michael pussy-drunk and telling the reader how pretty she is, use of the pet name angel a lot sorry, unprotected sex (not smart don’t do that), fuckin on the floor no decorum smh, praise kink, eye contact!!, soft dom/cocky michael, creampie
━ ˙⋆✮ AUTHOR’S NOTE: i typically write subby michael bc that just feels right to me BUT i thought it would be fun to experiment with a more playful/soft dom version of him for this one. idk i think if he got really comfortable with you he’d tease the shit outta you…. i’m talking borderline annoying likeeee please just shut up and gimme that dick
Michael’s camcorder covers half of his face, trembling fingers clasping desperately against the plastic exterior as he works hard to keep it pointed at you.
Maybe his hands are shaking from nerves, or maybe it’s because he’s fighting against every last drop of restraint left in his body while your hips roll painfully slow over his as you ride him on the plush carpet of his bedroom floor.
It was your idea— filming the two of you in such an intimate setting.
You’d spent days watching Michael get all wide-eyed and giddy as he captured every little moment on his new video camera. He took it everywhere, becoming somewhat of an amateur filmmaker as he directed everyone around him, taping the most mundane moments.
Even when it was just the two of you, the camera stayed glued to his hand.
The late afternoon sun slipped through his curtains as you sat in his bedroom, thumbing through a stack of records. You thought you were finally safe from your boyfriend’s constant need to document his every move, when the realization hit you— you were being watched.
The albums at your fingertips stilled as you gazed up, noticing the red light glaring in the distance.
Your eyes found Michael’s through the lens of his camera— always filming.
He smiled from behind the bulky machine as you waved, giggles bubbling under your breath at your precious boyfriend who thought you searching through his music collection was something worth documenting.
And for him it really was.
But seeing the way his curls fell against his forehead while he focused on your every move through the viewfinder, his slender fingers curving and gripping at the camera as he kept you in his sight, gave you other ideas.
You’d thought about it last week; using his camcorder to film the two of you having sex.
His head was buried in the crook of your neck kissing and sucking, while his breath got heavier against your skin with every thrust of his hips.
And when his hand fought between your bodies to rub tight circles into your clit, your back arched in a way you didn’t even know was possible, pressing your cheek even further into the satin pillowcase beneath your head.
You felt a familiar coil tightening deep in your abdomen, but were met with a familiar sight when you opened your eyes, momentarily distracting you from the orgasm curling at your toes.
Sitting on the bedside table, his video camera was pointed toward you, completely shut off, and yet, your body went numb at the thought of the little red recording light turning on.
You imagined it capturing the lewd sounds Michael was making into your neck, and the image of your heaving bodies meshing together— all slick and sweaty.
The thought of filming such a filthy thing, having it on tape for just the two of you; it was hot. So hot, that the notion of it sent you right over the edge.
Michael was too busy moaning into your shoulder about how good you felt to notice your gaze locked on his favorite new toy.
You grasped at his back, nails digging into his skin as the most pathetic whines fell from your lips.
From that moment on you could barely look at it the same.
Every time he held the camcorder in front of his face, gentle hands keeping it steady, and the corner of his smile peeking out from behind it— your skin got hot.
But each time you thought you could work up the courage to tell him about your little fantasy, a twinge of embarrassment kept the words from leaving your mouth.
Michael was just so private. You couldn’t imagine he’d want to film something that personal.
So, for the sake of avoiding rejection, you kept your desire to be filmed confidential.
But it was especially hard to keep your dirty little secret in instances like this: him taping when it was just the two of you alone.
It would be so easy to ask him, so easy to set the camera on any surface in his room and angle it just right, letting it capture every second as you had your way with each other.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. You never could.
Settling for a bashful smile in his direction, the tension fueled by forbidden thoughts pulled at your cheekbones as he caught each tweak of your expression on his camera.
“You’re so funny with that thing.” You went back to the albums at your fingers, flipping one after another looking for the perfect soundtrack to accompany the setting sun outside the window.
“How?” He kept the camcorder in front of his face, still rolling, as his question slipped past his grin.
You didn’t answer, shaking your head with a smirk of your own as you kept your hands busy with the records.
“Because I wanna record my girl?” His voice was sweet, carrying across the room with a quiet confidence that made your breath hitch.
If he wanted to record you so bad, maybe he wouldn’t turn down the depraved idea that kept rolling around in your head-
“Maybe I want something to watch when I’m away. When I miss you.” the camera was still recording, and you had to force your fingers to keep moving through the vinyls, because the way his voice got all low and soft threatened to make your entire body freeze.
Your chest swelled thinking about him watching these moments when he was halfway across the world; simple tapes of you doing absolutely nothing in his room— something to remind him what’s waiting back home.
But then your mind wanders as you think about him missing you in a different way.
