⌞⋆｡˚₊ 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 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.
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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."
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.
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.
"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.
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."
tags!! @strawbevrri @syrraj @sugarbombfart @animegamerfox @pixieelixer-24
