#sub michael jackson

— SUMMARY: Michael’s sleeping over at your house for the first time without your family there. You decide to play a game and give him a taste of your favorite lipgloss.

— WARNINGS: sub!mike, fluff, dual loss of virginity, face-fucking, oral, fingering, protected sex, dry humping, premature ejaculation, scent kink (?), reader is a tease, reader is experienced, use of daddy to tease, manipulation (sorta), michael is lowkey a himbo LMAO, dirty talk, pleasure dom reader. jermaine feature.

— WC: 7.7k (let’s all act surprised).

— A/N: Loosely based on this request. Let’s pretend the strawberry shirt he has on in the photo is a pj shirt. Please leave feedback in the comments and don’t forget to like and reblog!

𑣲. description: you tutor your student, michael through his math homework, but the session gets heated with kisses and touching. after a distracting make-out session, you refocus and he proudly solves the final problem with your guidance.

content: 18+, smut, making out, dry-ish humping, cunnilingus, sub!michael, inexperienced!michael, dom!reader, the term ‘mama’ is consistently used, YALL I HAD A BALL WRITING THIS ONE

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ the television hummed softly in the corner of the room, its light flickering across the cream-colored walls of hayvenhurst. some old comedy played in the background, forgotten almost as quickly as it spoke, reduced to nothing more than quiet laughter and moving shadows.

spread across michael’s bed were loose sheets of notebook paper, sharpened pencils, a calculator, and an algebra textbook that looked as though it had been opened only under protest.

michael sat cross-legged with his chin resting in his hand, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. across from him, you tapped the eraser of your pencil against the page before sliding it toward him.

“try it again.”

he sighed dramatically.

“i did.”

“no,” you smiled patiently, “you guessed.”he looked up at you with the most offended expression he could manage. “there’s a difference?”

“a very big one.” you said with a small smile. a laugh escaped him as he leaned back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over his face.

you had become somewhat of a quiet name around los angeles. despite only being nineteen, word traveled quickly whenever parents spoke to one another. if their child was failing mathematics, chemistry, english, or nearly anything else, someone always seemed to know your number.

you had spent years tutoring students from every corner of the city—children who dreaded homework, high school seniors desperate to pass exams, even college freshmen who admitted they needed help understanding lectures they’d been too embarrassed to ask about.

your age often surprised people, but it never took long before your patience, intelligence, and calm way of explaining things spoke louder than any résumé ever could. somehow, that reputation had eventually reached the jackson family. and now, here you were. tutoring michael jackson.

you pointed back to the equation. “what’s the first thing we do?”

“…cry?” he sighed. you couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped. “michael.”

“i’m serious.” he whined, clearly frustrated with the work in front of him. “you’re being dramatic.” you responded calmly.

“a little.” he admitted as he tapped his pencil on the paper. “a lot.” you groan. he smiled sheepishly before finally lowering his pencil to the paper.

“…parentheses first.” your voice spread through the room as your eyes stayed glued to the paper, watching him write. “good.”

“then exponents.” he spoke softly, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion, although he was correct. “see?” you said, folding your arms. “you know more than you think.”

he glanced sideways at you with a grin. “only because you’ve made me do this three times.”

“and you’ll probably do it a fourth.” you giggle while running your fingers through your curls. he groaned loudly, letting his head fall backward onto the pillows as another burst of canned laughter echoed from the television.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. the room settled into a comfortable silence filled only with scribbling pencil lead, distant movie dialogue, and the occasional quiet chuckle whenever one of michael’s exaggerated complaints broke the concentration.

for someone who performed before thousands without fear, being corrected over algebra by a nineteen-year-old tutor somehow remained one of the most humbling parts of his week.

michael groans in frustration, bangs his head gently against the bed as he stares at the new problem in front of him. you're sitting cross legged next to him, both of you on his bed surrounded by textbooks and notepaper. "i don't get any of this…" he admits quietly, glancing over at you with those sad puppy eyes he gets when he's struggling.

you smile softly, noticing his frustration. "hey, it's okay," you say gently, closing the textbook and setting it aside. "let's take a break for a bit." michael nods gratefully, running a hand through his hair again as he leans back against the headboard beside you on his bed.

as you both watch the movie, michael can't help but be aware of how close you're sitting. every time you lean over to point something out on the screen, he gets a whiff of your perfume. he's trying to focus on the action scene, but his mind keeps wandering. "you know,"

"you're really good at explaining stuff," michael says suddenly, breaking the silence. he clears his throat, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "i mean, i guess that's why my parents pay you to tutor me, right?" he adds quickly, trying to play it cool.

you smile at his words, feeling a warmth spread through you at the compliment. "well, i do my best," you reply softly, glancing over at him. "i like helping people understand things better. it's rewarding when it finally clicks for them." you pause, noticing how nervous he seems.

the scene on the screen intensifies as the two characters share a passionate kiss under the moonlight. michael shifts uncomfortably beside you, suddenly very aware of how close your faces are. he can feel your warmth, smell your scent even more clearly now. his heart starts pounding in his chest abruptly…

"you're staring," you murmur softly without looking away from the screen. michael snaps his gaze back to the movie, face heating up. "no i'm not," he lies poorly. on screen the characters part ways, both looking flustered. michael swallows hard, his leg bouncing nervously. "the movie's kinda..." he trails off, unable to finish.

"boring?" you echo, turning your head to look at him finally. "really? this is like, the most anticipated movie of the year." you point at the screen where the characters are making out heavily. "and you're telling me you don't like romance?" you raise an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on your lips.

michael shifts again, avoiding your gaze as the characters on screen get even more heated. "no, i just— never really..." he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "never experienced it, i guess. romance, i mean." his voice gets quieter, awkward. on screen the couple is practically melting into each other now. he clears his throat.

you watch the scene play out, feeling a pang of understanding for michael's discomfort. as the couple finally breaks apart on screen, you turn back to him, your expression softening. "wait," you say suddenly, realization dawning on your face. "so... you haven't had your first kiss yet?"

michael nods slowly, his face turning red. "no, not yet," he admits quietly, avoiding your eyes. he shifts uncomfortably, pulling his legs up beside him. "it just... never happened. nothing serious. i've never had a girlfriend or a... a kiss or anything." he gestures vaguely, still staring at the movie on screen like it's a shield.

"it's a nice feeling though," you say softly, thinking back to your first kiss. you don't notice how michael tenses beside you. on screen the couple is kissing again, slower this time. michael swallows hard, his heart racing. "could you—" he starts, then stops, clearing his throat. "could you teach me how?"

"god michael," you breathe out, trying to sound firm but your voice comes out softer than intended. you run a hand through your hair. "this is supposed to be professional. i'm your tutor." you glance at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. on screen the couple is in a clinch now, but your attention is entirely on him. something in your stomach flips.

michael nods eagerly, grasping onto your professional excuse. "exactly," he says quickly. "i'd be learning something new. it's... it's educational, right?" he asks with a small, hopeful smile. on screen the girl presses herself against the guy, kissing him deeply.

you let out a laugh, shaking your head at his ridiculous excuse. "educational," you repeat, rolling your eyes. but something about the way he's looking at you, so earnest and hopeful, makes your resolve crumble. god, he's cute when he's nervous. "fine," you mutter, shifting so you're both sitting against the headboard, knees practically touching.

you take a deep breath, trying to sound professional despite the intense situation. "okay, so the first step is... eye contact," you say softly, looking into his deep brown eyes. michael swallows hard, completely captivated by your face inches from his. "then you... tilt your head slightly,"

you demonstrate by tilting your head to the side, breaking eye contact to look down at your hands folded in your lap. "and then... then you just press your lips together gently," you explain, biting your bottom lip unconsciously. michael's eyes dart to your mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. "it's simple, really."

michael nods slowly, his eyes never leaving your lips as you explain. "also," you continue, looking away again to gather your thoughts, "you can use your hands to hold their face gently if you want. it makes it more... intimate." michael swallows hard, imagining his hands on your cheeks.

"or you can—" you start to say, but then suddenly your words are cut off by warm lips pressing gently against yours. michael's hand cups your jaw, tilting your head exactly like you demonstrated. the kiss is soft and a little clumsy, but incredibly sweet.

you both pull away slowly, your eyes fluttering open. michael looks nervous immediately, his hand dropping from your cheek. "god maybe i shouldn't have—" he starts, but you cut him off by touching his arm gently. "no," you say softly,

you take his hand and guide it around your waist, pulling him closer. "It's good to touch all over, not just the face," you continue to explain softly, your lips brushing against his as you speak. michael's arm wraps around your waist automatically, pulling you even closer. "like here…?”

michael bites his lip, looking at your mouth again. "so... hands can go other places too?" he asks quietly, his hand pressing gently into your side. you nod, biting your lip back at him. the tension between you is palpable now, electric.

"mmhm," you whisper, your hand sliding up into his soft afro. before he can even react, you're pressing your lips back to his, deeper this time. michael lets out a surprised muffled sound against your mouth, his hand on your waist tightening possessively as he kisses you back eagerly.

you pull away slowly, your hand moving from his afro to cup his jaw gently. both of you are breathing heavily, lips swollen and pink. michael looks completely dazed, pupils dilated. "that was..." he starts, but you hush him softly. "there's also..." you pause, your thumb stroking his cheek, "using tongue." michael blinks rapidly, "tongue?"

