bad ! era synopsis — the rivalry between you and michael runs deep until one hotel mishap brings you two closer than ever.
content — porn with plot, forced proximity, mean dom! michael and mean switch! reader, cursing, smut, p in v, aphrodisiac, hate sex, dry humping, unprotected, spanking, backshots, choking, riding, lowk brat tamer mike
As the industry’s queen, you didn't just top charts, you made them.
If you wore a certain outfit, it was gospel. If you gave an artist the cold shoulder, their career was essentially on life support. You were charming, yes, but it was a calculated, lethal kind of charm—the kind that you’d lose your mind trying to detect.
And then there was Michael.
For years, the two of you had been locked in a cold war that played out in the headlines. It was a cycle of petty war.
During a Rolling Stone interview, when asked about his latest hit, you hadn't even looked up from your manicure. "Oh, Michael's great," you’d said with a bored, sharp smile. "He’s doing a really impressive job of mimicking the production style I debuted two years ago. It’s sweet, like a little tribute act."
At the Grammys, you’d walked right past his table, deliberately spilling your champagne so that his handlers had to scramble to clean it up, offering nothing but a dead eyed, "Oops, my bad."
Michael didn't play nice, either. In a broadcasted acceptance speech, he’d thanked his team for keeping his music about "real soul" and not just "a pretty voice and PR stunts," a jab so blatant it made the morning headlines the next day.
The night of the International Music Awards, the tension was suffocating. You were draped in a beautifully tight dress, Michael across the aisle in a tailored suit that cost more than a house. You spent the entire ceremony trading glares; every time he caught you looking, he’d just raise a brow, or roll his eyes, completely unimpressed, which only made you want to scream.
By 2:00 AM, you were on your way to the hotel. Your team was exhausted, and you dismissed them with a flick of your wrist. "Go away. I need to sleep for a week."
You swiped your keycard, the light chirped green, and you kicked the door shut behind you, ready to peel off your makeup and collapse. But you stopped dead.
Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket discarded on the floor, rubbing his temples as if he had the world's worst headache. He looked up, startled, his eyes wide.
"What the hell?" you breathed, staring at him like he was a roach in your kitchen.
Michael stood up, looking just as confused as you were. "What’re you doing here?" he asked, his voice rough. "This is my room."
"In your dreams, maybe," you snapped, waving your keycard at him. "This is my suite. I booked the penthouse. Get your shit and get out before I lose my mind."
"I booked the penthouse too, lady," he said, gesturing to his own room key on the nightstand. "I’ve been here for an hour."
You stormed toward him, your heels stabbing into the carpet. "Oh my God, I have absolutely zero desire to be breathing the same air as you right now. Get out you disgusting creep."
"Creep? Are you kidding me?" Michael walked over to the desk, his voice rising in genuine annoyance, dropping all that 'mean' act for a second. "I got here before you, Y/N. I didn't steal your fucking room."
"I’m not spending ten seconds in this room with you."
"You think I want to be stuck with you? You’re the last person I want to see after that shitshow of a ceremony."
You both stared at each other, the annoyance quickly curdling into genuine frustration. "This is a joke, right? Some kind of sick, twisted prank by the hotel?" You marched over to the bedside phone and slammed the receiver off the hook, dialing the front desk with aggressive, angry jabs.
"Yeah, hello?" you barked into the phone, not even waiting for a greeting. "There's a man in my room. A very annoying, very uninvited man. Fix this. Now."
You listened for a moment, your expression twisting into a mask of pure fury. You slammed the phone back down. "They’re 'lookin into it,'" you hissed at him. "Which means they have no clue what’s going on."
"Great," Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just great."
"We’re going to the front desk before I burn this entire Goddamn building down."you hissed, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the door.
Downstairs, the front desk clerk looked like he wanted to jump out of a window. He frantically tapped at his computer while you paced in front of the desk, heels clicking hard against the marble floor.
"I’m so, SO sorry," the clerk stammered, his voice shaking. "There was a mishap in the reservation book. The entire hotel is booked for the award show. I have absolutely nothing left."
