premise: naoya is a fucking loser who doesn't like your wife because he secretly wants to be her
it was no secret that naoya zenin saw women as less than. any and every individual from the opposite sex that he's come across has immediately been deemed in his mind as replaceable and unimportant. a useless waste of space that has no ulterior motive aside from serving and breeding offspring.
however, amongst the women he has met in his lifetime, he especially hated your wife. there wasn't even an actual reason for it as far as anyone knew. the lady hadn't even spoken a word to him before! yet, his disdain was as clear as day whenever she did as much as step foot in the same room as him. the whole grudge he had against them was unreasonable and just plain ridiculous to anyone that saw it.
furthermore, if he were to be asked about it, the sorcerer would immediately deny it. he'd wave off any questions that brought to attention the dirty glare he was sending her way or the noises of disapproval that would be loudly made by him whenever the two of you showed any sort of affection for each other.
he absolutely didn't feel any way about it. nope, not one bit. naoya didn't care about the way you lightly had your big, calloused hand placed around the curve of her hip. or the way that you'd give her a kiss on the forehead—or worse, her lips—before dismissing yourself to a meeting with the higher-ups of the zenin clan. why the hell would he care about those things anyway?
his habit of walking around your part of the estate at night 'to get some water' also didn't mean anything. the way he'd slow down his steps to hear you fucking that worthless whore through the walls was just pure coincidence, and it was his bad luck to have passed by right when it was happening. even if he'd been a 'victim' of the noise more than ten times already, all those were by accident, he swore!
when he took it a step further and actually peeked through the unsealed hole of the door leading into your bedroom, he didn't see anything wrong with it either. why would it be there if you didn't want people snooping in on the area? nonetheless, it still meant nothing. not when he witnessed you relentlessly pounding into your poor wife's puffy pussy, who was idly begging for you to slow down because she couldn't take any more. not when he shoved a hand into his pants and rubbed his leaking cock with the same speed at which you were thrusting into her.
"I could handle him so much better than that slut," he'd whisper to himself, arm steadily stroking the throbbing flesh in his hand. "if it was me in her place, I'd never cry; I would take it for so much longer than she ever can." naoya would claim that he's only spouting those things because he's looking down on your wife and her lack of composure, but when his own hole starts to pulse with need too, he can't come up with a reason to excuse that.
when you finally calm down and call it a night is when it hits naoya the strongest, though. because while you are now starting to clean up your exhausted wife, peppering her with kisses and praise for taking you so well, he's left with nothing but a cramp going up his forearm from masturbating and a dirty hand layered with his own fluids.
why the hell does she deserve to be treated so delicately while he's forced to go back to his room and silently wash himself clean? she's just a woman; once you were done relieving yourself, you should've left her to deal with the aftermath and gone to his part of the estate. she's weak and irrelevant; she didn't deserve all of your undivided attention. more important people deserved it. more important people like him.
however, until the day comes that you realize that, he'll just endure her existence to the best of his capabilities.
ps: here's a small piece of writing to show I'm not dead ✌ I've been busy so I haven't gotten on here as much but I'ma try and see if I can make a routine for myself to post more consistently
also, I normally don't like writing for one fandom back to back cause I want to expand my audience, but with the s3 of jjk coming out I might end up making a whole fanfiction for the anime 🙈 DON'T hold me to it tho, ya'll know how I get about commitment
he didn't need to be tied up. no handcuffs, no ropes, no locks—nothing. jabber had no reason to be, not when you had eyes that glared at him coldly, telling him to shut the fuck up the moment he opened his mouth to speak.
his favorite thing about you is that he didn't even have to try. he thought if he wanted your attention, acting up would be the fastest way to get you to treat him like trash. but he quickly realized that you didn't play games like that, preferring obedient pups that obeyed every order that came out of your mouth.
which is why he now kneeled in front of you with your hand gripping his jaw, turning his head left and right as you pleased after you slapped him twice for cumming before you told him he could. it’s not like he meant to, he truly tries to do everything you ask of him!
but in truth, it was your fault! just like you asked, he opened his mouth wide, letting his tongue lol out before your spit landed in the back of his throat. he groaned as he swallowed, his eyes rolling backward as his orgasm took him to cloud nine before he could even process what had just happened.
unfortunately, his mistake soiled the bottom of your pants, right before you had business to attend to, and he wasn't even saying sorry, trying to stop himself from grinning stupidly at the pleasure.
“what am i supposed to do now? i can’t go to my meeting like this.”