"so, you can part your lips a little," you demonstrate slowly, "and gently push your tongue into their mouth." michael watches intently as you part your lips slightly. "but go slow," you add softly, "and let them respond before you... explore deeper."

michael nods eagerly, his other hand moving to your face. he pulls your bottom lip down gently with his thumb, opening your mouth for him. before you can say anything, he's leaning in and pressing his lips to yours again, this time pushing his tongue into your mouth slowly just like you showed him.

you let out a soft moan into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck automatically. michael's hands tighten on your waist and face, pulling you onto his lap without breaking the kiss. he deepens the kiss instantly, his tongue exploring your mouth eagerly now that he knows he's doing it right.

you both kiss messily for a few seconds, lips parted and tongues tangling. then michael breaks the kiss to trail soft kisses down your neck, making you let out a soft whimper. he's completely lost in you, his hands roaming gently over your back and hips.

you try to push him away gently, your voice shaking as you say "we... we shouldn't be doing this." but your hands are still tangled in his afro, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. michael ignores your protest, kissing a particularly sensitive spot on your neck that makes you gasp.

you pull away slightly, trying to say something but your words are cut off as michael's hands suddenly grip your hips tightly and pull you flush against him. you can feel his growing arousal through his jeans, grinding right against where you need it most. it catches you completely off guard and makes your mind go blank.

michael starts to talk, his voice low and husky as he grinds you against him again. "see? this feels good, right?" he whispers, his hands squeezing your hips possessively. "your body likes it... i can feel how wet you are through my jeans." he kisses your neck again.

you bite your lip and let out a soft whine, your hips starting to move against him of their own accord. "michael..." you whisper, trying to sound stern but failing miserably. he just smirks against your neck, his hands encouraging your movements. "see?"

michael tilts his head eagerly, desperately searching for your lips. when he finds them, he kisses you deeply, both of you grinding together in a slow, messy rhythm. saliva drips down your chin as your mouths clash together, tongues tangling. his hips move against yours, catching your soaked core with every deliberate grind. "so good," he whimpers into your mouth. “shit, it feels amazing” you moan out softly.

"fuck, you're so wet," michael whimpers, his fingers digging into your hips as he continues to grind you against him. "keep talking to me like that," he begs, his voice trembling as he presses his forehead against yours. "tell me i'm doing good, please."

"you like when i talk to you baby?" you tease breathlessly, your nails digging into his shoulders. "is that why you let me tutor you? just to hear me?" michael shudders at the pet name, your words making his clothed cock twitch hard against your soaked pussy. "yes... fuck yes," he whimpers, grinding harder. "need to hear you..."

"you like when i teach you nasty things like this?" you murmur against his neck, sucking gently on a spot that makes him gasp. "your poor tutor teaching you how to be so filthy..." you tease, grinding your hips against his hard length. michael tilts his head back, exposing his throat to you completely. "fuck yes," he whimpers, his hips bucking up into yours.

you pick up the pace, grinding faster against him as your lips move to his ear. "is this making you feel good baby?" you murmur, rolling your hips in a deep circle that makes him moan. "all these kisses, all this grinding... see what you been missin out on?" michael whimpers, his whole body trembling against yours. "everything," he confesses breathlessly.

"mhm, i know you love it, michael," you hum softly, your voice like velvet against his ear. "so innocent... yet so fucking nasty." your words make his hips jerk sharply, pulling a needy whimper from his chest. "only you can make me like this,"

"yea? only me baby?" you murmur, grinding your hips in a slow circle against his. michael groans, completely unraveling beneath your hands. "yes... fuck yes," he admits, his voice cracking with raw honesty. "i like everything about you. your voice, the way you touch... the way you talk dirty to me..." his cheeks flush deep.

you keep grinding against him, mouths locked in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. saliva coats both your lips as the tv plays something meaningless in the background. several papers slide off the bed, forgotten, as your bodies move together in perfect rhythm. michael moans into your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair. "your voice... when you tell me i’m doing good..."

you grind down on his print in his jeans, your wet heat soaking through the fabric. "yeah? you like when i praise you?" you murmur, your lips brushing against his ear. you start to move your hips in a slow, figure-8 pattern, making him gasp.

"fuck yes mama," michael moans quietly, his head falling back against the pillows. "i like everything you do... especially this." he bucks his hips up to meet yours, clearly visible through his jeans. "you're so good at this, god..."

you keep your eyes locked on his as you caress his flushed face with one hand, studying the way pleasure spreads through his features. his eyes look wild and heavy-lidded, his mouth hanging open. you notice every small detail—the way his lips part at every grind, the soft whimpers that escape despite his attempts to keep quiet. a dark thrill hits you as you watch.

"i need—" michael starts, but a particularly deep grind cuts him off with a broken moan. his whole body tenses beneath you, hips thrusting up desperately. you slow your grinding, watching his face twist with unmet need. "what do you need baby?" you coo, running your thumb across his bottom lip. "tell mama. use your words."

"god, i just need— i need more of you," michael finally manages to get out, his voice strained and pleading. his hands grip your hips tightly, trying to pull you closer even though there's no space left between you. "please, i need... fuck..."

you sit all the way up, hovering over him, your finger trailing along the button of your jeans. "you need me to take these off for you, baby?" you ask sweetly, your voice dripping with promise. michael's eyes go wide, his breath catching at the suggestion. his whole body trembles, his hips tilting up desperately. "fuck yes,"

you stand up slowly, keeping eye contact as you slide your jeans down, kicking them off with a satisfying smile. michael's breath catches, his eyes glued to your body. you nod at him, signaling for him to remove his jeans too. he scrambles to obey, yanking his jeans off so fast you think he might break something. "please come here…mama,"

you sink back over his lap, settling into place as his eyes immediately snap to your delicate lace panties. they contrast sharply with your flushed skin, leaving little to the imagination. his adam’s apple bobs as he stares, his gaze lingering on how the fabric curves around your hips. "fuck yes..." he breathes, his hands hovering at his sides like he's afraid to touch.

you lean back against his chest, feeling his hard length press against your ass through his boxers. "we have to stay like this baby," you murmur softly, "we can't go too far." michael's arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. "i know, mama,"

"good, baby good," you whisper against his neck, kissing him gently. "now keep—" but before you can finish your sentence, michael suddenly flips you over so he's on top instead. his eyes burn with intensity as he hovers over you, his hands holding yours above your head.

"c-can i taste you mama?" michael asks nervously, his voice cracking with need. "i wanna make you feel good." his hips already start moving on their own, dry humping against you through your underwear. "please... let me try?" his eyes are almost begging.

you don't give him an answer, just tilt your head back and murmur, "kiss me." michael doesn't hesitate, leaning down to capture your lips immediately. he's desperate, kissing you sloppily, tongue pushing past your lips demanding entry. his hips keep moving even as he kisses, grinding against your lace panties. "mmmph—"

"okay baby, yes you can..." you whisper softly, running your fingers through his hair. "i just wanted to see how much you've learnt." michael's eyes meet yours briefly before he continues kissing down your neck and collarbone, his hands already moving to hook under your underwear.

michael kisses down your neck eagerly, sucking and biting gently as he hears your permission. "i've learnt a lot mama," he murmurs against your skin, his hands roaming over your body possessively. "i wanna make you feel so good..."

"show me then, baby," you say clearly, giving him explicit permission. "i want to see everything you've learned." michael's eyes light up, his confidence growing instantly. "yes mama," he breathes, kissing down your body slowly like you taught him.

michael kisses his way down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your belly button. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, looking up at you for confirmation before slowly pulling them down. once they're off, he kisses along your hipbones and inner thighs, moving closer and closer to your center. "mama..."

you guide his head gently between your thighs, "open your mouth baby," you instruct softly. "start with soft kisses here," you point to your inner lips. "then use your tongue to part them gently. find my clit and circle it slowly with the tip of your tongue."

michael obeys instantly, his mouth opening as instructed. he starts kissing your inner lips, whimpering at the taste. "mmmph..." he groans, moving lower. his tongue finds your clit and circles it exactly as you taught him. "fuck... mama..." he mumbles against you, your juices hitting his tongue. he whimpers loudly at the taste, completely overwhelmed.

"now suck the clit gently," you instruct, watching his head bob. "and slip one finger inside... just one." michael whimpers, his finger sliding into your wet heat. he moans against your clit, sucking it gently as his finger curls. "fuck... so wet..." he whimpers, tasting you more and more. "is this right mama?"

you let out a breathy moan, your head falling back against the pillow. "yes baby, you do it so perfectly..." you gasp, your thighs trembling around his head. "you're doing so good for me, michael." your fingers thread through his hair, not pushing or pulling—just letting him continue. he whimpers at the praise, tasting more of your slickness.

he melts at your words, his finger moving in and out slower. "you like that mama?" he asks, his tongue circling your sensitive nub faster. he spreads your thighs wider without instruction, getting more comfortable between your legs. "you like when i eat your pussy like this?"