"I don’t give a shit if you have nothing left," you snarled, your patience completely shredded. "Find me a room, or I’ll have this hotel torn down by morning."
"The only other option is the Riverside Inn," the clerk whispered. "It’s... it’s a two-star motel on the edge of town."
Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh. "A two-star? You’re joking."
"I’m not staying in a dump like that," you snapped, turning to Michael. "Fix it. You’re the 'Global Icon,' right pretty boy? Use your influence…or dance or something. Whatever it is you do to get us a real room."
"Oh, sure, let me just snap my fingers and make a room appear," Michael shot back, his voice starting to lose its patience. "Don't act like this is my fault. I’m just as annoyed as you are, brat."
"Don't call me a brat, asshole," you hissed.
You both stood there, glaring at each other, the lobby staff watching in terrified silence. It was clear: you were too vain to leave, he was too exhausted, and both of you were too stubborn to admit that the only option left was to tolerate each other’s presence for the night.
You looked at Michael, then back at the terrified clerk, your jaw locked. "I hate you," you growled. "I hope you know I’m going to make this the most miserable night of your pathetic life."
Michael just sighed, turning toward the elevator. "Yeah, yeah. Save that bullshit for the cameras, princess."
The ride back to the penthouse was a study in controlled rage. You stood in the far corner, arms crossed tightly over your chest, vibrating with the kind of cold, sharp anger that usually sent assistants into early retirement. Michael stood by the doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at his own reflection with a jaw so tight it looked like it might shatter.
When the doors slid open, you didn't even wait for him.
"I take the bed," you said, not looking at him. "You take anything else. If I even hear you breathing, I’m calling the front desk and telling them you’re harassing me."
Michael walked past you, throwing his own jacket over the back of a velvet armchair. "That’s fine by me, Y/N. Just keep your stuff on your side of the room. I don't want your designer nonsense touching my things."
"My 'nonsense' is worth more than your lousy ass career, so keep your crusty hands off my stuff," you snapped, tossing your heels aside and watching as they narrowly missed his feet.
You were mid argument, deep in a heated debate over who got access to the walk in closet—"I need it to curate my looks," you argued, to which he replied, "I need it to actually unpack, not play dress up"—when a sharp knock echoed at the door.
It was a waiter, looking terrified as he wheeled in a silver cart laden with an extravagant spread of pastries, chocolate truffles, and exotic fruits drenched in thick honey. He stammered a frantic apology from the manager, desperate to appease both of you. You scoffed, eyeing the spread. "Tell them to keep the bum ass bribe."
Michael, however, stepped forward, offering the waiter a warm, polite smile that made you want to gag. "Thank you. This is very kind of them," he said smoothly, before the guy practically sprinted out of the room.
He picked up a small, honey glazed pastry, turning it over in his fingers. It smelled intoxicating—deep, floral, and strangely heavy. He took a bite, his expression shifting from polite to genuinely impressed. "You should try this, actually. It's not bad."
"I’m not gonna eat from a hotel that can't even book a room correctly," you said, but the smell was starting to worm its way into your senses, making your mouth water against your will.
"Suit yourself," he murmured, his voice sounding weirdly satisfied as he reached for another, smacking his lips as he chewed.
"Can you stop?" you groaned, leaning against the marble counter. "The smacking. It’s like listening to a wet sponge. It’s fucking repulsive."
"Shut up and try one," he countered, holding the plate out.
You grabbed a honey covered strawberry, mostly just to get him to shut up, and took a reluctant bite. The flavor hit you like a physical force. Sweet, intense, and wildly addictive. You hated it. You hated that it was the one of the best things you’d ever tasted, and you hated even more that he was watching you, waiting for your reaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice low and smug.
"Fuck off," you muttered, though you were already reaching for another one.
An hour later, the room had gone quiet. The suite felt different—warmer, the air thicker. Michael had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower running providing a steady, rhythmic background to your boredom. You were sitting on the bed, robe pulled tight, watching a documentary on the television, but your focus was shattered.
A strange, prickling heat began to crawl up your spine. It was a slow, creeping tingle that made the fabric of your robe feel like sandpaper against your skin. Your heart rate spiked, a frantic, thumping rhythm that wouldn't slow down, and your hands felt unsteady as you reached for another fruit from the nightstand.
