mika಄ˊ。

⚔︎ the challenge

“ in which boyfriend otw!michael sets a boundary with you for the first time. ”

ᝰ word count: 1.6K

.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: slightly angsty, y/n and michael get into a minor argument, y/n is sassy, he holds a week long grudge, he regrets saying something bc anxiety, crybaby michael, happyish ending

✐ a/n: this is a follow up to the trick :-) enjoy

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

for the past week, michael had been acting out of character. he wasn't his usual, hyper-attentive self; instead, he carried a sour, passive-aggressive attitude that manifested in tiny, quiet ways. he would exit a room a little too quickly when you entered, or hum lyrics to himself while pacing the floorboards, completely ignoring your questions and head tilts.

you had absolutely no idea he was upset with you. in fact, you thought maybe somebody from the studio pissed him off again, so he was in one of his moods as a result.

his petty attitude started last thursday. marlon had been admiring a vintage, gold-plated watch resting on the entryway console table—a rare, beautiful piece that michael spent weeks tracking down just to give to you personally as a keepsake for your relationship’s anniversary. you loved the gesture, but you weren't a watch person, and seeing how much marlon genuinely coveted it, you casually said,

“oh, you can have it, marlon! michael won’t mind.”

to you, it wasn’t a big deal at all. michael always gave away things to his loved ones and fans, so what would it matter if you gave something away too? oh girl. little did you know.

now, past midnight, michael was sitting on the very edge of his bedroom’s armchair, his fingers anxiously picking at the hem of his oversized yellow t-shirt. you saw the crown of head moved occasionally from side to side, since he was deep in thought. his shoulders were tensed up to his ears. you were sitting on the bed opposite him, flipping through a magazine when his quiet voice broke the silence.

"y/n... we... we need to talk about somethin’, so please don’t interrupt me."

you lowered the magazine, blinking at him. "okay, mike. what's going on?"

he didn’t use his typical nickname with you, so you figured it was something important. you felt a slight metallic taste in your mouth since you were unsure about what he was going to say.

did you go too far telling him that people were gonna take advantage of him?

did he think that you overstepped your boundaries by calling his father out?

he immediately dropped his chin, his large, round eyes gluing themselves to the patterned rug beneath his covered feet. his thumbs twirled around each other frantically.

"it's... it's about last week. with marlon."

you felt a small prickle of confusion. "marlon? what about him?" your head tilted to the side.

"you... you gave him the watch," he muttered, his voice dropping into that tiny pitch he used whenever he felt cornered or incredibly vulnerable.

"the one i got for you."

"yeah, he really loved it, mike. i told you that," you casually replied rolling your neck a bit, now leaning back against the pillows. the magazine was dropped completely now.

"i thought it was nice to let him have it since it was just sitting on the table anyway." you mindlessly continued on.

michael’s chest heaved with a heavy breath, his jaw clenching tightly. he kept his eyes locked firmly on the floorboards, refusing to look in your direction.

remembering the promise you told him to make a month ago, you leaned forward, your expression turning firm but attentive.

"uh-uh, michael. look me in the eyes when you talk to me."

he swallowed hard. it took him nearly five agonizing seconds; his long eyelashes fluttering nervously before he slowly lifted his chin. those massive eyes that were circled with anxiety and frustration finally locked onto your confused ones.

"it bothered me, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he forced himself to maintain the eye contact.

"it really, really bothered me. i spent a whole month looking for that specific watch for you. i wanted you to have it. it was supposed to be special between us. and then... then you just handed it over to my brother like it was nothing but a piece of cheap candy."

you felt a spark of irritation as you sat straight up like you were taking an etiquette class.

"michael, are you serious right now? he’s your brother! it’s not like i gave it to a stranger on the street. and you've been havin’ this nasty ass attitude with me for a whole week over a watch? you could have just told me!"

your hands were going crazy as you defended yourself. the magazine was on the floor now. you couldn’t believe that’s what he had his faced bawled up this entire time for.

"i am telling you." michael shot back, his voice rising just a fraction, a rare occurrence that made your eyebrows shoot up and scoff. he didn’t yell—he would never yell at anyone, but his snappy soft tone was crystal clear.

"it's hard for me! you don't understand how hard it is for me to say these things. you just thought it was over with, but it hurt my feelings, y/n. you didn't even care about the sentiment behind it." he rubbed the side of his face in frustration.

"i did care about the sentiment!" you argued, your tone turning snappy now as you shot up from the bed, crossing your arms.

"but you’re over here actin’ like i broke your heart! it was a misunderstanding. if you had just spoken up like a grown man instead of poutin’ around the house, we wouldn't be having an argument right now!"

"i'm not poutin’!" michael whined, his fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his mickey mouse pajama pants as he stood up to face you, his lean body stiff.

it’s like his eyes were two times bigger now. even while he was upset, he could never look threatening. he was frustrated with himself for still wanting to hold you, even though this is about him. he forced his arms to stay down since he was about to mindlessly comfort you. you looked so angry with him and closed off, so he wanted to fold right then and there. you were his safe space, but he felt like he was threatening that by expressing his feelings. man, he just wanted to hold you or vice versa.

you both stood there silently for a heated moment. then michael slowly started speaking again. he spoke quieter this time.

"i was trying t’find the right words. i didn't want to make you mad at me!" he pointed repeatedly at his chest to emphasize his point. his eyes were watery now, but he didn’t dare let a tear fall.

“god, i hate when i make you mad. it eats at me.” his voice trembled as he spoke much quieter and looked back down.

you were pissed off by his week-long silence and the sudden accusation, but as you looked at him standing there—his chest rising and fall and his hands trembling—the anger in your chest dwindled.

he was actually doing it. he was standing up for himself. he was looking you dead in the eye, setting a firm, personal boundary, and refusing to give in to make you happy. he was listening to the advice you gave him to protect himself, even if that meant practicing it on you first. seeing the immense amount of courage it took for him to break through that wall just to tell you he was hurt was incredibly moving.

you let out a long, slow sigh, your shoulders dropping as you uncrossed your arms. you took a slow step forward, closing the distance between you two on the rug.

"you're right, michael," you said softly though your tone was still a bit sharp.

"i'm sorry. i shouldn't have given it away without asking you first. i didn't realize how much that watch meant to you.” you brought your hand up to his cheek as you lightly stroked it. his eyebrows softened immediately and his hand immediately flew up to your waist.

“i completely undervalued the effort you put into getting it for me. i'm really sorry for hurting your feelings."

michael blinked, completely caught off guard by your sudden softness. his shoulders slumped in relief.

"you... you're not mad at me, minnie?" he whispered. the sourness in his tone was gone. you grinned at the fact that he was now calling you by your beloved nickname and not your real name.

"i was a little annoyed," you admitted with a tiny, playful eye roll, reaching out to gently cup his warm jawline with your hand.

"but more than anything, mike... i am so proud of you. you told me no. you told me i was wrong."

michael let out a soft chuckle as he closed his eyes, instinctively leaning the weight of his face into your palm.

"it was so scary. my heart is beating so fast. i’m sorry for raising my voice—i dunno why i did that." he shook his head in regret.

"i know, baby. you’re human.” you murmured, pulling him toward the bed.

you laid back together against the headboard, and michael immediately shifted his body, scooting closer until he could bury his face securely in the crook of your neck. his soft, coils tickled your chin as you wrapped your arms tightly around him, holding him close against your chest. you reached up, mindlessly smoothing your fingers at the tips of his hair, comforting him. knowing michael, he was definitely overthinking this argument and likely regrets confronting you at all.

as you held him, stroke after stroke, you were completely focused on the calmness of the moment, thinking about how much you loved his pure heart. you didn't even notice the silent, warm tears that had begun to slip from his eyes, wetting the fabric of your shirt. michael just squeezed you a little tighter, weeping quietly in the dark out of gratitude that he had finally found someone who loved him enough to teach him how to fight back. more importantly, he hoped that you still loved him. what he didn’t realize in this moment is how it only solidified the love and devotion you have for him.