"mmm... baby..." you moan, your back arching slightly. "it feels so good... you’re learning so fast." your legs spread wider on their own, inviting him deeper. "look at you... your face is buried between my legs and you're loving it." your voice is soft, encouraging.

michael whimpers desperately against your pussy, his face completely buried between your thighs. he's overwhelmed by the taste and feel of you, completely desperate to please you. his tongue licks up your slit eagerly, tasting your juices. "mama... i love it..."

"another finger, and go faster baby... make mama cum. that's what you wanna do right?" you moan, your hands gripping his hair tighter. michael whimpers at your words, quickly adding another finger and moving faster, curling them against that spot inside you. "y-yes mama!"

your legs start shaking uncontrollably, bouncing as he picks up speed. your head throws back against the pillow, loud moans escaping you. "fuck... fuck... michael..." your fingers tighten in his hair. he's relentless, tongue flicking faster on your clit while two fingers pump your walls perfectly. your whole body trembles, juices coating his chin. "mmm... mama..."

he keeps going, his tongue relentless and flicking faster than ever. he reaches up, one hand pressing firmly down on your lower stomach, grounding you as the peak hits. your whole body snaps tight, your legs shaking violently as you cum hard. "mmmph... mama!" he groans against you, tasting every drop as you collapse into the pillow, breathless and trembling.

"oh my god... baby..." you pant, chest heaving. michael slowly pulls back, kissing your thighs gently as you come down from the high. "was that... good mama?" he asks softly, his chin wet with your juices. "you came so hard..."

"come here..." you whimper, your voice still shaky. before he can even answer, michael immediately pulls himself up, burying his face in your neck before moving to your mouth. you lock together in a deep, desperate kiss, his lips moving between yours eagerly. your legs start to shake again slightly, but you push through. "mmm..." his tongue explores your mouth hungrily.

you smile at him softly, your fingers gentle on his face. "you did so well baby... mama's so proud of you." your voice is warm and comforting. "you made me cum so hard..." your legs twitch slightly at the memory. "did you like tasting mama?" you question, your other hand roaming through his curls.

michael's eyes flutter closed at your words, leaning into your palm. "mama..." he whispers softly, his voice thick with emotion. "i wanted to make you feel good..." his thumbs brush against your cheeks gently. "you taste so good... i’m glad i could do this for you."

between kisses, you whisper against his lips, "feel me baby... feel how wet i am for you." you guide his hips down, pressing his hard, clothed, length against your soaking core. michael whimpers into the kiss, breaking away briefly to look down where you're guiding him.

"fuck... you drive me crazy..." michael groans between kisses, his hips starting to grind against your soaking core. your juices coat his tip, making a wet sound with every movement. he can't help but hump you, your wetness making him feel everything. "mama... you're so wet..." he whines against your lips.

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. between kisses, you whisper against his lips, "only for you baby... only for you." michael shivers at your words, his grind getting harder. "mmm... mama..." he breathes into your mouth, your wetness making squelching sounds against his tip. "you drip for me..." he groans.

you run your fingers through his hair, moaning into the kiss as michael keeps grinding. his hips rock desperately against your soaked pussy, the thin fabric of his boxers doing nothing. "fuck... you feel so good baby..." he groans, pressing his hard bulge right against your clit each time he grinds down. your walls clench around nothing, craving more.

you pull away from the kiss, your fingers cupping his face gently. "yea, baby... tell me what you've learnt today." michael leans into your touch, his breathing ragged from grinding against you. "i learnt how to eat pussy... how to make mama cum..." he whispers, his hips still twitching. "and how to make you say my name..."

"mm, that's not all michael, what else?" you murmur, running your thumb across his lips. "what about kissing? what did you learn today about that?" michael opens his mouth, but his hips roll instinctively against your wet core, making him whimper. "i... i learnt how to..." he breaks off into a moan, grinding harder. "mmm..."

"uh huh, baby you can tell me, go ahead..." you murmur encouragingly, rubbing your soaked pussy against his boxers. michael’s eyes roll back slightly at the sensation. "i-i learnt how to kiss... really kiss... like deep and wet and messy..."

"mhm, and how did it feel baby?" you ask softly, continuing to grind against his covered length. michael’s breath hitches, his eyes fluttering as he gets closer. "mama... i’m getting close..." he whispers, his hips rolling faster. "it felt amazing... kissing you like that... i-i wanna kiss you everywhere..." he groans. "please..."

"and you're only going to kiss me right baby? nobody else?" you ask softly, your voice laced with possessiveness. michael moans helplessly, his hips jerking as he gets closer. "yes yes mama only you i promise only you mama..."

you pull back, admiring the sheer pleasure etched on michael's face—his flushed cheeks, parted lips, rolling eyes. just before he can even process your words, you command softly but firmly, "let go baby... give it to me." michael loses it completely. "mama..."

michael tries to bury his face in your neck, embarrassed and overwhelmed. but you force his face back up, making him meet your eyes. he whimpers, “oh my gosh…baby,” his mouth falling open as he cums desperately into his boxers, his entire body shaking with the force of his release. "mama..."

michael collapses heavily against you, his body trembling from the intensity of his release. you hold him gently, arms wrapped around his shaking frame. he buries his face in your neck, still whimpering softly. "so good... mama... so good..." he breathes out shakily. you stroke his hair slowly, your fingers gentle against his damp strands. "there now..." you murmur softly.

you hum in approval, your fingers carding through his hair. before pulling back slightly to peek into his boxers. your expression softens seeing the cum spread throughout. "mama needs you to go change okay?" michael nods weakly, too spent to argue. he lets you help him up slowly.

before he can fully get up, michael leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. he starts walking toward the bathroom, still shaky. you lightly shout after him, "you have one more math problem left!" michael freezes mid-step, groaning. "but i just came..." he complains, but he knows better than to argue. he heads into the bathroom to change.

now the time has passed. sitting on the floor, you both work together on the final math problem. michael is focused, his earlier distraction forgotten as he tackles the equations. you guide him gently, your patience and teaching methods helping him understand. his face lights up when he finally gets the answer correct. "i did it!"

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲| 𝐌.𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

Summary: An innocent sleepover in the Hayvenhurst residence turns into something far from innocent, leaving your best friends brother yearning for you more than he already does

Sub!michael, smut, dry humping, yearning, orgasm control, power control, hand & oral job, tongue kissing.

Today was your best friends birthday, she was the last one of the friend group to turn 18. You, yourself had reached legal status a few months back. You arrived at the Jackson residence earlier that day to help the family set decorations and prepare for the massive slumber party that was planned

Apart of you felt so guilty because you had never confessed to your best friend the desires you had for her brother Michael. He was always the finest brother in your eyes, ever since you were a little girl you crushed on Michael. But now he was older. Everything on him was “bigger” you caught your first glimpse of him a few months ago when you walked into his room to wake him up for breakfast and you saw the erection he had in his sleep, hard and poking through his white underwear

Ever since then it’s all you could think about, the both of you inexperienced but for Michael you were ready to experiment

As the night approached you had slipped into a matching pink laced pajama set to match the rest of the girls. Everyone stayed up telling stories of what they thought college was like, first kisses, experimenting with guys, school, parties, and the guys with the cutest butts. But all you could think about was how Michael kept staring at you all day, even catching him taking exclusive photos of you with he was in charge of getting pictures of everyone. The moment you caught him he was so embarrassed that he hid upstairs for hours until he had to come downstairs for dinner

You waited until you were sure the entire party was asleep, carefully stepping over everybody as you crept your way up the stairs—avoiding the steps you knew had creaks in them. The last thing you wanted to do was wake up the parents or a sibling. Your heart was beating out your chest the entire time until you reached the top of the staircase, sighing in relief you wiped your sweaty hands before knocking softly on Michael’s door

“Come in” he replied softly

Accepting the invite you walked in and gently shut the door behind you. Michael was busy with his back turned flipping through a scrapbook he had been creating over the last few years, once he turned his attention towards you his cheeks burned red as he looked down at your pajamas and back at your face

“Uh—my sisters downstairs if you’re looking for her”

“Actually I was looking for you, if it’s okay”

You walked towards Michael and sat next to him on his bed, your hands accidentally touching forced a chill down his spine that he desperately tried to hide

“Me? You sure?”

“Mhm..I wanted to see what you were doing”

“I like to take pictures of things I find beautiful. Birds, trees, the sky, cartoons, and people”

“Is that why you took a picture of me in my bathing suit earlier today?”

“That was an accident” he immediately stammered “My finger slipped over the dumb button”

You blushed at his shyness, it was innocent

“It’s okay Michael I’m not mad at you. I know your heart”

“Really?” He asked turning his focus to you

“Mhm” scooting in closer “That’s why I like you, you’re not like your other brothers…or really any other guy for that matter”

His face felt like it was on fire hearing you admit “that’s why I like you” because no other girl had admitted those feelings for him

“You like me?” He questioned

“Course I do, you’re a gentleman and you’re handsome…what’s not to like?”