When the bathroom door finally opened, the tension in the room snapped into focus. Michael walked out, dressed in plain cotton pajamas that did nothing to hide the fact that he was looking just as frayed as you felt. He walked over and sat on the very edge of the bed, his back to you, his shoulders visibly tense.
He let out a long, ragged sigh, his head dropping back.
The sound irritated you to your core. "What’s your problem now?" you snapped, sitting up and pulling the robe tighter around your burning skin.
He didn't turn around. He just stared at the wall, his breathing noticeably heavy, his voice a low, strangled rasp. "Nothin’."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. You watched him, your own breath hitching as a wave of heat flooded to your stomach, your thighs clenching together, desperate for relief. He shifted, his posture suddenly rigid, and you caught the flash of a distinct, thickening bulge in his pajamas that he was clearly struggling to hide.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a hazy, dark intensity. "Are you... are you feeling kinda hot?"
You tightened your grip on the blanket, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. "A little," you lied, your voice breathless. The silence in the room was heavy. You went to the bathroom, your hands pressed against the cool tile, trying to wash the heat from your face. It was no use. Every shallow breath you took felt like you were inhaling honey—thick and intoxicating.
You walked back into the bedroom, your robe feeling like a weighted shackle. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn’t look up, but the way his hands gripped the edge of the mattress told you everything.
"I can’t take this," you breathed, your voice trembling. The air felt thin. "I’m so hot."
"Me too," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, raw and jagged. "We need to fix this."
He slowly looked up. His hair was a damp, messy wreck, and his eyes were dilated, black holes swallowing the dim light. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the way his gaze dragged over the slip of your robe made your stomach flip. You felt a deep, aching throb pulling at your core everything to do with the man sitting three feet away.
You didn't answer with words. You crossed the room in two strides, your movements fluid, and loomed over him. You reached out and shoved his chest, not hard, but enough to make him stumble back onto the mattress. "Move," you ordered.
He didn't fight you. He fell back, propping himself up on his elbows, watching you with a dangerous, hungry expectation. You climbed over him, the scent of the honeyed aphrodisiac radiating from his skin acting like a magnet. You straddled his hips, feeling the thick straining of his dick through his pajamas, and began to press down. You started moving against him, a slow, torturous grind that made his breath hitch.
“I can’t believe im doing this,” You gasp out, feeling his hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force, his thumb digging into your hip as he moves you against him faster. “This is so gross.”
He let out a frustrated grunt as his hips stuttered forward, a clumsy, needy twitch, pressing his firmly against the center of your panties. He looked up at you, his eyes glassy and needy, his face a messy, dark crimson where a deep blush had spread over his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked completely undone by the simple feeling of you against him. "Shut the fuck up," he grits, though he didn't stop, his hips rolling forward seeking the heat and friction you offered. You let out a small, breathy sound he leaned into it, another buck of his hips sending a jolt through both of you.
His hand slipped between you, fingers finding the edge of your panties. You held your breath as he traced along the seam, teasing without entering. Teasing you before his fingers slid beneath the lace, finding you slick and ready. A low groan escaped his throat. "God, you’re s'wet for me."
"Don’t flatter yourself." But the heat on your cheeks betrayed you. His touch was skilled, knowing exactly where to press, how to curl. Your hips began moving against his hand, chasing the friction with uncontrollable hunger.
But it wasn’t enough to calm the heat. You grab his wrist, stilling his movements. His eyes widened in surprise. His pants came off in a tangle of fabric and impatience. He lay beneath you, fully exposed, letting you drink in the sight. Lean hips. Defined stomach. The way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he watched you with anticipation.
You positioned yourself above him, feeling the tip press against your entrance. "Last..chance to back out," You pant.
He just smirked, hands resting on your hips as you slowly sinking down, every inch making your head fuzzy as you struggle to fully take him. The feeling was so overwhelming. His hands move to your thighs as you began to move, finding a rhythm that drove him deeper with each roll of your hips.