—

Pairing: Michael x reader

Content: basically you doing the "i cant pay rent" trend on Michael

"Michael, I can't pay rent," you said, putting your head down in hopes of not showing the laughter that threatened to rip through your throat. The camera was discreetly set up so that Michael didn't suspect a thing as he sat across from you, his glasses sliding so far down that his eyes could be seen over the frames as he read his book. The confusion on his face became more apparent as he tilted his head, brows furrowed with utter bewilderment.

"Baby, what are you talking about?" He spoke, his book still in his hands. His fingers were still in position to flip the next page.

"Like, I can't pay rent this month," your smile was becoming more apparent by the second.

"Are you okay? You don't pay any month," his book was now shut. The bookmark was placed in the spot for when he eventually came back to it.

"Michael!"

"What? It's true! You know I don't let you pay for anything," his hands were up now, the confused look phasing into a more playful one.

"Wait, is this that tiktack trend?"

The camera shook from your laughter, becoming blurry as it caught another confused look.

"TikTok, Michael."

"Same thing.”

©dearjotaro

Requests : open

Taglist:

𓃾 𖥧 cow belles

“ in which you and your best friend are stranded in the countryside but are rescued by a family of fine farmers, with farmer!michael catching your eye. ”

ᝰ word count: 1.3k

.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: none, cute country fluff, y/n meets michael for the first time, a love at first sight kinda thang, joe capitalizing on their farm business, michael is not famous in this

✐ a/n: in an alternate universe, this happened. i was there.

the scenery alongside the gravel road became nothing but dirt, irrigation pivots, and overgrown weeds about an hour ago, leaving your brown and green station wagon sputtering in the middle of nowhere. the countryside stretched out in endless flat rows of clover and thistle—beautiful but terrifyingly empty. your best friend, tamara, was furiously tapping her foot against the floorboard, flipping through a paper map that was completely useless.

"there hasn't been a gas station for thirty miles."

"we are officially in the twilight zone, y/n," tamara groaned, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair.

a tumbleweed rolls past the car, almost on cue. the only thing missing in this desolate setting was a lone man playing a harmonica.

just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a faint purple glow over the grassy fields, the light parted through the bundle of trees to reveal a massive, breathtaking homestead. the centerpiece was a bright red farmhouse, its paint so vibrant it looked like something out of a storybook. it sat on copious amounts of land, surrounded by towering stalks of sweet corn, golden wheat fields, and neatly fenced pastures dotted with grazing horses and fat, fluffy sheep. it was a picture-perfect kingdom run by a fine family of farmers.

and that was exactly how you met michael.

he was standing near the weathered white barn when you pulled up, a wire basket of fresh eggs balanced on his hip. two women, who you assumed were his sisters, were nearby taking down clothes from the clothesline. out of all his tall, ripped brothers who immediately swarmed the car with charming, promiscuous grins, michael was the kindest, gentlest, and shyest of them all. they all wore denim overalls, some dusted with dirt and dried mud.

while his brother jackie immediately began leaning against the car door, flashing tamara a heart-melting smile with a piece of wheat in his mouth that made her forget how angry she was, michael stepped forward with a soft, bashful smile. his dark eyes were wide and sweet, his rich brown skin glowing in the fading sunlight, and his curls were tucked neatly under a faded denim cap.

"you folks look a little turned around," he murmured, his voice a quiet smooth butter that made your chest tighten in adoration.

he took charge in the gentlest way possible. as his brothers started playfully teasing and flirting a bit too heavily with you obvious city girls, michael subtly stepped between you, his broad shoulders acting as a quiet shield. he guided you away from the commotion, offering to show you around the property while the engine cooled down. as you two sauntered past the passing goats and geese, he led you into the sweet-smelling barn.

he guided you over to a massive spotted cow who was lazily wagging her tail. you’ve never seen such a big animal up close before, so you nervously kept your distance. sensing your hesitation, he motioned you to come closer.

“this is sallie. she’s the sweetest thang. she’s just a big girl is all.” he tells you softly, rubbing her head with the knuckle of his index finger. she closed her eyes in bliss.

you came closer and rubbed her back. she was softer than expected and smelled really good for a barn animal. you giggled at the foreign sensation of her fur.

“i think she likes it!” you exclaim smiling down at sallie who had her eyes closed.

he smiles at you hovering slightly behind you, with his hand shoved in his deep pocket. “cows are like dogs. i refuse to eat them or any other animal. they’re too precious.” he says.

“my family, though, they eat most of these poor, wonderful creatures. but i told them to leave sallie and a few others alone. that’s why i built my own barn for ‘em.”

“wanna see how we milk ‘em?” he cheerfully asked as you eagerly nodded your head. you’ve only seen a cow be milked in cartoons before. he pulled over a handmade wooden stool and a plastic bucket. he sat on the bucket and pat the wooden stool for you to sit on before pausing.

“ah- here.” he mumbles, scurrying to grab a patchwork circular seat cushion and placing it down for you before you sat down. you smiled warmly and mumbled a thank you.

his long, slender fingers moving with a practiced grace as he guided your hands, his face turning red when his shoulder accidentally brushed against yours. his hands were roughed and calloused, a clear indication that he had working hands. you couldn’t deny you found that attractive.

as he finished—with him having done most of the milking since you were pretty bad at it (though he wouldn’t dare tell you that)— he tells you about the most amazing strawberry ice cream sallie’s milk makes.

the chemistry between you both undeniable; every time your eyes met, he would look down at his dusty espresso-colored boots, a deep dimple half-mooning into his cheek as he cleared his throat nervously.

"it's getting awfully dark," michael said softly, guiding you both into the massive, warm kitchen of the farmhouse. he carefully bottled the milk from the milking session earlier in glass bottles and placed it in the fridge.

"you oughta use our house phone to let your folks know you're safe. and mother says you have to stay for dinner."

his mother, katherine, practically commanded you two to spend the night in their spacious guest bedroom. she was a force of nature, laying down a delicious country dinner spread of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and fresh corn, while firmly yet kindly telling you that it was far too late for two city girls to be driving these dangerous back roads in the dark. neither you or tamara tasted a meal so fresh, flavorful, and rich before and felt the kindness extended to you both. she promised her husband would send you and tamara on your way to the city with a fresh tank of gas in the morning.

during the dinner after everyone washed up and changed into their night clothes, their father and her husband, joe, explained the logistics of their family farm business to you guests. it was apparent their children feared the man and respected him deeply, since they didn’t speak when he spoke and didn’t stare in his eyes too long. he clearly ran a tight ship, explaining how he expected nothing short of perfection. michael joined the business at the tender age of five—all the family had no choice but to work to make a living and escape poverty.

they apparently have one of the most successful farming businesses in the country and even have a popular farm calendar with his sons featured as each month and family recipes on the back of them. you weren’t sure what to think of any of that information or the fact that he probably violated child labor laws somehow, so you just politely smiled and nodded.

later that night, tucked beneath a heavy, handmade quilt in the cozy guest room, the humid air was filled with you and tamara’s giggles.

"y/n, did you see the way jackie looked at me when he passed the biscuits?" tamara squealed into her pillow, her face entirely flushed. "i think i'm in love with a farmer."

"he was definitely staring," you laughed, your heart doing a happy little flip as you stared at the ceiling.

"but michael... tamara, he's the sweetest person i've ever met. his sister janet told me that he was always like that. and michael told me he'd walk me to my car in the morning."

"he's totally gonna ask for your number," tamara nudged you playfully. "he was working up the courage all through dessert."

gushing over the handsome brothers, you both finally closed your eyes as you drifted off to sleep, already eager for the morning. you didn’t know the countryside had so much to offer.