“fuck your meeting.”
slap.
not even a hint of resistance. his hands were still obediently placed behind his back, his cock twitching boldly with excitement from the crotch opening of his pants.
you sighed. he was hopeless. his were cheeks red from the impact of your slaps, and yet his dick ached for more.
Nagi Seishiro can be such a pillow princess. When he's all sleepy after soccer practice, he's too lazy to lift a finger - even to get himself off.
He'll be lazily humping himself against your leg, curled into your side, propped up on his elbow as he plays one of his mobile shooter games on his phone. His tongue is poking out in concentration, and every now and then he'll let out soft little noises when you shift and your thigh moves against him.
You won’t be paying him much attention, engrossed in your own phone, as this is pretty normal behavior from him after a long day.
After a particularly strong roll of his hips and a frustrated little whine leaving his mouth, you’ll giggle, glancing up at him from your phone.
“Sei, do you wanna have sex?”
Nagi will bite his lip softly, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly, eyes not leaving his game. “Nnh...Sounds like a lot of work. M’too tired today…”
You laugh again, resting your hand atop his head and scratching lightly at his scalp through his soft, white hair, making his eyes flutter a bit.
“Okay, hun. Just askin’ ‘cause you’ve been rubbing your dick against me for a half hour now.”
Nagi whines, pressing against you a little harder.
“Y-Yeah, cause m’hard…”
“I can feel that,” you tease him. “Do you wanna do anything about it?”
Nagi will whine again, as if exasperated by his own body’s needs and their insistence upon tearing him away from the blissful act of bedrotting with you. He looks up at you with his big, grey eyes, and that sleepy little pout on his face that renders you unable to say no to him.
“Can you do it?” he blinks at you hopefully, then adds a soft “please?”
Of course you give in. How are you supposed to resist him?
Nagi will whine again when you ask him to lift his hips for you, huffing as he reluctantly does so.
“Oh, I know, such an inconvenience,” you tease him as you pull his shorts down his hips, freeing his hard cock, which smacks against his tummy. “Did I bother my sleepy little princess by asking him to move a muscle? My poor baby,” you pout at him sarcastically, and you maybe would’ve missed the way he bites into his bottom lip and whimpers softly at your words, if it weren’t for his cock noticeably jumping at the same time.
“Does that turn you on?” You raise an eyebrow at him as you wrap a hand around his aching cock, and Nagi lets out a long breath, jaw falling open in a moan as his phone falls from his hands. “You like when I baby you? When I tease you for being my spoiled little princess? Huh?”
Nagi nods, throwing himself over you like a koala, his right leg wrapped over your tummy, his hips pressing against yours in a way that effectively renders your hand unable to move. You chuckle again at his antics, struggling to pull your hand out from between you, making him whine as he rolls his hips into you. It's times like this when you're reminded that your boyfriend is 6'3", well-built, and not easy to manhandle, despite his behavior.
“Shiro, baby, y'can't just slump on me like this. I can’t even move my hand."
At least you expected the dramatic whine he lets out this time. You can read his mind – so much work – as he lifts his hips a bit and tilts them to the right, leaving his aching cock poking out between both of your tummies.
So cute, you think, as you wrap your hand back around it. “Theeere you go,” you murmur to him, watching as his eyes roll back. Nagi moans, softly rocking himself into your hand as he cozies up to you, nuzzling his head into your neck.
“Jus’ wanted to cuddle while we do it,” he whispers against your ear, and your heart clenches at how adorable he is.
“I know, baby. Does it feel good?”
He nods into your neck, his voice coming out soft and shaky when he answers. "Uh-huh. K-keep going."
You let him stay right there, cuddled into your side, eyes closed, soft noises of pleasure spilling from his lips as you stroke him. It’s moments like these when you can appreciate how much Nagi trusts you – he knows he doesn’t need to be the same monster that he is on the field when he’s alone with you. He lets himself be soft, pliant, even lazy, because he knows you’ll take care of him.
Nagi doesn’t warn you when he’s close, but you know the signs; the way his leg tightens around you, and his breathing picks up, each huff against your skin punctuated by a soft, whimpery noise. You press your thumb right below his tip, rubbing in a firm circle.
“You close, Sei?”
“Uh-huh,” he mutters, fingers coming to grasp at the material of your sweater, “gonna cum.”
You kiss the top of his head gently. “Go ahead, love.”