He threw his head back, a string of curses falling from his lips. He looked up at you with wide eyes, big hands moving to grip at every inch of your waist and hips.
You bit your lip, fighting back a smile as you look down at him, hands on his chest as you lazily roll your hips on his cock, his thick tip leaking deep inside your pussy.
"God... feels s'good," He babbles, voice shaky and lashes fluttering with every movement. His words encourage you to roll your hips faster, grinding his fat dick right against your cervix, wet squelching sounds harmonizing with his now louder whimpers.
His arms pull you down onto his chest, wrapping around you as he stuffs his face into your sweaty shoulder. His hips buck upward, creamy slick coating his length with every rut. The mixture creates an obscene glide between your bodies.
“Look at you—haah—moaning like a little bitch in heat.” You mock in between moans, letting out a small laugh as you grind against him, watching as his face scrunches up in pleasure, biting his lip to hold back from moaning. “Oh, you think that shit funny?” He grunts, letting out a frustrated, guttural sound and in one fluid motion, he flipped you, pinning you on your stomach beneath him. He was actually strong—terrifyingly so. He didn't waste time. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them wider, his eyes burning with that familiar, hateful intensity.
"Awww, look at you. Such a mess f’me."
Michael’s hips rock forward, driving his dick as deep as it would go into your tight walls, you claw at the blanket every time he even pushes an inch further into your cunt, fucking you into the mattress with slow and purposeful strokes until you swore you felt him in your throat.
This man is must be trying to kill me, you think to yourself as you clutch the pillow beneath you, it slowly becoming stained with sweat, tears, smeared with your mascara and lip gloss, you're becoming a complete mess yet he shows no sign of letting up soon. He was having sweet revenge. Your arms started to waiver, no longer able to support your weight as Michael continued to pound into you from behind, one hand molding the flesh of your ass while the other hand rests at your waist, tugging you back against his hips, slender fingers splayed across your curves, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Another high pitched whine leaves your lips as the tip of his cock nudges right against your sweet spot, dropping your head against the pillow as pleasure ignites every nerve in your body till you felt as if you were burning. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest and you swear you could just feel his stupid fucking grin tugging at his lips as he watches you slowly but surely lose every coherent and bitchy thought in your mind.
"Fuck," he curses lowly, his hand gripping your ass a little tighter, his eyes glued to the way your cunt clenched around him, sucking him right back in whenever his hips drew backwards. "Ain’t got nothing to say now do you? Creamin' round me like a good girl. My dick that good, huh?" His hand moves to your throat, gripping it tightly, watching you gasp for air.
There's a sharp reply sitting in the back of your throat—God knows you wanted to get him off his high horse so badly — but even if you could talk, there's no point in arguing. No one has ever fucked you like this and he knows this. He had you hooked. There was no escaping for you now.
You honestly should’ve felt embarrassed by the sounds you were making, clenching around him like you don't want him to leave, to stop just yet, and Michael only feeds into it, leaning his body over yours, giving your ass a good couple of hard smacks before planting both of his arms at the sides of yours til you could feel the sweaty heat of him on your back.
A whimper bubbles up on your barely glossed lips, the rest of it smeared across your face from where you've been writhing against pillows and blankets. Michael grins against your skin— the feeling of his lips on you causes goosebumps to rise across your neck and shoulders before he plants wet kisses along them until he reaches your lips.
Michael pulls his chest away from your sticky back, his hand pushing down on the small of it while his other finds your puffy clit between your dripping folds. A scream tears in the column of your throat as he simultaneously pumps his throbbing cock into you and draws his name across your clit in tight movements. The combination has your mind in a frenzy, clouding with visions of lust as your thighs tremble and struggle to keep you up.
Juices roll down you thighs in thick waves, gathering around Michael’s cock in a frothy white mix the more he fucks into you — the wet pap, pap, pap of his balls against your cunt echoing throughout your bedroom. You glaze him in your arousal, smearing it up his pelvis and the fronts of his toned thighs. you make him a complete mess. "ffuck s’too much," you babble out, eyes rolling to the back out your head as you reach your hand behind you, finger tips pushing against his pelvis in a desperate effort to slow him down.