“I didn’t think a girl as pretty as yourself would be interested in a guy like myself”

You stood up and moved the book from his lap exposing his boner, immediately he panicked and tried to cover it up with his hands while looking everywhere but at you “I-m sorry” he blurted out

Grabbing his hands and gently pushing him back to his orange position you sat on his lap feeling his dark blue jeans underneath you. His facial expression going from embarrassment to shock. You placed his large hands over your butt while your hands cupped his face, biting your lip as you stared at his face with lustful eyes

“You have nothing to be sorry about Michael, you’re human everybody gets aroused…you arouse me all the time” you admitted

“How do I do that?” He replied staring up at you

You adjusted yourself before gently grinding into his jeans, the friction of his bulge and jeans created a nice friction for you to pleasure yourself with

“I’ve always been attracted to you Michael—your sweet smile, your big brown eyes, the way you’re so gentle with everything, your hands, your nose…I like everything about you down to your sweet voice”

His dick jumped in his pants hearing you praise him. Again, never having someone compliment such features especially with his insecurities

“You don’t mean that stuff do you?” He questioned

“Of course I do handsome. I would I say it if I wasn’t sincere”

“I think you’re beautiful also” he smiled

“Really?” You blushed “Tell me what you like the most”

As he thought about his answer you kissed his neck gently before sucking in various spots, causing his dick to throb even more. The both of you moaning in each other’s presence, his grip grew tighter as he felt your lips sucking on his sweet spots

“Talk to me please baby” you pleaded before resuming your activity

“I-I love your hair and your smile—everytime I see it, it makes me smile no matter what kinda day I’m having. I like seeing you happy”

You began grinding harder into his bulge and moaning slightly louder than you anticipated

“God and that voice of yours” he moaned shutting his eyes “it’s so angelic whenever you say my name”

“You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever known. Do I make you feel good?”

“So good” swallowing the lump in his throat “Can you keep doing it please?”

You humped against Michael’s jeans , each one sending pleasuring sensations to your clitoris while you sucked on Michael. His heavy breathing was turning you on and his soft voice in your ear

“Michael you’re making me feel so good” you admitted

“What am I doing?”

“You’re so handsome, just looking at you makes me wanna orgasm all over you”

He bit on his lip and pressed you further into his crotch to feel you better and making you moan again. Feeling yourself making progress you got faster and grinding harder against Michael

“I wanna make you feel good” Michael admitted “You’re making me feel things I’ve never felt before”

“I’m cumming baby” you whimpered as you started to slow down feeling your clitoris convulsing against Michael’s dick

You bit on your bottom lip trying to mask your pleasures

“Wait please don’t stop” he pleaded “I-I never did anything like this but it feels so good please don’t stop”

You continued to dry hump Michael but at a slower speed “You like this baby?”

“It’s incredible” he panted rubbing your back

“You want me to make you orgasm?” Tilting his head up so you can kiss his neck

“Yes please..I’ll do whatever you want”

To his surprise you got off his lap leaving him in shambles with a hard dick. He pleaded with his eyes to you. Little did he know you loved everything about this. You grabbed one of his hands and slid it in your shorts and rubbed your pussy against his fingers, making him jolt before dropping his jaw at how wet you were

“Did I make you do this?”

“Mhm” nodding your head slowly as you formed goosebumps from his touch “You’re the only one who can do this”

“Well why’d you stop? Did I do something wrong?”

“Poor thing” removing his fingers as you kissed his cheek “I thought you might like something else”

“Like what?”

You got on your knees and slowly rubbed his thighs and knees through his jeans before kissing his bulge, pulling off his jeans and watching his dick spring out. All his precum leaking everywhere

“You don’t have to be embarrassed Michael. I’m gonna take care of you”

He swallowed hard watching you get closer to his dick “C-Can I kiss you first?”

You sat up on your knees and met Michael halfway , feeling tingles against the both of your lips experiencing that first kiss spark. Michael accidentally moaned in your mouth feeling how soft your lips were, coincidentally he jolted forward feeling more precum shoot out and staining your chest

“I’m s’ sorry” he pleaded “I’ll take you shopping tomorrow”

“It’s okay baby, just relax for me”

You gently stroked Michael from the base before working your way up to his tip. Watching with each thrust his breath enticing and his whimpering getting stronger. Even slowly grinding into your hand as he tried to chase his peak

“Can you touch it harder?” He asked embarrassed “please?”

Now using both of your hands you stroked his dick from shaft to tip, even spitting on his balls watching it drip to the floor. Michael’s mouth hung open and his eyes glued to you, hands gripping tightly on both sides of his mattress

His breathing was all over the place and his moans were sloppy. Constantly trying to tell you how beautiful you were and how much he loved what you were doing. His favorite part watching you gag on his balls while jacking him off

“It feels like I have to pee” he admitted

Immediately you stopped everything causing Michael to feel his heart drop to his stomach “No, no no, no please—did I say something?” He even reached for your wet hands to prevent you from leaving

“Michael look at me” you grabbed his face “No cumming until I say so, you hear me?”

A smile came across Michael’s face, seeing you become so dominant because he secretly loved the authority. A kink he would soon discover through you

“Yes ma’am, anything you say” taking a deep breath “Just please don’t stop”

You wrapped both hands back around his dick listening to the lubricant make sounds as it slipped through your hands. Michael instantly fell back under your submission

Quickly his orgasm approached once again, he gritted through his teeth trying to fight back. It was obvious that he was ready to explode. He began whimpering and wheezing trying to fight his temptations

“What’s wrong my love?”

“I…I can’t cum” fighting against the lump in his throat

“You ready for me to say yes?”

“Yes please” swallowing the lump in his throat “I don’t think I can hold it in anymore”

You spit on his tip and sucked it slowly taking in as much as you could, Michael’s stomach started to cave in and his eyes rolled back as he moaned loud enough to be heard into the next room

“If we get caught I won’t be able to do this ever again Michael…I need you to be good for me okay?”

“Yes—yes oh goodness yes” his lips quivering

You jerked him off specifically at his tip feeling his legs lock on your sides and shaking uncontrollably. His soft voice now cracking and unrecognizable, but you continued to smile through his deprivation

“Cum for me my sweet boy”

Instantly he released his cum while staring into your eyes. His cum shot out uncontrollably and all over the place, splashing on his clothes and various parts of your body. Michael began moaning so rebelliously that you had to cover his mouth with your other hand while you milked him with the other. His gasping in your hand could be felt through the constant suctioning

Michael collapsed on his bed, you watched his diaphragm quirk frequently followed by muffled sniffling sounds. You climbed on top of him to see he was crying—so embarrassed that he had to cover his face but of course you moved them and kissed his face all over

“My sweet angel” you coo’d

He still didn’t say a word, instead he wrapped his long arms around you and sobbed against your breasts “Can you stay with me tonight? Please?”

You smiled kissing his nose repeatedly “I’ll stay up here”

Over the next few minutes, you reassured Michael that your feelings for him hadn’t changed. If anything, seeing him so vulnerable only made you care for him more. The two of you remained wrapped in each other’s arms until the first rays of sunlight spilled through his bedroom window, gently pulling you from sleep. It was almost as if the morning itself was reminding you to slip back downstairs before anyone discovered where you’d spent the night

synopsis: home alone, and you decide it's the best time for an improvised photoshoot with Michael. Thing is your boyfriend is playful, but shy, and gets easily flustered every time you call him angel face

warning: author's attempt at being funny, sub!brat!michael and softdom!reader, g/n!reader bc everyone should be able to enjoy this fr fr, handjob and lots of kisses but somehow they don't kiss idk don't ask me why

a/n: inspired by this rumor where people say he used to get so bashful every time someone called him angel face, and i love it

“Don’t move, just like that!”

The flash of the camera illuminated Michael’s face and reflected on his pearly white smile. He didn’t like getting his picture taken, but for you, he would do anything. I mean, if taking a picture was enough for you to be happy,  he’ll willingly do it.

You had showed up to his house unannounced and decided to conduct a photo shoot in his room. No one else in the house, and you figured it would be a good way to pass the time and to make memories with him. He didn’t really mind, he just hoped that you would also let him take pictures of you. He wouldn’t like to be the main attraction.

“Smile, angel face”

Michael immediately ducked his head with a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"See, that's exactly why I don't let you take pictures of me."

"Why?"

"Because you start sayin' stuff like that."

