more sub michael with mommy kink plssss 😭😭😭😭 one where he’s jealous over the reader and idk maybe she’s in a relationship or just being flirted with ?? plssss we need this
Watching
pairing :: michael jackson x reader
warnings :: cheating, mommy kink, smut
word count :: a lot
Taglist: @d3adlyclassrat , @uh444, @perfectillusiontreasure, @islandsunning, @ivorydays, @sassenachmalfoy, @shanilovesbils, @trinitythegatg, @uknownn111, @booklvr32,
The studio air felt heavy, thick with tension that had nothing to do with the summer heat outside. You sat on the leather couch, watching Michael pace back and forth across the expensive carpet, his movements sharp and agitated. He'd been like this for the past hour—ever since you'd mentioned your dinner plans with Prince tonight.
"I don't understand what you see in him," Michael muttered, not looking at you. His voice had that quality it always got when he was upset—soft, but with an edge that cut through the room.
You shifted on the couch, crossing your legs. "He's interesting. Talented."
Michael snorted. "Talented." He spun to face you, his dark eyes intense under those long lashes that everyone always talked about. "Is that what you're looking for? Someone talentent?"
"Michael—"
"No, I want to know." He took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing right in front of where you sat. You had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. "What makes him so special? What does he give you that I can't?"
Your breath caught. There was something in his voice, something in the way he was looking at you—like he was seeing you for the first time. Or maybe like he'd been seeing you all along and couldn't hide it anymore.
"Michael, you're my friend—"
"Friend." He laughed, but it came out broken. "Is that what I am? Just your friend?"
The studio suddenly felt too small. You were acutely aware of how close he was standing, of the way his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. You'd known Michael for years now—since before he was the King of Pop, since before the world knew his name. You'd seen him through everything. The tours, the albums, the relentless pressure. You'd held him through nightmares and celebrated every victory.
And somehow, in all that time, you'd missed this.
"I've been here," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Right here. The whole time. Watching you go on dates with men who don't deserve you. Men who don't understand you." He crouched down in front of you, his hands gripping the edge of the couch on either side of your hips. "I understand you."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Michael..."
"He can't love you the way I do." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched as Michael's expression shifted—horror flooding his features as he realized what he'd said. He started to pull back, to retreat, but you caught his wrist.
"Wait."
He froze, his eyes searching your face. You saw the vulnerability there, raw and exposed. You'd hurt him without even knowing it, had been blind to something that had apparently been eating him alive.
"I'm sorry," you breathed. "I didn't know. I should have seen it. I should have—"
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't apologize to me. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I made you feel invisible." You stood, forcing him to rise with you. His body was so close, radiating heat. "I should have noticed. I should have realized that the person who mattered most was right in front of me."
Michael's breath stuttered. "What are you saying?"
You reached up, touching his face. He leaned into your palm like he'd been starving for it. "I'm saying I've been so stupid. I'm saying..." You swallowed hard. "I'm saying that tonight, you're the only one I want to think about."
His eyes darkened. "What about—"
"I'll cancel. Right now." You moved toward the phone, but Michael caught your hand.
"Later." The word came out rough, desperate. "Handle it later. I need—please, I need—"
You turned back to him and made a decision. Standing on your toes, you pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was electric. Michael made a sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a sob—and his hands were suddenly everywhere. Your waist. Your back. Tangling in your hair. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, like he'd been waiting his entire life for this moment.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your lips. "Tell me if you don't want this."
"I want this." You pulled him closer. "I want you."
His control snapped. Michael walked you backward until your shoulders hit the studio wall, his mouth never leaving yours. He tasted like sweet tea and something uniquely him. His hands slid under your shirt, his touch searing.
"I've imagined this," he breathed, his lips trailing down your neck. "Every night. For years. The way you'd feel. The sounds you'd make." He found a sensitive spot just below your ear and bit down gently.
A moan escaped you, and you felt Michael smile against your skin.
"Those sounds," he murmured. "I want to hear all of them."
His thigh pressed between your legs, and you gasped at the pressure. Michael's hands were shaking as he undid the button of your jeans. He pulled back to look at you—really look at you—with wonder in his eyes.
"Is this really happening?" His voice was thick. "Or am I going to wake up alone again?"
You cupped his face. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
His expression crumbled. The insecurity you'd never noticed before. The loneliness he'd hidden behind that brilliant smile. You'd done that—you'd made him feel unseen when he'd been looking at you with everything he had.
"I'm going to make you forget anyone else exists," you promised. "Starting now."
You pulled him back to you, your hands working at his clothes. His belt. His shirt. Every inch of skin revealed felt like a revelation. Michael Jackson—icon, legend—was just a man. A man who trembled under your touch.
"Mommy," he breathed, and something in your brain short-circuited at the word.
You pulled back slightly, searching his face. He looked mortified, color flooding his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I don't know why I—"
"I like it." You traced his jaw. "I like knowing you need me. That you've been needing me."
His exhale shuddered. "You have no idea."
"I want to find out." You pressed your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingers. "Every detail. Every fantasy."
Michael's eyes were nearly black with want. "I've had a lot of fantasies."
You smiled. "Then we have a lot of time to make up for."