"You’re doing so well, though. Keep singing for me, mama, lemme hear you." He praises over your loud tune of kitten mewls, breathless pants and soft hiccups, feeling him reach for your arm and tossing it off him. You can feel yourself getting closer and he's not even fully inside of you. He can feel it too. But Michael doesn't falter, placing his foot on the bed as leverage to move his hips faster, harder— groaning deep between bared and gritted fangs while he watches your ass jiggle against his pelvis, shining with your slick. "You gonna cum, baby?"
“D-don’t fucking call me that,” you grit out, though he doesn’t really care for what you’re saying for the musician is already playing with your sensitive clit once again, drawing electrifying shapes against it and rubbing your juices back into your sex while you clench around his sloppy cock. The hotel mix up had to be one of the best accidents you've ever experienced, you think as you fall apart— eyes rolling far back into your skull while you clench and cream on him.
"Atta girl," Michael coos as you come down from your earth shattering high, a mess of weak bones and jelly legs in his arms. "You're so fucking disgusting," You pant, though your body says otherwise, clenching his dick with a vice like grip. "Get off me."
"Cant when you're dripping down my… and..., fuck," His words struggle to come out of his mouth as he cums hard, his entire body shuddering, pumping his thick load into you while you groan— partially at his audacity, but mostly at how full you feel.
The aftermath was a slow descent. You lay there, tangled in the disheveled sheets, your limbs feeling like weights. The room was deathly quiet, save for the ragged, synchronized gasping that filled the space between you. You were a mess—sore, flushed, and utterly breathless—yet your body was still humming with the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac.
He slowly pulls out, flipping you on your back so he could see your precious face, but his eyes drift back to your leaking pussy, watching a mix of your releases seep out of you and onto the starch sheets. You scrunch your face up at the feeling, your chest heaving, trying to gather the shredded remnants of your pride. "That," you rasped, your voice cracking as you struggled to sound dismissive, "was a disgusting mistake. I don't know what came over me, but it won't happen again."
Michael let out a low chuckle. He propped himself up on one elbow, his hair wild and his gaze dark with a triumphant, knowing amusement. He didn't say a word; he just leaned down, captured your chin in his hand, and tilted your head back. He kissed you—slow, deep, and impossibly possessive—until your stubborn resolve crumbled into nothingness, your fingers curling into his damp hair to pull him closer.
Just as you were spiraling back into his orbit, a sharp, polite knock rapped against the suite door.
"Ma’am?" a muffled voice called out. "I just wanted to inform you that we’ve managed to open up another premium suite if you’d like to relocate?"
You pulled back, chest heaving, and looked at Michael. You both went silent, staring at the door. You looked at each other—at the wreck of the room, the clothes strewn everywhere, and the heat still radiating off your skin.
"We're... we're fine," you called out, your voice sounding breathless and shy, a far cry from your usual cold, untouchable persona. "We'll stay here."
"Very well," the worker replied, their voice tight with suppressed excitement.
As the worker’s footsteps receded, they tiptoed down the hall to where a group of hotel staff had been huddled, holding their breath in the corridor. As soon as the worker rounded the corner, they let out a jubilant, hushed cheer.
"They totally fucked," the worker whispered, grinning at the manager, who was practically vibrating with relief. "The honey worked."
The manager leaned against the wall, fanning their face with a clipboard, a smug, brilliant smile spreading across their lips. In a desperate, high stakes gamble to save their jobs from your wrath, they had concocted the perfect dish—a blend of rare, potent ingredients they hoped would finally break the tension between the two most difficult stars on the planet. It hadn't just saved their jobs, it had changed the entire industry's dynamic overnight.
Back in the suite, you had no idea about the little plan. You just glared at Michael, who was currently pulling you closer to him as he laid back on the pillows, his smirk wider than ever.
"I still hate you," you mumbled into his chest.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his hands wandering back down to your waist, his eyes darkening as he was about to remind you once more why you weren't leaving that room. "I know."
tags — @daddysporsche, @chrollosblackgf66, @theyluvnene, @amoureill, @mcazziesstuff