⌞⋆｡˚₊ your zipper's undone! [¯◉°]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ thriller!michael jackson x photographer reader (smut!!! BEWARE!)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ synopsis: a photographer who has spent four years cooped up inside her studio is booked to shoot michael jackson in the aftermath of thriller's success, and spends the days beforehand preparing for the controlled, guarded version of him the industry has always described. what walks through the door is the presence of a curious, genuinely present man and nervous man. over the three hours they share, their professional distance quickly dissolves into something overwhelming.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: 7.3k Are we surprised? absolutely not x

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ content warnings: softdom!reader x sub!michael, smut with plot??? i think, handjob thru clothes, dry humping, praise, slight public 'sex' now that i think about it, michael is very nervous and needy 👅👅👅 , michael asks for permission and guidance 👅👅👅, hes so so so vocal, he cries a bit, he calls you mama a few times, slight mention of edging and overstimulation, controlled orgasm??? IDK WHAT ELSE TO NOTE IM BAD AT WRITING SMUT its just gentle intimacy cant lie sorry im vanilla, NOT proofread which means the tenses are probably all over the place sorry :( i always suck at keeping track of that

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ a/n: im NEVER writing smut again IDK HOW TO DO THIS IM SO BAD AT THIS im dyingggg 😭😭😭 im kidding... practice makes perfect i guess but im sorry i lowkey dislike this BUT I HADDD TO WRITE SOMETHING BASED OFF THAT MICHAEL PIC OF HIS ZIPPER BEING UNZIPPED GOOD GAWWDDD i also love me some whiny sub michael and we're lacking that in the fandom i fear so...

— reqs are open for full oneshots or mini drabbles! ˆ𐃷ˆ dont be shy!

— comment on this post or here if you'd like to be part of a future tag list ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

the studio smells like warm tungsten and old velvet—a particular kind of smell, something sedative and honeyed that’s accumulated over years of the same work benign done in the same space, until the walls themselves hold the residue of it the way old wood holds rainy weather.

you’ve been renting the third floor of this slightly rundown building for four years now, and the smell was always there. it was around when you had originally arrived, before all of your light rigs went up and the prop table found its corner, before your fingerprints marked the specific spot on doorframe you always pulled and pushed, before your footsteps wore a familiar path across the floorboards of your day-to-day lifecycle. you stopped noticing it as some point during your career—the scent simply dissolved into the background of your days. it became the air you breathe in everyday, transforming into something completely unremarkable and practically invisible; the way the scent of your own home becomes a ghost you can no longer summon, no matter how far away you find yourself.

you've been shooting for three hours, and your feet ached the way they always do after a long session—that deep, bone-weary throb that starts at the heel and climbs all the way up to your hips. you never complain or mind it. it just proves your work's been good today.

but michael jackson's request to be captured by you had been a surprise.

a very, very authentic one.

you do your research before he arrives, despite the entire world knowing about him and the staggering weight of success from thriller—the album that’s rewritten the rules of music, that’s made him something beyond a celebrity; something closer to the definition of mythological. 

the ‘studying’ process was the same with every client, no matter how big or small—you’re always methodical with your work, always careful, always deliberate in what you’re working with. you believe in knowing your subjects before they walk through the door, because those first ten minutes of a shoot are always the most precarious, and there’s no recovering a person’s trust once you’ve ruptured it; a harsh fact you’ve learnt in the faded beginnings of your career.

so you spent the hours reading the interviews, listening to the records; spent an evening cross-referencing press photos and making careful notes in your cramped handwriting—what colours would clash with the undertones of his rich, espresso-brown complexion, what lighting would be most flattering on his facial features, what the camera had caught in him with previous works that you might want to find again in a more particular, intimate manner. all of it went into the yellow legal pad you kept tucked away in your drawer for this exact purpose, already filled to the brim with the accumulated research of past clients, the pages soft and worn from being turned and turned repeatedly.

you learnt about the family that grew up in gary, indiana—the seven kids crammed into a house not much bigger than your studio, harmonizing in the living room before they were even old enough to know what harmony meant. you knew about the years of touring, the way the industry waited and waited to see what he'd do next while he barely gave them the satisfaction of an interview or a public appearance.

nonetheless, you think you know what to expect—a quiet, guarded young man who kept most of himself behind thick glass, offering little in the way of conversation, answering your polite questions with careful non-answers, smiling with that PR-practiced grin that meant nothing at all.

your expectations were wrong.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒ ﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

he arrives without an entourage, which is the first surprise he brought upon you. just him and one very large, very patient man who introduced himself as bill, his security, and then positioned himself near the door with the settled permanence of someone who'd done this many times and knew exactly how to be present without being intrusive. michael came in behind him carrying his own jacket—which told you something about how he carries himself immediately—and stops just inside the doorway.

he takes a slow, unconscious breath through his nose.

you register his look instantly because you've stopped noticing the smell of this place years ago, and watching someone else receive it for the first time made it briefly yours again—the warm tungsten, the old velvet, the particular accumulated quiet of a room that's held a lot of people being asked to just be themselves, not realizing how difficult that command can really be until put on the spot. he took in that inhale the same way someone did when a place felt familiar before they'd had time to figure out why, when recognition arrived in the body before it reached the mind.

then he looks up, and looks around.

he takes in the sight of the light rigs first, his eyeline drifting across them with the focused recognition of someone who understands the equipment, who knew what these things were for, who’d spent enough time under lights to understand their language—the way they could flatter or expose, or how they could soften or sharpen, expose lies or tell harsh truths.

then he switches his attention to the backdrop, the table of props sitting in front of it, which you’d neatly arranged with determined purpose—a handful of photographs tucked into a leather folio, an alarm clock that had stopped at some point and been kept anyway, an old corded telephone with a pale, yellow body and a coiled cord that caught the artificial light just right. he makes his way to the table without being directed there, which almost never happened. he passes the grey, velvet beanbag, his fingers light as they trail absently over the texture he’d soon be situated on. he picked up the telephone and turned it over in his hands with a focused, meditative interest that made you pause where you stood.

"does it work?" he asked, not looking up, his voice soft and a little rough around the edges at the lack of use it's been through today.

"it did, once," you said, your tone light with a faint sense of humour, trying to ease the (very normal) moment. you can’t quite explain why your nerves have gotten the better of you. “the line's disconnected."

he set it back down with a nod, your attempt at comicality going entirely unnoticed. you nonchalantly clear your throat in response to the one-sided sting of the conversation, and you catch him glancing up at you with an innocent smile. not the toothy and wide, practiced magazine smile that you’d been expecting from the press photos you’d studied a couple hours before. instead, you were greeted with the one that acknowledged the room, the situation, you, all at once. a smile that knew exactly how strange it really was to walk into a stranger’s living space—however professional the studio—and be asked to pose as yourself for three or so hours, to sit under lights and be looked at, studied, and then captured over, and over, and over again. but yet, somewhere between the small distance of the door he walked through and the prop table he stood by, he decided to try that with you anyway. to let you in and be brave about it.

since that quiet moment, you grew an immediate, strong attraction to his character—to the gentleness of him and the way he moved through your space like he was trying not to disturb it despite being the only people in there.

you decided that would be a problem you choose not to examine until later when you’d parted ways and you could afford to feel the full weight of it.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒ ﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

now it's three hours in and the shoot's long since stopped feeling like work in the way you usually mean the word—that careful, professional distance that dissolved somewhere along the way. it had melted into something warmer and more dangerous in your nerves.

he was now sat on the velvet grey cushion, noticeably more at ease than he'd been in the first hour when he initially stepped into your work space, when his shoulders were still held tight and his smile still had a sense of hesitance despite the growing genuinity. the warm tungsten light highlighted his curls naturally, some loose strands falling across his forehead right above his eyebrow, somehow unfrizzed despite the heat of the bulbs beating down on him. he holds the old corded telephone in one hand like he's forgotten it's there, his long fingers draped over the receiver with an unconscious grace that made your breath catch somewhere insistent which you choose to try and ignore. the beautifully tailored corduroy blazer sits slightly rumpled at his shoulders, the fabric clearly lived-in with creases from occasional adjustments, and his yellow tie, bold with its wide, blue diagonal stripes, has marginally loosened at the knot sometime in the last hour without either of you noticing, the silk gone soft and warm from the heat of his body and the lights.

you notice it now, though.

there's something about the tie that undoes you more than you want to admit—the understanding that it means he's stopped monitoring how he looks around you and your camera, which is the only way you ever get anything true out of a subject.

you convince yourself that you're simply just doing your job right. that you’re just capturing a candid moment of the most famous man on planet earth. noting that you’re feeling this way because you know it would entice a future audience.

that's all this is. a job.

at only twenty-four, michael carries the weight of thriller's enormous success—the album's been out for just over a year and has already become something beyond a phenomenon, reshaping what's possible in popular music entirely, rewriting the rules of what a pop star can be and do and mean—he's currently re-defining popular. but here, in this moment, on your velvet seat beneath your light rigs, he looks nothing like the carefully constructed image from the album's artwork; absolutely nothing like the figure in the white suit. there's not even a trace of the shy boy from gary who'd grown up performing with his brothers in the jackson 5, the one the industry whispered about—how he's different from his siblings; more reserved, more perfectionist about every detail of his craft, more demanding but fragile all at once. you'd read the minimal amount of interviews where he spoke in careful, measured tones about choreography and control, about the way he needed things to be exactly right—and you'd expected to find that same controlled version sitting in front of you, posing for your camera with calculated and directed angles and practiced expressions.

instead, you found someone genuinely present.

curious in what your props represented, in the stories they told for the shoot or for you; the memories they held in your mind. curious about the lights you used for your set, and casually noting the specifically beautiful way the afternoon was falling across the room; the way the dust motes danced in the beams. he was curious to know if that was affecting your vision at all—if it was visible in your camera lens. did it make the set look more atmospheric? or did it look cluttered?