Nagi’s body tenses against yours, and with a couple more strokes, he lets go with a shudder, spilling all over your fist and both of your tummies, gasping into your neck at the pleasure that courses through him as your hand mostly stills, just squeezing him in gentle pulses to get him through it.
Nagi slumps against you when he’s finished, panting heavily as your clean hand rubs up and down his back in soothing motions.
“There ya go. S’that better, Sei?” You whisper to him, and he nods, whimpering softly, and plants a kiss on your neck. “Poor thing, you were hard for so long. Jus’ waiting for me to do something, huh? My big baby.”
“Love you~” he slurs, nuzzling into you harder.
“I love you, too.”
For a couple minutes, you’re able to ignore the warm, sticky sensation of Nagi’s cum decorating your stomach in favor of stroking his fluffy hair and letting him bask in the afterglow, finally able to fully relax after his long day.
Only for so long, though.
“Okay, Sei, time to get cleaned up. I’ll cuddle you after we take a shower, ok?”
Silence.
“Seishiro?”
Then you hear it – a soft snore coming from your boyfriend’s figure, slumped deadweight on top of you. You lift your hand to your face with a sigh and spread your fingers, watching his thick cum web between them as you debate with yourself whether you’d rather put up with another hour of being sticky and wet, or the whiny fit Nagi is bound to throw if you wake him up and drag him to the bathroom.
So much work.
-ˋˏ᯽ a/n: had to get this out of my head! i love nagiii i love sleepy boys who can't do anything for themselves and just wanna get taken care of <3 ....so much more bllk stuff in the works btw like 10+ ness drabbles in drafts...also ppl who've requested stuff tysm i love u & i'll get to it soon!!
— ✧ thinking about kryptonian!reader and dick grayson...
dick's sprawled out on your bedsheets, a long leg hooked over your shoulder, body bent in half in a manner only possible for dick grayson, while you pound into him from above. you’re only using a fraction of your power, but for him, it feels like you're pulverizing and then sewing his insides back together at the same time.
every time you harshly thrust into dick’s wet hole, he lets out an embarrassing half moan, half wheeze, but it doesn’t seem to deter you, keeping up your steady strokes.
“fuck,” dick cries out, when a particularly hard thrust makes your cock hit his prostate directly. he moves one of his hands braced up against the headboard down to a sensitive, stiff nipple. he twists and tugs at it hard enough to make his mouth drop open in pleasure and moan out loudly again. dick’s hole is messy and puffy and frothily white from your past three or four (and fuck, he’s so gone he can’t even remember how many times you came in him) loads.
you pant heavily above him, and the look on your face is worth the nasty bruises he’ll probably have on his hips where you’re gripping them tightly (you’re lucky he loves you because that is going to make patrolling tonight such a bitch).
the wet plap! of your thighs and his ass colliding is downright fucking obscene, and holy shit, that’s probably one of the hottest things he’s ever heard.
dick clenches down on your cock, making you groan. you remove one of your hands from his hips to cup his cheek, leaning down to sloppily kiss his open mouth. it’s more of a wet, messy gliding of lips than it is a kiss, but it’s hot as fuck and dick’s going to come soon so he doesn’t care.
one of your hands moves from his hip to smack his ass. dick’s eyes roll up into the back of head, and he gasps in surprise.
“you like that, baby?” you pant.
“fuck yeah, i love it,” dick groans back.
he cries out when you do it again, this time with your other hand. “mm, I love this pretty hole,” you groan, “it’s all mine, right? my hole to do whatever I want with.”
“yeah? you want me to fuck you? fuck you so hard that you forget your own damn name?” your pounding speeds up, and your strokes grow shorter. dick automatically grinds down onto you to meet your thrusts. you reach down between your sweat slick bodies and tug at dick’s throbbing cock. dick’s abdomen tenses up, and he can feel his orgasm approaching.
he nods dumbly, now unable to make any sounds other than moaning and whimpering. you withdraw the other hand on his hip to grasp the headboard roughly, allowing yourself more leverage to fuck dick harder–something that didn’t even seem possible at this point.