The nights when he’s alone in a hotel room somewhere, with his hand wrapped around his dick and his eyes squeezed shut, picturing your naked body on the back of his eyelids.
The nights when it’s already morning back in California and he knows you’re too busy to talk on the phone.
The nights when he needs just a little something more than his imagination to fall asleep.
And you could help him with that.
Right now.
With his video camera you could offer a little keepsake for him to take on tour, something for him to keep hidden away until he needed it most. Something for his eyes only that would make his cheeks burn when he remembered it was tucked deep inside the front pocket of his carry on.
“You’d do that? Watch tapes of me while you’re away?” You try your best to keep the sultry curiosity out of your voice as you stare down at your hands that have definitely stopped moving.
“Of course baby.”
The camera lowers just enough for his stare to meet yours and his eyes are too warm and gentle. If only he knew the thoughts clouding your brain right now.
“That’s sweet.” Your smile barely reaches your cheeks before the camera is back in front of his face, capturing your response.
“Michael?”
“Hmm?”
A surge of courage, or more likely lust, rushes through your chest as you watch him hum in response, his lips lightly pressing together.
“Could you kiss me?”
The camera lowers, his eyes visible to you again.
“Baby you don’t have to ask-“
He pulls the camcorder down completely, his lips pulling into a full fledged smile as his finger hovers over the button to turn it off-
“With the camera on.”
His body goes still.
You’re staring at him, watching his smile settle into his cheeks, lips parted just enough for his breathy response to slip past them.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t turn off the video camera.
“I could do that.”
Instead he places it carefully on the edge of his bed, making sure it’s pointed directly at you. Adjusting it inch by inch, his eyes bounce between the picture of you in his camera, and your eyes locked on him just a few feet away.
It nestles perfectly against his comforter as he makes his way across the floor, kneeling beside you without saying a single word.
He looks a little uncertain and for a minute you regret putting him in this situation, but then his hand finds your jaw, pulling you closer until your lips meet.
The movement of his mouth against yours is slow and careful, but there’s a hunger in the way his hands find your waist, grabbing and pulling you into him— eager.
The kiss deepens but there’s a slight hesitation in his touch as his fingers linger at the hem of your t-shirt.
“We can stop.”
The offer is abrupt as you pull back just enough for your words to land on his lips: swollen, parted, and fighting a tender smile.
“The camera- I mean. We can stop recording.”
“D’ya want that?” His voice was quiet, eyes intense as he searches your expression for the answer to his question.
You’re unable to look him in the eyes, attention falling to the ground as you try to pry the word “yes” from somewhere deep in your throat where it’s refusing to leave.
“Angel…”
You can’t see his face, but the nickname floats through the air in a low chuckle.
He’s amused.
“Don’t.” Your chest is hot and there’s a slight pang of humiliation— or maybe annoyance— swimming in your voice as you keep your eyes trained on the floor.
“Look at me baby.”
You can hear the smile behind his words as his fingertips find your jaw, pulling your gaze forward.
“My angel wants to be filmed?”
“Mikey.”
He’s holding your face in his hands making it impossible for you to look away.
And he’s grinning.
“Tell me.” His words are taunting, seeping with a discreet kind of arrogance.
You shake your head, physically unable to pull the words from your mouth.
“C’mon, gotta tell me what you want.”
“I wanna record it.” You find your voice, pulling it from your throat and shoving it past your lips.
“I want you to have a tape— of us.”
You wish you didn’t sound so timid as you watched the smile push against his cheeks.
“Doing what?”
He’s smug now, biting at his lower lip to keep his smirk from growing.
“Michael.”
He raises a brow and suddenly you remember all of this is being captured by the camera perched on his bed.
“Wanna make a video of us fucking Mikey.” Your voice drops to a low whisper and you can feel him tense up at the indecent language dripping from your lips.
“So you can watch it when you miss me.” You throw his earlier statement back at him, only this time, the intention behind the words is far more perverted.
“Would that be okay?”
Now you’re teasing, trailing your fingers up the nape of his neck, wrapping them gently in his curls.
His answer is delivered in the quick grip of his hands on your hips, fingers sliding past your t-shirt and onto your skin.
His touch is everywhere: hands roaming your stomach, pressing flat against your lower back to push you further into him as your lips find each other in an all consuming heat.
It’s a sweltering frenzy of newfound corruption with both of your fighting to free yourselves from the layers of clothing that kept your skin from touching.
The flames of anticipation grew hotter with every article that hit the floor— the gentle reminder of your on-screen debut flashing red in your peripheral vision.
The camera sat nice and neat on the edge of Michael’s bed, recording as your bodies moved in a desperate rhythm.
Your lips were still attached when his fingers ran along the waistband of your panties.
“You sure?” His voice was muffled into the kiss, too quiet for his camcorder to pick up.