while he asked all these questions, he'd look just past the camera with those dark brown eyes, unhurried and unguarded, the light doing something almost unfair to the planes of his face—catching the high curve of his cheekbones, the soft fullness of his mouth, the delicate line of his jaw…

you fire three frames in quick succession, the shutter clicking in alignment to your heartbeat.

you lower the camera.

you look at him—not through your viewfinder like the past hour, or through the safe distance of the lens, but with your own, ordinary eyes—and your chest tightens at how effortlessly handsome he is, at the way beauty sits on him like something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

the truth is, he's been doing this to you all afternoon without any apparent awareness of it, which is the thing that keeps catching you off guard. he isn't performing. you've photographed enough artists over enough years to know the difference between someone who's egotistical and someone who's performing shyness for effect or character. but michael's so completely, disarmingly himself that you'd nearly missed countless incredibly worthy shots during the second hour just from watching him instead; from being caught in the spell of his captivating presence. he'd studied the props with the same unhurried attention he gives everything else—carefully, quietly, turning each object over in his hands like it might have something to tell him. he'd asked about the old telephone, questions like where you'd found it, whether it worked when you first got it, what it had been used for, who might have held it before and if they were still with us in our world. then he listened to your answer like it was the most interesting thing he'd heard all week, his eyes staying on your face with no sign of his attention unwavering.

you're not used to being listened to like that.

you've spent enough time behind a camera to be comfortable with your usual invisibility—it's, in fact, one of the things you love most about the work you do, one of the reasons you chose this particular art form to focus on. the photographer—you—disappear, but the subject remains. it's a transaction that suits you precisely because it means you can observe without being observed in return, can attend to the kind of detail most people miss because they're too busy attending to themselves. the camera's a reliable excuse not to be known, not to be seen, not to be vulnerable.

michael keeps looking at you like he wants to know about you anyway, the camera completely disappearing from your hands in his eyes, absolutely irrelevant.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒ ﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

hour three flies by while hour four smoothly pushes its way through the afternoon, the light shifting and softening as the sun moves across the sky.

"you doin' okay over there?" you ask, your voice even and professional. you're just checking in with your client, just doing your job.

he blinks, refocusing on you, pulling himself back from wherever he’d drifted off to. even the way he comes back to the present is gentle—no jolt, no performative snap of attention, just a slow return, like he'd been somewhere quiet and is silently finding his way back to make sure he doesn't cause any disturbances. "yeah, sorry. was i lookin' the wrong way at all?"

"no," you say, smiling despite yourself. "you were perfect."

the word leaves your mouth before you've had time to choose something more professional. you watch the colour rise in his face—subtle, blooming at the tips of his ears first and then spreading to the round apples of his cheeks, making him look younger in a vulnerable sense—and he looks down at the telephone in his lap like it's suddenly become very interesting indeed, like it’ll save him from this moment.

"i keep thinkin' i'm doin' it wrong," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. his voice is softer than you'd expected when he first spoke, though you've stopped being surprised by it hours ago. there's a precision to the way he uses his words; a considerable way someone speaks when they've grown up understanding that words have weight, how they can hurt or heal. "like i'm maybe... sittin' here wrong."

"you keep saying that." you cross the room slowly, adjusting a reflector stand on your way, your skilled hands moving on autopilot. the studio feels smaller than it had at the start of the day, and you're not sure when that happened—whether it's the hours closing in or simply that the distance between you has been incrementally, imperceptibly narrowing with every exchange, every glance held a half-second past where it probably should have ended. "you're not."

"how can you tell?"

you stop in front of him, close enough now to see the slight unsteadiness of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls just a fraction faster than it had been a moment ago. his lashes are longer than you’d realized, dark and thick and casting shadows on his round cheeks. he's looking up at you with that open, searching expression—the one you've been trying to capture all afternoon and somehow keep always being a fraction behind it. "because tense people photograph tense," you say, your voice soft. "you photograph honest. and honest looks nice."

he sits with that for a moment, letting the words settle. he has a way of receiving things before he responds—going still and quiet rather than rushing to fill the space with something adequate or performative. it's an unusual quality, or at least a rare one. most people, you've found, are afraid of the gaps. they fill them reflexively or defensively, with words that don't mean anything because the silence feels too much like an accusation of the interaction being a failure of some kind. he seems to experience silence differently, like it's just another kind of room people can exist in.

"is that good?" he genuinely questions, sounding uncertain.

"it's the best thing someone can be."

you crouch down in front of him to reposition the telephone cord, wanting the coil to catch the glow—and that's when you notice it.

the zipper of his dark jeans glints in the light, which brings your attention to the fact that it's slid down. not entirely—just enough to send a flush crawling up your cheeks before you've consciously processed what you're looking at.

you go very still as you seem to stop breathing.

he follows your eyeline and succumbs to the same reaction, going as still as stone, his whole body freezing. the realization arrives on his face in visible stages—confusion first, then an understanding of the situation, which slowly transitions into mortification, blooming hot and red across all his visible features.

the studio feels as if it holds its breath as well. somewhere in the room, an electrical system gives a low, almost inaudible hum that fills the silence physically, leaving the air thick and charged with intensity. 

"oh my god," he chokes out quietly, his large hands instantly rising to cover his face in shame. his fingers press against his eyes like he can make himself disappear if he just tries hard enough.

"hey." your voice comes out soft and instinctive, gentle in a way you didn’t plan. "it's okay, wardrobe malfunctions happen all the time."

he seems to ignore your reassurances, shaking his head dreadfully behind his hands. "'m so sorry, i didn't—"

"michael." just his name, gently, almost like an emotional hand on his shoulder. your firm voice stops him in the beginning of his insecure rambles, cutting through his oncoming spiral. he responds to your softness with complete attention, in the same way some people respond to authority—immediately, instinctively. "i know you didn't. it's okay."

he exhales through his nose, jaw tight and lightly trembling with embarrassment, the muscle visibly jumping beneath his skin. his eyes glue to the ceiling above like he's asking it for some form of assistance; that favour being it swallowing him whole right this second. you stay where you are, trying your best not to make this small inconvenience bigger than it needs to be. after a beat, he looks back down at you, and something in his expression tentatively surfaces its way through the original mortification—something vulnerable and raw.

"you're bein' really nice about all this," he says, his voice thick with gratitude, but also disbelief.

"i'm being normal and professional about it."

"most people wouldn't be."

you tilt your head, studying him. "but i'm not most people."

the corner of his mouth curves. it's small and a little helpless, the kind of smile that arrives before a person's given themself permission to. you notice the way it changes the lines of his face, softening something around his eyes that's been held carefully in place all afternoon, releasing some tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying. his gaze moves over your face the way you'd watched him look at the props earlier, with the specific quality of attention he gives things he secretly wants to keep. like he's committing details to a memory he'll refer back to repeatedly sometime in the future.

"i've been watchin' you work," he breathes shakingly, the words tumbling out like a confession, "all afternoon."

you don't say anything. you don't move. you barely even breathe.

"the way you move around the room." his voice dropped lower, gone almost reluctantly. his words arrive one at a time as though he's still deciding whether to say them even though he knows he can't just stop now. he’s already committed. "the way you look through the camera. like you already know what you're gonna discover before you even locate it." a pause, heavy and weighted. “like you can see things other people can’t.” he stayed quiet for a moment longer.

then, "i kept hopin' you'd come closer."

the words sit between you and neither of you move to take them back.

you rise to your feet slowly, and he tracks the movement with his eyes, tilting his face up toward yours, his neck long and exposed. up close he's even more disarming—those deep eyes, dark and endless, the soft curl of his hair still catching that light from earlier, that quietly overwhelmed expression that you've been trying to understand all afternoon and now understand is simply his natural state; genuine openness, vulnerability. the world hasn't managed to close him off yet, and you find yourself hoping, with a warmth that arrives somewhere low and unannounced, that it never will, that he’ll always be this soft.

you reach out and loosen his tie the rest of the way, your fingers working the knot with practiced ease. the yellow silk slides warm through your fingers and you set it aside on the table beside you with care. you see how his adam's apple fluctuates when he nervously swallows at the sudden contact, the movement visible beneath his sensitive skin.

"hi," he whispers gently, his vocal chords barely registering a sound above the hum of the lights.

"hi," you whisper back in the same register.

you kiss him.

a small, involuntary whimper escapes him and lands against your mouth—surprised and immediately warm, desperate and sweet, like something in him has been quietly anticipating this since he pulled up to the studio with bill and had resigned himself to wanting something he couldn’t ever believe having. his hands find your waist—large and warm even through the carefulness of the touch, stealing your breath away and making your heart stutter against your chest. he takes this as his opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue darting inside and cautiously massaging against yours and the inside of your cheeks. he rubs your back, slowly, thoroughly, like he has nowhere else to be for the rest of time and no intention of rushing anything; desperate to memorizing every inch of you. the quality of his attention is the same it's been all afternoon—its total and unhurried. you feel his affection everywhere; in every nerve ending, every cell. when you pull back slightly, he almost chases after your lips before catching himself, blinking like he’s coming out of a dream.