—

୭ৎ just the way you are

“ in which thriller!michael validates your inner child. ”

ᝰ word count: 1.5k

.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: fluff, some angst, y/n collects porcelain dolls at 21, mother doesn’t approve :/, michael loves the collection, y/n is insecure, minor identity issue, michael reassures you

✐ a/n: i partially made this to heal my hurt ass

you turned the brass key in your bedroom lock. you were twenty-one years old, trying to navigate the confusing space of your college years, and your bedroom was the only space where you could let your guard down completely and hide from the world.

standing just behind your shoulder was michael. both of you were free for a few hours in between your busy schedules, so he asked to come over for the first time. michael met you at a radio company you were interning at two months ago, and the both of you hit it off well. you’ve been friends since then.

he was wearing a simple light pink button down with the sleeves loosely rolled up to his forearms, brown trousers, and his signature black loafers. his short black curls were defined with a loose swirl on his forehead—you loved that. he has been your friend for a short while, but this was the very first time he had ever stepped foot inside your personal space.

"go on in," you murmured feeling slightly vulnerable.

michael stepped across the threshold, and you watched his expression carefully.

your bedroom was the epitome of soft, hyper-feminine delicacy. the walls were painted a floral, milky pink, adorned with framed vintage botanical prints and bows made of cream satin ribbon. your bed was a mountain of white linen, ruffles, and floral throw pillows. everywhere you looked, there were touches of gold filigree, antique vanity trays holding perfume bottles, and small trinket dishes filled with jewelry and trinkets.

but as michael’s big, round eyes swept across the room, they finally landed on the large, white wooden shelving unit nestled in the corner.

your hands instinctively tucked behind your back, your fingers twisting together.

arranged perfectly on the shelves was your extensive collection of vintage porcelain dolls. they stood in neat rows, their hand-painted faces gleaming softly due to the streaks of sunlight peeking through your ruffled curtains. some wore intricate victorian and rococo gowns; others had delicate silk ringlets. their glass eyes reflected the light, and they all had tiny sculpted porcelain hands.

you braced yourself for the inevitable reaction. you were used to the judgment. your father looked at the collection with relief—he was just glad his twenty-one-year-old daughter was spending her allowance on antique dolls instead of getting pregnant, partying, or drinking away her tuition. but your mother was entirely different. she found the hobby deeply irritating.

"it's childish, y/n," her voice would replay in your head every time you purchased a doll, sharp and dismissive.

"you're a grown woman in university now. you need to pack those things away in the attic and grow up."

and then there were your peers, who routinely told you how creepy and uncanny valley they found the unblinking stares of the dolls. the only people who were delighted to see your dolls were your underaged cousins who occasionally visited, but that made you feel like a total loser.

your ears turning pink, you quickly spoke up to beat him to the punch.

"i know it's a lot," you announced, your voice tight.

"i'm probably too old for this anyway. i just never grew out of loving dolls, i guess." you forced a chuckle as you scratch your head.

michael didn't laugh. he didn't even let out one of his typical, soft giggles.

instead, he walked right past your bed, his movements gentle, and stopped directly in front of the shelving unit. he leaned in closer as he brought his face parallel to the middle shelf. those massive eyes of his blinking with a genuine fascination that you had never seen anyone direct toward your hobby before.

"oh my" he breathed, his voice a soft, reverent whisper that completely cut through your anxiety.

"they're absolutely incredible. look at the hand-painting on this one's cheeks. the porcelain is so fine."

you blinked, stunned. "you... you don't think they're creepy?"

michael turned his head to look at you, his features softening into a warm, incredibly sweet expression. his dimples peeked out as a wide and off-white smile spread across his face.

"creepy? no, not at all! they're works of art. look at the craftsmanship in the clothing. someone spent hours sewing these tiny lace cuffs."

he pointed a long, deep brown finger toward a doll in the center wearing a navy blue silk dress with tiny pearl buttons.

"where is this one from? she looks french."

you took a tentative step closer to him, your guard dropping just a fraction.

"she is," you murmured, your voice a little surprised from his curiosity.

"she’s an antique from the late nineteenth century. i found her at an estate sale last year. her hair is made of real mohair."

"real mohair?" michael echoed, his eyes sparkling with delight. "that's incredible, y/n. the texture is so soft. and what about the little one next to her with the green bonnet?"

for the next five minutes, you found yourself rambling as you told him the stories behind the dolls—where you bought them, how you carefully restored the lace on their dresses, and why you collect them. michael listened to every single word with absolute, undivided attention. he didn't interrupt, he didn't look bored, and he didn't offer the kind of hollow, pitying compliments people usually gave you just to change the subject.

when you finally caught yourself, realizing how much you had been talking, you stopped abruptly, your cheeks flushing.

“sorry," you mumbled, looking down sheepishly.

“i didn't mean to go on and on about toys. it’s childish, i know."

michael’s smile faded slightly. he stepped away from the shelves and closed the distance between you, stopping just inches away. the comforting, familiar scent of his perfume wrapped around you.

"don't ever apologize for the things that bring you joy, y/n," he said softly and tenderly.

he reached out, his large, veined hand gently resting on your shoulder. his skin felt warm and solid through your thin top.

"and they aren't just toys. but even if they were, there is absolutely nothing with it. who made up the rule that beautiful things are exclusive to children?” he began.

“why do people think growing up means you have to abandon your imagination and the things that make your heart happy?" he threw his hands up and out to show his annoyance at society.

he shook his head, a brief flicker of his own personal battles passing through his dark eyes.

"you're not childish, y/n," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours with a softness that made your eyes water.

"you're intelligent, you're elegant, and you have a beautiful soul that appreciates history and artistry. there’s a big difference between being childish and keeping your heart pure."

he let out a soft giggle as he leaned in a little closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“and if your friends and family thinks this is a lot... oh gee, you should see my bedroom. i have shelves and shelves of toys, life-sized statues, books, and arcade games.”

your eyes lit up as he continued. you were definitely curious to see his bedroom now.

“people call me strange for it every single day, but it makes me happy. it makes me feel safe. and your room... it feels so safe, y/n."

a sudden lump formed in your throat. your eyes grew slightly blurry with tears that you desperately tried to blink away.

for your entire life, you never felt truly seen by anyone. you always felt like an outsider in your own family and among your peers. people never knew quite how to place you. because of your quiet and shy nature, your mother and the adults in your life often infantilized you, treating you like a clueless little girl who couldn't handle the real world. but because of your intelligence, your height, and maturity, your peers treated you like you were overgrown—assuming you could be cold or entirely too serious.

you were constantly trapped in a tug-of-war between being treated like a child and being expected to be a perfectly hardened adult. nobody had ever just met you right in the middle.

except michael.

in this soft pink room of yours adorned with ruffles and lace, michael looked at your porcelain dolls and didn't see a regression. he just saw you. he validated the exact part of your soul that everyone else tried to make you feel ashamed of, while still respecting you completely as a woman.

"thank you, michael," you whispered, your voice trembling just a fraction as you offered him a genuine smile.

"i mean it," he said softly, his hand sliding down from your shoulder to gently squeeze your wrist. his thumb brushed against your pulse point that sent a sweet thrill straight to your stomach.

"next week, you're coming to my house. i’ll pick you up after your classes, and i'm going to show you my collections. we can be 'childish' together, and nobody can say a thing about it because we'll lock the doors."

you let out a giggly laugh, nodding along.