His mouth claimed yours again as his hands finished what they'd started, pushing your jeans down your hips. You kicked them aside, pulling him toward the couch. When he laid you down, hovering over you, you saw tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
"Don't cry," you whispered.
"I'm not sad." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I'm just... I'm finally with you.”
And then he touched you in a way that made the world disappear, and you knew—though you couldn't possibly know how complicated this would become—that nothing between you would ever be the same.
The leather creaked beneath you as you shifted your weight, settling more firmly onto Michael's lap. His hands found your hips instinctively, fingers pressing into your skin like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You could feel him beneath you—hard, wanting, trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Look at me," you commanded softly.
Michael's dark eyes met yours, glazed with need. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, that lean body completely at your mercy. You'd never seen him like this—unguarded, stripped of every defense he'd built over years in the spotlight.
"Good boy," you murmured.
His breath hitched. The words hit him somewhere deep, and you watched his expression shift—relief and arousal tangled together in the furrow of his brow, the part of his lips.
"I've wanted to hear you say that," he whispered. "For so long."
You rolled your hips slowly, deliberately, and his head fell back against the couch cushion. A groan escaped him, low and raw. His fingers tightened on your hips, but he didn't try to control the pace. He let you lead.
"Tell me what you thought about," you said, continuing your slow rhythm. "All those nights. All those fantasies."
Michael swallowed hard. His throat worked, tendons straining. "I thought about... about you taking control. About being yours. Completely." His voice cracked on the last word.
You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his, and traced the shell of his ear with your lips. "Keep going."
"I imagined you on top of me. Just like this." His hands slid up your sides, trembling. "Making me earn it. Making me beg."
A surge of heat pooled in your core. You hadn't known this about him—hadn't known the man the world saw as confident and commanding craved submission in the most intimate moments. It made sense, somehow. He spent every day performing, giving pieces of himself to millions. Here, with you, he wanted to be taken apart.
You reached between your bodies, adjusting the angle, and sank down onto him inch by inch. Michael's whole body went rigid. A strangled sound caught in his throat, and his nails dug into your waist hard enough to leave marks.
" Fuck ," he gasped.
You paused, giving him a moment, giving yourself a moment. The stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way. His body radiated heat against yours, sweat beading at his temples.
"Don't stop," he pleaded. "Please, Mommy, don't—"
You silenced him with a kiss, swallowing the rest of his words. Then you started to move.
The pace you set was agonizingly slow. Each roll of your hips drew a whimper from Michael, his whole body shuddering beneath you. You could feel him fighting the urge to thrust up, to take over. His muscles tensed and relaxed with every movement, his self-control hanging by a thread.
" So good for me ," you murmured against his mouth. "So patient."
He whined, the sound high and desperate. "I can't—I need—"
"What do you need?"
His eyes squeezed shut. " More. Please. Faster. I need—"
You pressed your finger to his lips. "Shh. I decide what you need."
The authority in your voice made him moan. He nodded frantically, accepting your control even as his body shook with the effort of restraint.
You rewarded him by picking up the pace slightly. The leather couch groaned beneath you both, the obscene sounds filling the studio alongside your mingled breaths. Michael's hands roamed your body reverently—tracing your curves, memorizing every dip and swell like he was studying holy scripture.
"I can't believe this is real," he breathed. His voice was ragged, wrecked. "I've wanted you for years. Dreamed about you every night. Woke up alone every morning."
Guilt pricked at you. You'd been so blind. "I'm here now."
"I know." He opened his eyes, gazing up at you with something that looked dangerously close to worship. "I know you are."
His hands found your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arched into his touch. The pleasure built slowly, spiraling outward from where your bodies joined. Michael watched your face with rapt attention, cataloging every reaction, learning what made you gasp and moan.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
You increased your pace, chasing the growing tension in your core. Michael met your movements now, unable to stay still, his hips rising to meet yours in a rhythm as old as time. The couch squeaked in protest, but neither of you cared.
"Close," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm—I can't—"
"Not yet." You slowed down, and he groaned in frustration. "You come when I say you can come."
He let out a sound that was almost a sob. " Please."
"Beg again."
"Please, Mommy. Please let me—I need it so bad. I'll do anything. Anything."
The desperation in his voice pushed you closer to the edge. You started moving again, faster now, harder. Michael's sounds grew louder, more uninhibited. The man who carefully curated every public sound he made was now gasping and moaning without shame, completely lost in you.
" Michael."
His name on your lips made him tense. You could feel him fighting against his orgasm, holding on for you despite his body's demands.
" Now ," you commanded. "Come for me."
He shattered. His whole body arched off the couch as he came with a cry that echoed through the studio. You followed him over the edge moments later, the pleasure crashing through you in waves.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the hum of the studio equipment. Michael's arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"Thank you," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
You stroked his hair, feeling the dampness at his temples. "You don't need to thank me."
"I do." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression was raw, vulnerable in a way you'd never seen from him. "You have no idea how long I've needed this. Needed you."
You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "I think I'm starting to understand."
He smiled—soft and real. Not the performance smile he gave cameras. The real one. "Stay tonight? I don't... I don't want to be alone."
You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere."