"sorry," he breathes, the word barely audible.

"stop apologizing." you cup his face in your hands, your lips still centimetres away from his. you feel the warmth of his soft skin against your palms, the light scratch of stubble at his jaw, the way his naturally long lashes nearly flutter against your own as his eyes remain half-closed. "i kissed you, y'know."

"i know." a small, unguarded smile breaks across his face—it lights him up somewhere behind his eyes, opening something that's been contained. "i jus' didn't want it to stop."

you smile back. can't help it.

you start moving to sit beside him, and michael immediately moves over as much as he can, making space for you, turning toward you immediately once he feels the beanbag sink from your figure, the velvet soft and warm beneath you. one hand comes up to brush your hair back from your face with a touch so careful it makes your chest ache. he's learning you, you realize—like you're something worth understanding properly and he intends to do exactly that.

as your kisses grow hungrier and stronger, the corduroy blazer naturally comes off, sliding from his shoulders like water. then slowly, his shirt. your eyes shift between his chest to his face the whole time—checking, rechecking—making sure he's okay with all this, making sure he wants this as much as you do. you press your palm flat to his chest and feel his heartbeat—fast and unsteady and honest, rabbiting beneath your touch—and he looks down at your delicate hand resting over his wild, thumping heart, feeling like he’s in a dream. then his head tilts back up to you with that same wide, wondering expression you'd first seen when he'd picked up the telephone nearly four hours ago.

"is this alright? are you alright?" you ask, caressing the middle of his chest soothingly. you need to hear him say it.

"mm." a sound that isn't quite a word, caught somewhere inside his throat. then, gathering himself from somewhere deep: "i'm more than alright."

his gaze moves over your face with that same cataloguing care, and you feel it the way you feel sunlight—present and warm. "been more than alright since about hour one, if i'm bein' honest..." he smiles, a little sheepish, too drunk on the tenderness you’ve been giving him. he tilts his head up to eagerly meet your lips again, but you stop him with a single finger gently pressed against his slightly pursed lips—right before they meet your soft ones. he nearly whines at the rejection, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"hour one, huh?" you repeat in a teasing tone with the hint of a smirk creeping onto your face. you couldn’t help yourself.

you push him gently back against the cushion and he goes willingly—dark eyes shifting from want into need, watching you from beneath the spill of his curls with that quietly overwhelmed look that's been dismantling you piece by piece all day. there's no resistance in him, thankfully. no performance either. just trust—open, complete, and freely given, and you understand instinctively that this is how he moves through the world, freely giving things, and that the world doesn't always deserve it.

you lower the zipper on his jeans agonizingly slow, and his hands fly to your lower back to ground himself. from your perspective, your pace is innocent care for the boy below you: you’re giving him the opportunity to stop you, every chance to pull back. but for him, the deliberate pace only heightens his want. he watches your hands work with that same meditative attention he gave everything, his eyes tracking each small movement, and a quiet, pathetic sound escapes him at the anticipation—something mixed with embarrassment and longing, threaded through with an ache he couldn't hide anymore. you can see the outline of him already straining against the white, soft cotton, the fabric pulled taut and nearly see-through.

"oh," he breathes, gaze flickering between himself and your face, flushed with mortification and arousal tangled together. his hands disappear from the small of your back, stiffly landing at his sides, gripping the seat from the embarrassment. "'m sorry, i really didn't mean to— i've been like this for a while now, and i couldn't help it—"

"don't apologize," you murmur, and you gently press your palm against him through the thin barrier, feeling the heat radiating through the cotton, the rigid swell of him beneath your hand.

his hips jerk up involuntarily and a sharp, unguarded gasp tears from his throat that goes straight through you, settling low in your belly like molten honey. when you stroke him slowly through his briefs, he makes another helpless sound, high and fractured, like something inside him is coming undone.

"tell me what to do," he says faintly, the words barely more than breath. "i wanna—god, i wanna make you feel this way too. i wanna do this right for you. please."

the earnestness in his voice breaks something open inside of you.

the sincerity of it; the pleading threaded through every syllable; the glassy look in his doe eyes; everything about him.

you couldn’t hold back anymore.

you strip off your own shirt, leaving you in your lace bra, and his breath catches audibly, his eyes going wide. his eyes dart over your body with an undistinguished hunger that makes heat flood through you, making you clench around nothing. you slide off your jean shorts next, but you keep your underwear on—simple black cotton—and when you straddle him, settling your weight onto his lap, you both gasp at the heat of the sudden contact.

the feeling of him pressed against you with the slight sharpness of his zipper nudging through the thin layers of fabric is immediate and overwhelming. you can sense every inch of him—long and insistent—and when you roll your hips experimentally, you both moan, the sounds twisting together in the shared air between you.

"oh god," he breathes, his hands flying to your hips before immediately pausing just above them in uncertainty, hovering like he's afraid to touch without permission, despite holding you earlier with no problem. something clearly shifted with your dynamic. "is this— can i—"

"you can hold me," you comfort gently, ignoring the fact he’s already held you. you gently guide his hands to rest on your hips, and the warmth of his large palms sink into your tender skin. "but don't move yet. let me show you."

"okay." his voice is already wrecked. his eyes squeeze shut in preparation, his face tense with concentration at the command. "okay, i will. i promise—"

you cut him off by rutting against him slowly and he moans immediately in response—rolling your hips in deliberate, languid circles, grinding down onto him, feeling the length of him slide against you through your panties. the friction was maddening, the restriction from the clothes building heat between your legs, making you slick with ache. you watch his face as you move, studying how his eyes are wide, dilated, and completely stupefied. his mouth was slacked open, his breaths coming in in short, helpless gasps.

"you feel so good," you praise him, and you feel him shudder beneath you at the words, his whole body responding.

"i can't— you're—" he stops, shaking his head like english has abandoned him entirely. his fingers flex at your hips, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. "this is— i didn't know it could feel like this..." he whimpers.

"i know." you soothe, running your hands up his bare chest as you continue circling your hips, feeling the warmth of his skin overtop the rapid beat of his heart. "you're doing so well already, sweet boy. do you see how good you're making me feel?"

he makes a wounded sound at the praise, his whole body just barely having enough dignity to stop himself from arching up into you until he recalls your command to stay still. his eyes dart down to where you two meet, seeing and feeling the wet drag of your panties on his length, the fabric darkening with your arousal. a guttural whine leaves his throat at the sight, scrunching his eyes closed at the overwhelming sensation of it all.

you can feel him trying to stay still beneath you—the slight tremor in his thighs, the way his hips keep wanting to thrust up against you but he holds himself back—giving you the control you asked for, being obedient for you. testing his limits, you grind down harder and feel him throb against you through the layers of fabric; feeling the answering pulse of intensity in your own body, the pleasure taking its time to build and build.

"look at me," you softly demand, your gentle voice firm.

his eyes snap open immediately, locking onto yours.

he's so obedient.

so eager to satisfy.

"you're being so good for me," you tell him, and you feel him shudder at your conniving words, feel the way they affect him. "so patient."

"i want to be," he breathes, the words tumbling out pathetically. "i wanna— please, jus' tell me what you need. please. i'll do anything."

"touch me," you say, your voice thick with want. "put your hands on me."

his hands slide up your body urgently—over your ribs, cupping your covered breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples through the lace in a way that makes you fundamentally gasp and grind down harder against him, chasing the friction. he groans at the increased strain, hips jerking upward involuntarily, unable to control himself. his eyes widen once he realizes he broke his only rule, panic flashing across his face.

"'m sorry," he breathes pathetically. "sorry, 'm really tryin' to stay still, i really am—"

you kiss him deeply in response, swallowing his apologies. you feel the full-body tremble that moves through all of his nerves as your tongue slides against his, deliciously savouring him. you pull away, both of you gasping for air, lips swollen and red. "you can move now."

"thank you, thank you so much—"

"but," you interrupt him. he's never went so silent so quickly in his life. "you have to follow my rhythm, okay? can you do that?"

"yes!" he exclaims and nods fervently. "yes, i can, i will."

you begin grinding against him in earnest then—lifting slightly and rolling your hips down onto him in an agonizingly slow, steady rhythm that has both of you making incoherent, desperate noises, sounds of need echoing through the walls of the studio. he glances up at you, watching your face contort into extreme pleasure as you suddenly fasten your pace. he whimpers at the abrupt change, but ultimately matches the velocity of your hips exactly, thrusting up against you when you come down. the force between your bodies gliding together through cotton creates an irresistible heat that's almost unbearable, making your vision blurry at the seams.

you can feel how wet you are—the way the fabric of your panties has become a thin, useless barrier, soaked through and clinging to your folds as they pulsed like a second heartbeat. your panties stick to his boxers where you meet, and you know he feels it too. you can sense it in the way his breath fragments into something so fragile each time you grind against him. he's trying so hard to hold himself together in this moment, to exist only in the sensation of you—but his hips betray him with their subtle need, that instinctive pull toward something more; the thought of sinking into you completely. someone in a regular state of mind knows it would be wasteful to let this moment with you slip away unappreciated, but this animalistic part of him—the part that's been aching for this all afternoon—can't help but wonder, even as he tries to anchor himself in the here and now, the magic your hot, gummy walls would do to him. he could sense the knot in his tummy tighten at the thought.