"okay. it's a deal."

michael smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy and mutual understanding as he looked around your feminine space one last time, completely content to just exist in your world, exactly as you were.

summary: Michael had spent weeks praying for the unholy thoughts to go away. Unfortunately for him, when Quincy leaves the two of you alone in the studio, every last ounce of his self-control goes straight out the window. ꨄ︎

warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, age gap (please don't throw tomatoes at me), praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), a lil religious guilt, dirty talk, hair pulling, light spanking, sex in the studio, me trying to write soft dom Michael, fluff and yearning, mikey being down bad

a/n: where to begin… this is sooo long and very much word vomit and very much english isnt my first language!! ahhh, hope you still can enjoy my sweet angels ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ .

Michael knew he was doomed from the moment he laid eyes on you.

The way your gorgeous, voluminous hair caught the dim amber studio light, the way your lips—plump and slightly glazed—nervously bit at your pen between jotting down notes. The smooth line of your legs, your pleated skirt resting invitingly at your thighs. It made his mind go hazy, almost drunk on how wrong it felt to be looking at you like that. He thanked God quietly for the black aviators.

You had barely just enrolled—fresh into your first year of college, nineteen and brighteyed, studying music production, writing a thesis on Quincy’s production methodology. When you first approached the producer through your university, he’d hesitated, just a tiny bit. But once you spoke, that was it. Your ambition, your unfiltered passion—it had charmed him into a yes before you’d even finished talking.

Michael had heard about you in passing. A phone call with Quincy, nothing remarkable, just a heads up that a student would be sitting in on a few sessions for a university project. He hadn’t thought much of it.

That was before he met you.

Now you were the only thing he could think about.

Three or four brief encounters had come and gone since the first time he’d met you. The way you had smoothed your skirt with the hand that seconds later rested in his as you introduced yourself—warm and perhaps a little clammy, though he couldn’t tell whether the clamminess was yours or his. He had pulled his aviators down just a notch, just enough to properly look at your mesmerizing eyes and the sweet smile that accompanied them as you exchanged names and pleasantries.

The conversations since then had been nothing more than small talk, and yet they lingered far longer than they should have.

You were so incredibly kind—and that had become rare in his life. He’d grown used to reading people too easily, sensing self-serving agendas beneath every smile, especially in this environment. It left him isolated in a way he rarely admitted, even to himself.

But not with you. You had just let him be. You showed genuine, heartfelt interest in the person behind the fame—the real him.

You were still untouched by the cruelties of this industry, and something about that made his chest tighten. He would’ve stolen the stars for you, just to keep it that way—a rare, sweet flower in an otherwise ugly reality.

It drew him closer every time. The way you spoke, the way you carried yourself with quiet confidence in a space that could feel intimidating, especially for a young woman. And still, there was a softness to you—steady, real.

All the qualities he felt he lacked, yet saw so effortlessly in you. It left him almost spellbound.

There was something unspoken between you, like an invisible current threading through every glance. He could’ve sworn there was something in your eyes that told him you felt it too.

Michael remembered it clearly—how composed he had tried to seem, almost too laidback, ridiculous considering the weight of his fame. But around you, that composure never lasted long. You just had a way of making even the biggest stars’ knees buckle.

He’d managed a slightly shaky, “That’s a pretty name,” when you told him yours. Quincy had shot him a not so impressed look beside him, shaking his head slowly.

These were the memories and impressions he held onto. The sweet ones.

But when they faded out, it's what came after that kept him up at night.

Coming to light when his head hit his silk pillow and his mind raced through the day — flashes of you bleeding through: your beautiful curls, the swell of your curves, the sweet smell of vanilla and lavender that lingered around you, intoxicating him.

A deep shame spread through his chest like wildfire that he could not extinguish even if he tried.

It began as always — he imagined all the ways he'd make you come and writhe from his touch. What he craved most — more than anything — was how you tasted. The thought alone was almost unbearable, the image of you falling apart beneath his mouth burning through him like something he couldn't name. His thoughts traveled further — your fingers laced in his hair, the sounds you'd make, soft and desperate, his name on your lips like a prayer. He truly had no business thinking about any of this in the state he was already in.

Lord.

The mix of shame and lust consumed him whole — and yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. It was almost like you were a strong current come to life, pulling him under with every soft word that came from your mouth, wanting nothing more than to fill that same beautiful mouth of yours with his aching co—

"Michael…? Hello? Are you still with me?"

Your sweet voice pulled him abruptly from his filthy thoughts. He straightened immediately in the leather seat, almost scared you could read what he'd just been thinking straight from his expression, clearing his throat slightly.

"Y-yes?"

You looked at him with curiosity, a slight lift of your brow, before letting it go and moving on.

"So that's okay with you?" you asked, glancing at him expectantly.

He shook his head. "Uhm, I'm sorry… what'd you say? I was a little distracted…" His hands interlaced subtly in his lap, shielding the halfhard member pressing against the inside of his jeans.

"No, that's alright," you said so incredibly sweetly, almost like honey. "Uhm, me and Quincy" — you and Michael glanced at the older man in unison — "were just talking. Maybe I could sit in with you alone today? Since he has his daughter's dance rehearsal…"

Quincy jumped in. "Dad duty calls, Smelly. Thinkin' this smart young woman could learn a thing or two from you."

Michael's heart quickened at the thought of being completely alone with you — fingertips going numb. He asked the Lord for all the strength he could spare to come out the other side without steppin' closer to you than was friendly.

He regained his composure, putting on a sweet, cool smile. "Yeah, 'course. No worries at all."

You let out an excited "Great!" before flashing him that gorgeous smile again. "Promise I'll behave myself — good girl, good student, got my new notebook and everything," you added, so innocently, resting softly against the mixing board table.

Good girl.

Lord, have mercy. Shame filled his body and clouded his mind, contradicting everything his body was already doing — his cock twitching at your self-proclaimed pet name.

He was going to need every last prayer he had.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Stepping into this environment felt like a contrast to everything university had been. More adult somehow. No steady routines, no predictable days — every day with Q looked a little different, and you liked that. You had quickly come to understand that creating music didn’t follow steady lines. It came in waves, up and down, and you’d grown to love the spontaneity of it.

Somehow, though, your thesis wasn’t the only thing occupying your thoughts these days.

One person, in particular, had a habit of appearing at the most inconvenient moments—on the bus, in the shower, right before you fell asleep.

Obviously you had known who he was — the whole world knew his name — and you'd known there was a possibility of running into him, being so close to Q and all. Sure enough, you had, a few times by now. Butterflies had stirred from that very first encounter, only growing stronger with each one that followed. You could try to suppress the fact all you wanted, but you knew there was no use. Every time you saw him, it felt like plunging from the highest drop of an amusement park ride, your stomach swooping somewhere down near your knees.

But you never imagined sitting with him like this, completely alone in the small studio, and suddenly it was a lot harder to think straight. The cute shyness of the curly-haired man made your heart flutter, a soft smile tugging at your lips as warmth crept up your neck.

Jesus Christ, you thought.

Your hand tightened around the cold glass of water you’d insisted on grabbing, following Quincy out for just a moment—just so that you could catch your breath and get a grip on yourself before stepping back into a room occupied by only you and the Michael Jackson.

The soundproof door clicked softly behind you as you slipped back inside, the cool liquid from the glass grounding you slightly.

Michael had moved to the mixing desk, the chunky cable knit sweater he was wearing making him appear softer somehow, perhaps even a bit more approachable. He was, of course, far from intimidating, but there was still something about him that made you nervous. The plaid collar of his shirt peeked out from the neckline, curls grazing the edge slightly as the soft light caught the rest of his dark hair. His head was bent as he adjusted something on the board.

The amber light in the studio had a way of catching his soft features, making him look almost angelic.

You just stood there for a moment before shaking your head slightly, standing there like an idiot—or a fan—just watching him.

Get it together, girl, you mentally told yourself.

You crossed the room quietly, your black Mary Janes thudding softly against the floor as your skirt shifted slightly in the breeze from the closing door.

You set down your notebook and glass of water on the free space of the mixing desk, giving him a soft smile before walking over to grab a chair from the couch area.