You pulled back, legs straddling his hips as you reached toward the bed.
You grabbed the camera, handing it to him, red light still blinking.
He held it out in his palm, unsure of what you were doing, until you moved his hand, guiding the camera to its habitual position in front of his face, letting him do what he’s been doing for weeks— record you.
“Oh, Angel.”
The groan falls from his lips as he leans back, one hand keeping the camera secure at his face, the other sitting flat against the carpet.
And while he looks for you in the view finder, you tug his underwear down his thighs, not even bothering to push them all the way off his legs.
You think about wrapping a hand around his length, stroking him a few times for the sake of his later-viewing pleasure.
But you were too impatient— willing to skip foreplay in exchange for the satisfaction of feeling him deep inside you.
You pull your panties aside just enough to feel him dip into the slick mess pooling at your center.
His breath hitched.
You were wet. It was rare that you could get this worked up from him barely touching you, and even more unlikely that you’d be ready to take him without the stretch of his fingers first.
But as you sunk down, it became increasingly evident just how much you wanted this— how much you’d thought about him filming you.
“That’s good angel.” His praise chokes out between sighs.
You’re whining as he fills you completely, every inch of him tucked away and pulsing against your walls.
Your eyes had been shut, soaking in the stretch as you slid down, but now, you looked directly at the lens in front of you, eyelids heavy and lips parting as you rolled your hips over his.
“Angel.” This time the word is a complete and utter whimper.
“You look s’pretty like that.” He’s cooing under his breath, as you keep eye contact with him through the camera.
His dick presses somewhere real deep making your lashes flutter and your brows pull together.
His fingertips dig into the carpet, and you can tell his need to touch you is agonizing, but the angle is too good. The point of view from his camera, the way he’s stroking into you at just the right spot; all of it forcing him to stay put— driving his hand even further into the ground to hold himself steady.
It’s a slight shift when pans the camera down, but the action has you going dizzy.
The camcorder is focused between your bodies, perfectly capturing the view of your pussy hugging him in.
You make a show of it, lifting up just enough for the camera to catch a glimpse of the creamy ring of arousal building at the base of his cock, before burying yourself back down on him. Bouncing nice and slow, watching the way his brows furrow from behind the camera.
It startles you when he shifts beneath you, abruptly leaning over to put the camera back in its original position, tossing it on the bed and pointing toward you, still recording.
He’s still inside you, his hands gripping your body, everywhere— desperate to touch you, to hold you.
You rock your hips into his at a quicker pace, fingers tugging at his hair.
“You like this.” His statement is almost incriminating as it melts through his smile pressing beneath your jaw.
Your hips stutter; skin going warm at his sultry accusation.
Before you can respond his voice drops lower, humming into your neck, “I like it too.”
He holds onto your hips steady, fucking up into you— deprived and impatient.
The pleasure is blinding and you can feel your body tensing under his fingertips.
“Mikey I’m close.”
You’re whining into the air, and the broken groans falling into your shoulder tell you he’s not far from his own release.
He kisses back up your neck, sloppy and quick before bringing his face back to yours.
“Look at me baby.”
With gentle fingertips, he holds your jaw in his hand, stroking a careful thumb across your cheek to coax your eyes open.
“Wanna see you.”
Your lashes flutter, eyes opening with heavy lids and a completely fucked-out gaze.
“My pretty girl.” His compliment yanks at the thin string of composure pulling tight in your stomach and you can’t stop the waves of relief from washing over you as it snaps.
The orgasm induced high clouding your brain sends a filthy request to your lips,
“Want you to cum inside Mikey…”
His hands stiffen, but his pupils grow wide, laced with something more than hunger— greed.
“Please please please.” The word is a breathless whimper ringing out over and over again, pussy sensitive and throbbing as your hips roll languidly against him.
The pathetic sound of your begging is all it takes for Michael to hold you close as he spills into you.
Burying into your chest, his lips press against your sternum muffling the desperate sounds seeping from his throat. Each little gasp melts into your skin while your hands tangle into his hair.
You gently play with his curls, wrapping them around your fingertips as you hear his breath soften under your touch.
He’s almost giggling when his voice finally becomes clear again, still purring into your bare chest, “That was filthy.”
He pulls back just enough to catch you peering down at him, both of you wide-eyed and grinning.
“Bet you’ll appreciate it when you’re all worked up a million miles away.”
Your fingers are still threading through his hair, attempting to remedy the mess you’ve made from all the grabbing and tugging.
“Bet I will.”
He’s got that look on his face of sheer joy. Smile digging deep against his cheekbones and his eyes washed over with pure bliss as he looks up at you.
His body shifts and he reaches for the camcorder on his bed, turning it off before wiggling his brows at you, smiling so big dimples press into his cheeks, “Might even have to watch it right now.”
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