"you feel so incredible," he says against your mouth, voice wrecked. "god, i can’t even imagine what you’d feel like—so good, i didn't know—" he tries to hold back his groan. "i can't handle this—" he stops himself mid-ramble, jaw straining. "god, just please don't stop. don't stop, god, please." he babbles, loose and incoherently. he can feel it already—that small, specific sting approaching behind his eyeballs. hot tears were starting to swell at his waterline.

"i'm not stopping." you kiss him sweetly on his nose with a promise, gentle and tender. "i've got you."

"okay." a shaky exhale, almost a disbelieving laugh at the situation he's put himself in, a single tear slipping down his cheek at how overwhelmingly amazing this feels. "okay, thank you. thank you."

you take his face in both hands and feel him melt into the touch entirely, whimpering as his eyes go soft and needy, his whole body easing like something in him has finally been given permission to surrender. the pressure of him grinding up against you is perfect, the ridge of his arousal sliding against you just perfectly that makes you clench around nothing, makes you ache with emptiness. you groan at both the pleasure and the frustration of it all.

"touch me," you demand, your voice breaking. "make me feel good."

one of his hands slides between with an urgency that speaks volumes, eager to give you anything you need. his fingers find you through your damply thin underwear, pressing with such careful, concentrated attention that it's almost reverent. the pressure builds the ecstasy so quickly that it catches you off guard, spiking through you like a shock of lightning seeking ground, thunder rumbling in your stomach. the moan that escapes you is almost like a quiet scream, your head limping back, your neck and jaw being on full display as your body surrenders to the sensation. he circles you exactly where you need him, and you can feel his focus—the way his entire being narrows down to this—to learning the language of your body through his fingertips.

"like that?" he asks, his voice tight with want, with the strain of holding himself together while touching you like this. "is that right, mama? please—please tell me it's good. that 'm doing this right"

the name undoes something inside you. mama. something in you softens but deepens all at once, but he breaks you out of your trance when he nips at your exposed neck, right at your pulse point. your fingers immediately find his hair with a moan, and he muffles a whine against your throat in response, particularly hard thrust startles you as it shoots straight into your core all the while his fingers are still on you. you feel like you could pass out.

"yes." you breathe out, like the wind has been knocked out of you. the word barely came out as a whisper. "just like that. don't stop—you're doing everything so perfectly, sweet boy. so perfectly."

and he has no reason to stop. his fingers keep that perfect, steady rhythm against you even as exhaustion creeps into them, as the muscles in his hand begin to ache with the continued effort—because giving you this matters more than his own fatigue. his other hand stays anchored at your hip, gripping you with just enough strength to guide your movements, to help you when your stamina begins to falter. you can feel the orgasm building—that boiling tension slowly easing up to a point, spreading in warm, sweet waves down through your abdomen and into the burning ache of your thighs. you move faster, more frantic now, and he matches you perfectly, his hips thrusting up to meet yours with that same mounting urgency; still letting you lead, still following your rhythm like its his own personal prayer.

"you're doing so well, making me feel so good," you gasp out, barely able to form the words. "so good for me."

the praise breaks something in him. he makes a sound that's half whine, half cry, and his rhythm falters, his hips stuttering to a slow pace as desperation floods through him once again. "'m close," his voice strangled with embarrassment even now, even like this. "'m so so close, mama. 'm sorry, i don't wanna yet, not before you—"

"don't apologize." you interrupt him with another sweet kiss that you pour your everything into. "i'm close too, but not yet. wait for me. can you do that? can you wait?"

"yes." his voice strangled. "yes, i'll try my best— god, i'll wait, i promise."

"that's it," you breathe, feeling your own climax quickly approaching as you grind against him mercilessly, chasing your edge. the pressure of his fingers through the cotton, the hard length of him sliding against you, everything is near perfect. "look at me when it happens, okay? i want to see you."

his eyes find yours, audibly moaning at the command, but quickly biting his bottom lip in attempt to muffle himself when he realizes just how loud he's been underneath you. he holds your intense stare, desperate and completely ruined, his gaze locked on yours.

his fingers press harder against you and that's what breaks you—the orgasm crashing through you in aggressive pulses that make you shake and nearly cry out his name, muting it by sucking harshly on his neck, grinding down against him through it as you ride the waves of pleasure, it gradually cresting and washing over you in different magnitudes of power.

he groans at the sudden contact on his neck, giving up on keeping his voice down. his whole body going taut beneath you, strung tight like a bow.

"oh my god," he gasps, holding on for dear life, his fingers turning white from how hard he's digging into your hips. he massages the fat of your skin harshly as he twitches violently underneath you, trying his absolute hardest not to let go until he gets you to say so. the sensation of his aggressive jerks cause you to jolt from the overstimulation. "mama— mama, can i cum now? please, please..." he stutters mindlessly as his pleading turns into continuous rambles of worship.

"yes," you whisper against his ear. "cum for me. let go, baby."

his control shatters completely at your permission, sobbing a choked out chuckle of relief as he thrusts up against you hard, releasing spurts of white into his briefs, the fabric quickly darkening with his cum. he grinds against you desperately as he says your name over and over like a prayer, barely coherent, as his sticky warmth spreads between the two of you. his calls for you mix with breathless thank yous and dissolve into irrational noises that make you lightly pulse some more, aftershocks rolling through you.

you hold his gaze through all of it—every unguarded, unperformed second—storing the look of his furrowed, desperate face into a secret cabinet in your mind, forever safe.

he goes still beneath you, his chest heaving in long, uneven sighs. the studio settles around you—the hum of the lights, the distant sound of the city moving without anyone's permission.

after a long moment, he lifts his head to look at you with his soft eyes, wearing the most unself-conscious expression you've ever seen on a human face, like every layer he's ever built up for the purpose of navigating the world has slipped and fallen somewhere. but he isn't ready to try and put the armour back on.

"hi," he exhales faintly, a smile grazing his face.

you laugh, warm and quiet—and he smiles even wider at the sound of it, pleased with himself that you enjoyed everything just as much as he did.

"hi," you whisper back, your voice hoarse.

his arms come up and wrap around you and you let him, settling into the warmth of him, your ear finding his chest and the gradually steadying rhythm of his heartbeat underneath it. his fingers move through your hair slowly and carefully, the same way he does everything, and you lay there and let the studio be quiet around you and don't try to account for any of it.

you stay like that for what feels like a long time, wrapped up in one another.

"can i ask you somethin'?" he breaks the silence eventually. his voice is low and drowsy—the careful precision of it gone soft at the edges, the way you imagine he sounds in the mornings, before the day's properly started and there's no one to perform any version of himself for.

"mhm."

a pause. the pause that always precedes his questions, the one that means he's deciding something. "do you do this with all your subjects?"

you laugh—actually laugh, surprised on top of it all—and feel him embarrassingly smile at the odd question against the top of your head.

"no, who do you take me for?" you answer with humoured offense. "definitely not!"

"good." his arms tighten around you slightly. "i'd be very jealous."

you tilt your head to look up at him. he's watching you with those dark eyes, completely unguarded, his curls completely wrecked, wild and beautiful, by the last thirty or so minutes. the directness sitting underneath all the gentleness—you'd first noticed it in the third hour of the shoot, when he'd told you quietly and without preamble that the stopped clock on the prop table reminded him of his mother's kitchen, and then looked at you afterward as though daring you to find that strange. he doesn't say things for effect, he just says them when he feels it's right. it's one of the most disarming things about him, and you'd been trying to photograph it for three hours, and hadn't quite managed it.

"you'd be jealous," you repeat as you turn your head away to look at nothing in particular, testing the words.

"already," he says simply, like it's an obvious answer. like he's made up his mind about something and sees no reason to be coy about it. he looks at you steadily, that same open and earnest gaze that's been stopping you in your tracks all evening. "is that alright?"

you hold his gaze for a long moment. something warm and slow settles in your chest—the particular kind of warmth that simply finds itself within the environment, in the same way that the smell of the studio is simply there, or the way the hum of the lights is simply there.

"yeah," you look at him. "that's okay."

Synopsis: Michael rented out a petting zoo for the two of you to go to. When you saw Michael petting the deer, you couldn’t help but see a resemblance that led to a new nickname

A/N: Hi! 😋this is my first time writing smut, so hopefully the uncountable amounts of smut i’ve read over the years will help me… this was extremely embarrassing to write…written with bad!michael in mind but any era works! I figured out how to make the three picture banners look like other peoples finally yippee!!

word count:1.2k

tags: subby!crybaby(kinda)!michael(we need more please), softdom!reader, little plot, p in v, riding, oral (m+f receiving), face sitting, dry humping if you squint, edging, established relationship, kissing after oral, overstimulation, unprotected ,18+ so minors beware! if i missed anything tell me! kinda short sorry ☹️