You brought it back with you and sat beside him, pulling it close to the desk—close enough to have a view of what he was working on, and perhaps deliberately close enough that when you both settled in, the outside of your knee almost grazed his thigh.

Barely anything. A touch of “nothing.”

Both of you kind of froze for just a beat, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting, your heartbeat picking up slightly faster.

Then you grabbed your notebook and opened it, uncapping your pen as you looked at him with the most professional expression you could manage.

“So uhm,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, the words slipping out a little more nervous than you meant. “Where do we start?”

The corner of his mouth lifted—just barely.

“I’ll play you somethin’,” he said softly. “Tell me what you think and we can talk about the uhm… structure,” he said, almost forgetting his words just by looking at you.

He couldn’t help it—getting distracted by your pretty eyes and the way you were so close to him, the sweet smell of lavender and vanilla clouding his mind.

He took a small exhale and turned back toward the desk, fingers moving over the board with a quiet confidence that made your stomach do something embarrassing. You watched the way he worked the controls—slow, deliberate, almost sensual—before catching yourself in your unprofessional thoughts and looking back down at your notebook.

A few seconds later, a sound echoed through the speakers and filled the room.

It was soft at first—a melody that built slowly, warmly, layering over itself until it filled every corner of the small studio. Your pen stilled against the page without you noticing. You forgot to take notes. You forgot to look professional. You just… listened. Casual. Almost observant.

Wow… you thought. Seeing that side of his talent in such a close, intimate space—watching a rough draft of something not even finished yet—it felt special. Like you were seeing everything from behind the scenes.

As the song faded out, you realized your mouth was slightly open and closed it quickly.

“Well?” he asked, turning to look at you. Those big brown eyes watching you carefully, waiting for your approval.

“That’s…” you shook your head slightly, searching for the right word. “Wow, that’s really something, Michael.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, that pretty smile spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said more firmly. “Like genuinely. The way it builds—the layering…” You flipped open your notebook instinctively. “Can I maybe ask you about the arrangement? I think it would be a good addition to my thesis. The way Q produces versus how you approach the writing side—that difference and tension between you two is kind of something I want to focus on.”

He shifted slightly in his chair to face you more fully, the outside of his knee pressing a little warmer against yours. Not unnoticed by either of you. He let out an intrigued, slightly nervous, shaky, “What d’you mean by tension?”

“Like…” you tapped your pen against your notebook, thinking. “Q is so technical about it, y’know? Everything has a place, a function. He builds songs. But you—the way you write and sing—it feels more instinctual. More emotional. Like you’re chasing a feeling rather than building a structure.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking at you in a way that made it suddenly very difficult to hold his gaze.

“That’s… yeah,” he said finally, softly. “That’s exactly it, actually.” He paused, glancing down for a moment. “I never really thought about it that way before, but…” A small smile tugged at his mouth as he nodded to himself. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You smiled, pleased by his validation. It sent a strange heat through you, and you looked back down at your notes, cheeks flushing hot. You were scribbling something when you felt his gaze still on you and looked up.

That was a mistake.

He was close—closer than you'd realized—and looking at you with those eyes. Wide and dark and soft and completely, devastatingly sincere. The kind of eyes Disney animators probably spent months trying to replicate. Framed by absurdly long lashes, they somehow managed to look both innocent and heartbreakingly beautiful at the same time. The sort of eyes that made you understand exactly why people stopped mid sentence whenever he looked at them for too long.

The warm glow of the studio lights traced the edges of his curls, and along with his sweater he looked so impossibly cozy and sweet. Warm and real, so inviting. Maybe even a bit overwhelming...

Your train of thought dissolved completely.

“Uhmm,” you said, blinking. And then it slipped out. Completely unprompted, like your mouth had decided to act without your permission.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like Bambi?”

Silence.

His eyes went wide. A beat passed—one, two—and then the most beautiful flush crawled up his neck and into his cheeks, his hand flying up to cover the lower half of his face, a muffled sound escaping him somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

“I—what?” he managed, voice slightly tight, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Uh, your eyes,” you said quickly, feeling heat rush to your own face. “I just meant—it’s a compliment, I promise. They’re just very…” You gestured vaguely. “Cute. Uhm. Beautiful? Y’know…”

Michael slowly lowered his hand, a soft exhale leaving him. He shook his head once, still smiling behind it.

“Nobody’s ever called me that before,” he said quietly, almost like he was testing the words. Then, softer—“Bambi.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, laughing too now despite yourself, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I said that.”

He let out a small breath of a laugh, eyes still on you.

“Don’t be,” he said gently. “It’s alright.” A pause. “It’s… kinda sweet.”

You bit your lip, still smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, the flush still sitting warm in his cheeks. “No one’s ever said anything like that to me before. I like it”

What you couldn’t see was the way his jaw had tightened slightly beneath that smile, the way he’d had to shift subtly in his seat. Something about the softness in your voice when you’d said it—the intimacy of a nickname spoken so casually, like you already knew him—had done something to him he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

The conversation that followed was quieter. Softer. The professional distance between you had dissolved somewhere around Bambi, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to rebuild it. You kept talking—about the thesis, about his process, about the way a song could tell you what it needed rather than the other way around—but the words started to blur at the edges, slipping just slightly into more personal territory, like neither of you quite noticed when it stopped being only about music.

What mattered more was the space between the two of you.

The way he kept leaning in slightly without seeming to notice.

The way your knee, once just brushing his, now rested fully against his thigh—warm, unspoken, uncorrected.

The way he’d look at you mid sentence and lose his thought completely, like he’d forgotten what he was saying but didn’t really care to find it again.

At some point, you’d turned toward each other fully, your notebook long forgotten on the table beside you.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” he said, his voice lower than before.

“Yeah,” you said softly.

“Why music production?” His eyes moved over your face with that quiet, careful attention that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t entirely used to. “Like—really. Why?”

You considered him for a moment. “Because it’s the part nobody talks about,” you said honestly. “Everyone talks about the song, the performance, the artist. But the production is where the feeling actually lives and is created. Comes to life y’know. The decisions nobody hears consciously but everybody feels.” You paused. “I wanted to understand that.”

He looked at you for a long moment without speaking.

"You know..." he said quietly, almost to himself. "You're really smart."

Heat immediately rushed to your face.

"What?"

He shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"I'm serious. The way you think about stuff." A shy smile tugged at his mouth. His gaze dropped briefly to the table before returning to you.

"And you're real pretty."

Silence.

His eyes widened slightly.

"I mean—not that that's related," he added quickly. "I just..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Y'got both."

The space between you had narrowed without either of you deciding it. You could see the faint pattern of the plaid collar beneath his sweater, could smell the soft scent of soap and cologne on him, clean and faintly sweet in a way that made your stomach flutter. His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second before coming back up.

Your heart was doing something completely unreasonable. But you couldn't tell if it was because of what he'd just said, or simply the fact that you were sitting here with him like this. It all seemed to blur together into one dizzying haze.

And then his hand moved—slowly, deliberately, no accident about it—reaching up to brush a curl from your face, fingers grazing your cheek in the process, warm and careful. He let his hand rest there for just a moment, thumb barely touching the curve of your cheekbone.

His eyes met yours. An asking look in his gaze.

“Can I…” he started, barely a whisper. “I mean—if that’s alright with you…”

You answered by closing the distance.

The kiss started soft—tentative, barely there, your heart hammering against your ribs at your own boldness. But he leaned into it almost immediately, his hand sliding from your cheek into your hair, deepening it in a way that made your thoughts go quiet.

You pulled back slightly, breathless, eyes opening to find him already looking at you. Close. Really close. His lips still parted, glossed over, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy.

“Michael…” you said softly. Not a stop. Just an acknowledgment of everything unfolding between you.

He searched your face for a long moment, that quiet, careful attention back again. His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone with such gentleness it made your chest ache. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, slightly uneven now, and the way the studio had grown heavier around you both.

Everything felt almost amplified. The low hum of the studio monitors faded into the background, leaving only the quiet intimacy that had settled between you. Your thighs had squeezed together instinctively, chasing some small relief from the warm ache that had been building low in your belly. Unholy thoughts kept slipping through, refusing to stay professional or orderly. Every time you tried to focus on anything safe, the sight of him melted it all away.

Michael noticed. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they dropped to the subtle press of your legs. The air between you shifted completely, charged and aware.

You looked at each other like you were drinking each other in, until his voice broke the silence, low and rough as velvet.

“C’mere, angel.”

His hands found your waist, warm and steady through the fabric of your skirt, guiding you—gently, deliberately—until you were settled in his lap, half-straddling him in the desk chair. It creaked softly beneath your combined weight. His large palms stayed right there on your hips, grounding you, as though he'd waited a lifetime to hold you like this.

His hand smoothed up your back, drawing you closer, and you felt the shift in him—that shy, flustered man who always seemed to hide behind his aviators giving way to something bolder and more certain beneath the surface. It made your stomach drop in the best possible way.

His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, then lower to the sensitive skin of your neck—slow and reverent, like he had all the time in the world and meant to savor every second of it. The hesitant half-straddle you’d been maintaining melted away under his touch, your body settling fully against him without conscious thought. And when you finally sank down completely, the hard line of him pressed right where you needed it through his jeans, with only the thin white cotton of your panties between you. A soft moan slipped from your lips.

Michael pulled back just enough to watch your face, his sweet Bambi eyes darker now, breathing uneven. The chunky cableknit sweater felt warm and soft beneath your hands where you’d grabbed onto him without even realizing.

He searched for words, lips parting once, twice, before they finally came—husky and full of quiet wonder.

“It’s all for you, angel,” he murmured, voice trembling just a little. “This is what happens… all the time at night when I’m thinkin’ about you. Your pretty little self on me like this… I’ve been thinkin’ about it nonstop.” He swallowed, eyes soft and awed. “You’re breathtaking.”

His words melted you instantly. You hadn’t expected this usually sweet, shy man to have that kind of mouth on him. Fresh heat pooled between your thighs. You didn’t know how to answer — so you didn’t. You just rocked against him, seeking relief, a needy little moan slipping from your lips.

His fingers found the curls at the nape of your neck. He gave a gentle tug, testing. The spark of pleasure that shot through you made you grind down harder. He groaned softly and rolled his hips up to meet you, desperate to hear that beautiful sound again.

“Mikey…” You said his name like something sacred.

He tugged a little harder this time. The noise that left you was somewhere between a whimper and a sob — raw, surprised, and dripping with want. Michael froze instantly, eyes widening, his hand loosening in your hair as panic flickered across his face. He was already starting to pull back, apologies forming on his lips.

A sad little whimper escaped you at the sudden loss, your lips pushing into a pout. You leaned in, mouth brushing his ear, voice breathy and reassuring.

“Didn’t expect you to be rough like that, Mikey… I like it,” you confessed softly, almost shy. “Makes me feel a little dirty… but in a good way.”

A visible shiver ran through him at your words. You felt it where your bodies pressed together — his cock twitching hard against you through the denim, another rush of warmth flooding your core at the proof of how deeply your words had affected him.

Michael let out a shaky breath, forehead resting gently against yours for a moment, like he needed the closeness to steady himself. “You… you really like that?” he whispered, voice low and a little rough around the edges, that soft Gary lilt wrapping around the words. His fingers flexed gently in your curls again, not tugging yet — just holding, testing the waters with such care it made your heart twist.

You nodded, biting your lip, then pulled back just enough to lock eyes with him. The studio felt smaller now, the soft lights casting long, warm shadows across his face and highlighting the flush creeping up his neck into those beautiful brown eyes. Everything between you felt suspended — heavy with want, fragile with how new and terrifying and right it all felt.

“Yeah, Mikey,” you breathed, rocking slowly against him again, more deliberate this time. “I do. Want more… please.”

The tension coiled tighter. His hands slid down to the curve of your ass, gripping with a little more purpose, guiding your movements in a slow, rolling rhythm against him. Not rushing. Just letting the friction build, letting the heat between you grow until it was almost unbearable. The thin cotton of your panties was already damp, clinging to you, and every grind pressed the hard line of him right against your clit in a way that sent sparks shooting up your spine.

Lord… help me, he thought, the familiar wave of shame flickering at the edges of his mind even as desire burned hotter. You were so soft, so warm, so trusting in his lap like this — your flowy skirt riding up your thighs, your black Mary Janes still dangling from your feet, the sweet scent of vanilla and lavender wrapping around him like a spell.

He shouldn’t want this so badly. He shouldn’t be thinking about sliding your skirt up higher, about tasting you until you trembled and cried out his name like a prayer. You were Quincy’s student… younger, with years between you… but the way you looked at him, the way you wanted him — it was undoing every moral he had left.

“You feel so good, angel,” he murmured against your lips, the words coming out between wet, heated kisses. “So warm… so perfect. Been drivin’ me crazy for weeks, just thinkin’ about you like this.”

His hips rolled up to meet yours with growing confidence, the chair creaking softly under the steady rhythm you were building together. One hand stayed tangled in your curls, the other slipping just under the hem of your skirt to rest on the curve of your ass, his warm palm against your smooth skin where the thin fabric of your panties clung to you. His thumb stroked slow, gentle circles that made you shiver.

Your hands roamed over his chest, the soft knit of his sweater heightening the heat already burning through you. Desperate to see more of him, you tugged at the hem. “Please, Mikey… wanna see you,” you whispered, voice full of longing. “You’re so gorgeous.”

A shy smile broke across his face as he looked at you, his gaze heavy with tension and want. He pulled the sweater off in one smooth motion, revealing his slim, lean torso. The amber studio lights washed over him, catching warmly against his skin and highlighting the graceful lines of his frame.

You couldn’t hold back the whimper that left your lips. You kissed him desperately, hands exploring his bare chest, sliding slowly downward until one settled just below his navel, fingers tracing the trail of dark curls that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

Michael stiffened slightly, your sudden desperate touch sending a rush of excitement and nervousness through him.

You gave him that look — soft, desperate, and completely unguarded. A slow, sultry smile curved your lips as you finally let your hand settle over the front of his jeans. You palmed him gently at first, then rubbed up and down with more purpose.

Michael let out a desperate whimper against your mouth, the sound breaking into a shaky moan. The kiss deepened instinctively, slow and hungry, all that nervous restraint beginning to unravel beneath your touch.

It was your turn to confess between kisses, the words tumbling out in a breathless whisper against his lips.

“I’ve thought about you filling me up every night while I touch myself, Mikey…” you breathed, voice trembling with need. “Even imagined you bending me over right here in the studio…”

Michael’s eyes widened, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. His cock twitched sharply against you as he instinctively ground up into your hand, a broken sound escaping him.

“Lord… angel,” he whispered, voice rough and stunned.

You smiled against his lips and let your fingers drift to the zipper of his jeans, but he caught your hand gently before you could pull it down. Your eyes widened in surprise, a flash of worry crossing your face as though you'd done something wrong.

Michael noticed immediately, his expression softening with tenderness.

“We got plenty of time for that later, pretty girl” he murmured, voice low and shaky with need. “Gotta taste you first, angel… please. Been thinkin’ about it for so long.” He swallowed hard, eyes dark and pleading. “Can I… can I put my mouth on you?”

You answered by leaning in and kissing him deeply, desperately, his pleading words intoxicating you. He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his gaze full of pure adoration.

Then, with careful reverence, he lifted you off his lap and settled you on the edge of the mixing desk, handling you like something precious he was terrified of breaking.

He sank to his knees on the studio floor, the soft thud against the carpet barely audible. Gathering the fabric of your skirt and the waistband of your panties in his hands, he gave you a gentle look that prompted you to lift your hips. Once you did, he carefully eased both garments down and away.

His eyes darkened with worship as he took you in, bare and glistening before him. He looked up at you, voice full of awe.

“Lord… look at you,” he breathed. “So wet… so beautiful.”

The cool air kissed your exposed skin, sending a shiver racing up your legs and raising goosebumps across your thighs. Michael leaned in slowly, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, working his way closer. His warm breath fanned over you, curls tickling your skin and tightening the coil of excitement low in your belly.

His mouth finally found you. He pressed a reverent kiss there first, then looked up once more.

“Gonna make you feel so good, angel,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Mm... s'a promise.”

Before you could respond, a broken whimper fell from both of you as his tongue dragged a slow, broad stripe through your folds, savoring you with raw hunger. It was like he’d been starving for this.

“Taste so good… so sweet, angel. Just like I imagined,” he murmured against you, voice muffled and trembling. One of his hands stayed on your thigh, gently holding you open, while the other palmed himself through his jeans, stroking slowly in time with his mouth as he licked and sucked at your clit like he couldn’t get enough.

You tangled your fingers in his dark curls and tugged. Hard.

Michael moaned loudly into you, the deep vibration shooting straight through your core. You could tell how much he loved it by the way his hips jerked forward into his own hand, by the desperate, needy sounds he made as he devoured you. His tongue grew more confident — circling, flicking, plunging — adoring yet starving, like he wanted to memorize every taste, every sound you made.

“Mikey…” you gasped, pulling his hair again. Another whimper vibrated against you. His eyes fluttered shut in pure bliss as he pressed even closer, completely lost in you.

The small studio was filled with the wet sounds of his mouth, your soft moans, and his desperate noises blending together. Michael was utterly undone — kneeling there, worshipping you like a deity with his tongue while desperately touching himself, caught between shame and burning desire.

You felt drunk off it. The whole predicament. Completely, helplessly drunk.

Every desperate, loving stroke of his tongue sent warm, liquid pleasure melting through your body. He licked and sucked and kissed you with such hunger, savoring every part of you like he couldn’t get enough. Your head spun. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders as you closed your eyes and saw stars blooming behind them, the edge drawing closer with every heartbeat.

Your fingers stayed tangled tight in his dark curls, holding on as you began grinding against his mouth, chasing more. “Mikey… fuck,” you whimpered, the name and curse slipping out broken and sweet.

He moaned against you in response, the deep vibration pulling another helpless sound from your throat. One of his hands left its previous task to stroke soothingly along your thigh before both palms settled firmly on you, gently holding you in place as you started to lose yourself. The contrast—the steady, grounding pressure of his touch and the way he seemed to be unraveling at the same time—made everything feel like too much and not nearly enough all at once.

The pleasure built slowly, warmly, like golden honey pooling low in your belly. Your breathing grew faster, shallower. The rest of the world had ceased to exist — nothing but the wet heat of his mouth, the little desperate sounds he kept making, and the soft brush of his curls against your sensitive skin with every movement.

You were getting close. So close.

Your hips rocked harder against his tongue and face, chasing that rising edge. Michael groaned deeply, pressing even closer, his tongue working faster, more focused. He wanted nothing more than to feel you come apart on him like this.

He pulled back for just a second, lips and chin glistening, voice rough and trembling with awe.

“That’s it, angel… let me feel you,” he whispered, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right against your clit. “Wanna taste you when you come for me. Please… please let me.”

Then his mouth was on you again — sucking gently, tongue circling with devastating tenderness — and that was all it took.

The orgasm crashed over you in rolling waves, warm and overwhelming, pulling a broken cry from your lips. Your back arched sharply off the mixing desk, thighs tightening around his head as pleasure flooded every inch of you. Michael didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, soft and devoted, drinking in every tremble, every whimper, every pulse of your release like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever known.

When the peak finally began to ebb, you had to gently pull him away — otherwise he seemed content to stay there forever. You were left trembling, breathless, your body glowing with aftershocks. You tugged at him desperately until he rose on shaky knees. The moment he was close enough, you kissed him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue as your combined wetness mixed between you.

Michael pulled back just enough to catch his breath, a big, dazed grin spreading across his face.

“God… you’re so beautiful when you come,” he murmured, eyes glistening as he looked at you. He pressed another soft kiss to your lips, then your cheek. “You did so perfect, angel. Did so good for me.”

You were still trembling, pulse racing, but the ache inside you only grew sharper instead of fading. You kissed him again, deeper, more desperate, still tasting yourself on his tongue. When you pulled back, your voice came out breathy and pleading.

“Mikey… I need to feel you,” you whispered against his lips, fingers curling into his bare chest. “Need you inside me… please. Right here.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You slipped off the edge of the mixing desk on shaky legs, turned around, and bent over it, palms pressed flat on the controls, steadying yourself as the cool surface grounded you. The position felt bold and vulnerable all at once, but the want was louder than any of your shyness.

Michael froze behind you. You could hear the way his breath caught, a soft, stunned sound escaping him.

“Angel…” His voice was hoarse, laced with surprise and that familiar shy reverence. You glanced back over your shoulder and saw his wide Bambi eyes, cheeks flushed darker than before. “You sure? You just— I don’t wanna rush you. Wanna be so gentle with you… don’t wanna hurt you.”

The sweetness in his voice, the way he was still holding back even now, made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. You pushed back against him slightly, looking at him with heavy, needy eyes.

“I’m sure, Mikey,” you breathed, voice soft but certain. “I want you. Please… don’t make me wait. I need you inside me right now.”

He let out a shaky exhale, almost a whimper. His hands finally settled on your hips, warm and careful, thumbs stroking gentle circles over your skin like he was still trying to ground himself.

You pushed back against him again, soft and encouraging, feeling the hard length of him still straining through the rough denim, pressing so insistently against your bare ass. The wait was driving you crazy.

“Mikey, come on… please,” you whispered, voice needy and sweet. “I want you… I can take it. Just want to feel you inside me.”

That seemed to chip away at the last of his restraint.

“Like when y’ beg” he murmured under his breath, so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the air between you. Whatever he said, you didn't catch it.

With trembling fingers, he finally freed himself from his jeans. A moment later you felt the blunt, warm head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance — hesitating, teasing, like he was still giving you one last chance to change your mind. Then, slowly… so achingly slowly… he started pushing in.

The stretch sent a shiver racing through you. A low, broken moan slipped from your lips as he filled you inch by inch, careful and loving, even as his own breathing turned ragged. He was so thick, so hot, pressing perfectly against every sensitive spot inside you.

“Good lord… angel,” he breathed, voice wrecked with awe. One of his hands slid up your back in a soothing stroke, while the other gripped your hip a little tighter, grounding. “You feel… so good. So warm and tight around me. Lord… I don’t deserve this.”

He bottomed out with a soft groan and filled you completely, hips flush against your ass as he stayed there for a moment. Praying to the Lord for all the strength not to finish right there and then, buried so deep inside you. His forehead rested gently between your shoulder blades before he grabbed your cheek, turning you toward him and kissing you from the side. His curls brushed against you, chest warm and solid against your back.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice trembling with effort. “Tell me if it’s too much… please.”

You shook your head. “It’s perfect, Mikey… please move.”

He let out another shaky sound — half moan, half prayer — and finally started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every perfect spot inside you. The studio filled with the quiet sounds of skin meeting skin, your soft gasps, and his whispered praises against your neck.

“That’s it… just like that, angel,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Feels like heaven… you’re heaven.”

He picked up the pace, encouraged by your moans.

“Lord… you feel so good around me,” he whispered, voice thick and trembling. “So warm… so tight and perfect. Squeezin’ me so nicely, angel… almost like you were made just for me.”

The faster pace, still very much gentle, sent warm sparks radiating through your core, but it still wasn’t quite enough. “Mikey… ngh… mmm,” you managed to utter through moans, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “Harder… please. Like when you pulled my hair. I can take it. I want it.”

The air crackled. He stilled completely for a heartbeat, breath ragged and shaky against your skin as the internal battle played across his face — the gentle, good man warring with the hidden fire you’d awakened. Then his hand slid slowly up your back and into your voluminous curls, wrapping them carefully around his fist. He gave a firm, testing tug that arched your back beautifully for him, pulling a needy whimper from your throat.

“Like this, angel?” His voice had gone lower, huskier, the soft accent thicker with barely held restraint. He rolled his hips harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder and more rhythmic in the quiet studio. One hand stayed tangled in your curls while the other gripped your waist, fingers digging in just enough to ground you as he began to fuck you with more purpose — still sweet and reverent at his core, but letting that hunger burn brighter with every thrust.

You moaned louder, the pleasure sharpening into something hotter. “Yes… yes, Mikey—”

He groaned, raw and beautiful, the sound vibrating through you. His palm came down in a warm, light slap against your ass, almost like he couldn’t help himself. When you whimpered in delight he did it again, a bit harder this time, the sting blooming into heat.

“You like that…?” he murmured against your ear, voice shaky and low, lips brushing your skin as he sank deep again and again. “You look so pretty takin’ me like this. So warm and wet… squeezin’ around me so nicely. My beautiful girl…”

You could barely let out your whimpers, hands grabbing hard against the buttons of the mixing board. You needed him closer. It was like Michael had read your mind as he pulled you up, your back almost flush against his chest. One hand stayed on your waist while his other arm wrapped around your body, holding you steady as he kept moving. “Fuck… fuck— nghhh, mm, yes Michael, yes!”

He pulled you back so your head rested against his shoulder, kissing you messily from the side. The new angle made everything feel even deeper, more overwhelming.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter with every deliberate stroke. His voice came out shaky and low against your ear: “You’re takin’ me so well… such a good girl for me.”

The words, combined with the steady roll of his hips, made your toes curl in your black Mary Janes. Loud whimpers spilled from your lips, his name tangled with broken curses. Every movement felt overwhelming, intimate, and charged.

The begging poured out of you, desperate and breathless between broken moans.

“Please, Mikey… please come inside me,” you whimpered, pushing back to meet every thrust. “I want to feel you fill me up.”

He faltered, hips stuttering. “Angel… we shouldn’t— I shouldn’t—” His voice cracked, the gentleman in him fighting hard even as his body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You looked back at him, eyes glassy. “Please don’t pull out. I need it, Mikey.”

“Baby…” He sounded completely wrecked, breathing ragged and hot against your neck.

He could not help himself as your desperate words tumbled out. How could he possibly deny his sweet girl when she begged like that? A broken, yearning whimper tore from his throat. Both of his hands found your back before he gently turned you around. Now facing him, he lifted you onto the edge of the desk, eyes locking with yours with such aching intensity.

“Okay… okay, angel,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I’ll give it to you… but I need to see your face when you come for me first.”

You nodded desperately. Jesus Christ, you thought… who were you? Begging for him like a slut. But the way he looked at you — like you were the only thing in his world — who could fault you?

He wrapped a hand around his aching cock, stroking himself once before pressing back inside you. The stretch pulled a soft cry from your lips as he sank deep in one urgent thrust. He held your face tenderly between his palms, forehead pressed to yours, eyes never leaving you as he began to fuck you with deep, desperate strokes. One of his hands soon slipped downward, fingers circling your clit with the same slow, reverent hunger his tongue had shown moments before.

His other hand framed your face, thumb brushing your flushed cheeks as he looked deep into your eyes — dark, yearning, full of quiet wonder. “So beautiful… ” he murmured. “You’re so pretty like this… so warm and tight around me.”

His sweet words were too much. You couldn’t form any words as he moved inside you, moaning loudly while his fingers rubbed your clit in slow, perfect circles. That same pleasure built again, thick and overwhelming. Michael noticed immediately, eyes darkening with awe.

“Gonna come for me, angel?” he breathed, voice rough with need. “Right here… in the studio?”

You only looked into his brown eyes as your brows furrowed. You couldn’t take it anymore. It crashed hard. Your orgasm hit with shuddering intensity, walls squeezing tight around him as you moaned his name over and over again, thighs clamping around his waist. Michael watched every second of it, eyes wide and dark with awe, drinking in the sight of you falling apart for him.

He lost himself completely then, pace growing faster, more desperate as he thrust into you. “Give it to me, please Mikey,” you whimpered. That seemed to do it. A shaky groan tore from his throat as warm spurts filled you. He shuddered through his release, forehead dropping to your shoulder as heavy breaths filled the space between you.

“Lord…. I’m going to hell for this,” he whispered, voice shaky with shame and lingering desire. But that same wonder still shone in his eyes.

As he pulled out, you slowly gathered some of the warm mess on your fingers and offered it to him. His breath hitched, but he took it, tasting himself from your hand. Then you pulled him into a messy, hungry kiss—your combined flavors mingling slick and intimate between your tongues.

Michael froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide with shock as a fresh wave of shame flooded through him. Jesus, what are we doing…? This is so wrong… Guilt twisted sharp in his chest, but he couldn’t stop himself—he loved every filthy second of it, the taste of you mixed with him driving him half-crazy even as embarrassment burned across his face.

Before pulling apart, a soft, conflicted grin tugged at his lips. He hesitated, fingers trembling slightly, then scooped up some more himself. Looking at you with intense, yearning eyes, he murmured, “Open wide for me, angel… please,” his voice still reverent but edged with that lingering shame.

You parted your lips obediently, taking his fingers deep, tasting him with a pleased, satisfied hum. “Mmm… taste so good, Mikey,” you whispered around them, eyes sparkling. “Can’t wait to feel it inside me again.”

His eyes widened, a deep flush rushing up his neck. “Oh my God…” he breathed, forehead pressing heavy against yours. A shy, overwhelmed giggle escaped you both. Warm, breathless, and full of affection, though still colored with disbelief.

When the intensity finally faded, the shyness came flooding back. He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you close against his chest right there on the edge of the desk. His hands stroked soothingly down your back, gentle and careful, murmuring soft sweet praises. 

“You okay, angel? Did I… was that alright?” He kissed your temple, your cheek, patting your hair, holding your mostly naked form against him like the most precious thing in his world. 

A halo of light seemed to surround the two of you, the light inside the room feeling warmer. The air thick with vanilla, lavender, his cologne, and the scent of intimacy.

You only smiled at him. “So good, Michael… perfect.”

He kissed you gently, then pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes soft, shy, and a little nervous. His thumb brushed tenderly over your bottom lip as he spoke, voice low and full of quiet wonder.

“Thank you… for trusting me like that,” he whispered, almost reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you tonight.” A small, bashful smile touched his lips.

“Let me take you out sometime, angel. A real proper date — flowers, dinner, dancing if you want… the whole thing. I wanna treat you like the lady you are, spoil you the way you deserve. No hiding in studios or sneakin’ around. Just me and you… if you’ll let me.”

Your chest tightened with affection. Somehow, a promise of flowers and dancing felt just as intimate as everything else that had passed between you.

You smiled at him, your hand lifting to cup his warm cheek. “Of course.”

The relief that washed over his face was immediate, softening his features into something so boyish and genuine it made your heart skip. A shy grin tugged at his lips as he leaned into your touch.

“Yeah?” he asked, just to hear it again.

You laughed quietly. “Yeah, Michael. I’d love to.”