“f–fuck, i love you so much, dick,” you moan out loudly, and dick fucking loses it.
he comes with a shout, back arching up and painting long stripes of thick, white cum across both of your stomachs. “love you…” he murmurs over and over as he rides out his orgasm on your cock.
your mouth drops open in pleasure as you continue to thrust sloppily into dick, hand above him on the headboard squeezing down harder. the burn of overstimulation is painful yet at the same time feels so good, but dick doesn’t have the energy to let out anything except for satisfied sighs and low gasps.
your hips stutter to a stop, pressing into him as close as you can. hot, thick liquid floods inside of dick, and he gasps, tears pricking at his eyes. you keep thrusting in and out of dick, slower now, riding out the rest of your orgasm. wood splinters and cracks above him. wait—what?
with furrowed brows and a dazed expression, dick looks up and holy shit.
you broke his headboard.
wood sticks up and out underneath your hand, and dick, momentarily forgetting your invulnerable skin, winces at the thought of never ending splinters. you wouldn’t have even noticed in your fucked out and hazy mind, but dick suddenly going quiet makes your brows furrow in confusion and you look up as well.
you gape and snatch your hand away from dicks headboard, looking down at dick with a pout and a guilty expression.
“shit, baby i’m sor–” dick cuts you off, a hand rising to snake around your neck and pull you down into a proper kiss. it’s slow and gentle now that the heat of the moment is gone, your lips moving with dicks automatically, as if you had done this a thousand times before–because you had.
you break away slightly, enough to murmur against his lips, “i’m sorry, i’ll buy you a new one.”
dick smiles and shakes his head. “it’s ok, you don’t have to,” he whispers back.
you sigh and pull completely away from dick, slowly sliding out of him with a wet pop. dick winces at the uncomfortable feeling in his ass as you flop down on your stomach beside him.
you both lie in silence for a moment before you sigh and get up, heading towards the bathroom. dick absentmindedly appreciates the view of your ass as you walk away.
you come back a little bit later with a wet washcloth and you begin cleaning dick and yourself up. once you’re done, you toss the washcloth in the general direction of the dirty laundry hamper (you miss by the way, which dick slightly cringes at).
laying down on the bed again, this time on your back. you turn toward dick and he knows what you're about to say before you even open your mouth. dick sits up and leans over you, pressing his lips against yours again in a sweet kiss. he draws back and grins lazily at you.
“it’s ok,” he says again. “don’t worry about it.”
you frown but keep quiet. dick notices your eyes starting to flutter shut.
“tired?” he asks.
you nod and hum, eyes finally shutting.
dick lays back down next to you on his side, hooking a leg over your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. he sighs heavily as he adds buy new headboard to his mental to-do list.
Summary: His desperate phone call pulls you to Hayvenhurst, to get you in a place he's comfortable in; the studio. He plays an isolated vocal with trembling hands, sexually charged lyrics, searching your face for approval. The thrill of you has him completely unraveled. Michael is caught between what he wants and what he's been taught to fear, unsure how to reconcile the two.
Tags: 18+, smut, sub!Michael (I mean is he really or just inexperienced?), thriller era, Michael is battling between religion and wanting to risk it ALL for you, oral sex (male receiving), first meeting, mutual pining, friends with benefits, studio session as foreplay (???), p*rn w plot basically,
Word Count: 5481
Author’s Note: i do not think that anything could live up to the first part in this lil series, it was meant to be a stand alone, but y'all were IN my dms lmao. hope u enjoy mike getting some fun, he certainly deserves it ;)
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
18+ minors DNU
You were in your apartment getting ready when the phone rang. You were halfway through your makeup, focused on getting your eyeliner just right, and you let it ring out. Whoever it was could call back. Lay All of Your Love on Me by ABBA blasting out from your turntable speakers, loud enough to shake the vanity beneath your hands.
It went to the answering machine.
His voice came through on the speaker phone, over your noisy room, a little rushed, like he'd called without thinking it through first:
"Hey, um, it's Michael. Jackson. Michael Jackson– umm. I know we were supposed to meet up later but I—"
There was a pause. You could hear him breathing.
"Can you just come over? To the house, to Hayvenhurst? Like, this afternoon? I don't want to meet you somewhere public. If we go out they'll mob us and I can't— put you through that. I just need to see you without all of the annoyances. Without people watching. Just come straight to the gate and I'll—I'll meet you there, okay? I couldn't stop thinking about you all week and I don't want to wait any longer. Please? Ok. Goodbye."
There was the sound of him hanging up, then the mechanical beep of the machine.
You stood there in your half-done makeup and stared at the phone, music still blasting in the background.
You grinned almost manically as the crescendo built on the last chorus of the ABBA song, the entire apartment suddenly feeling too small to contain the electricity buzzing beneath your skin.
“Don’t go wasting your emotion…”
The words crashed through the room like they were meant specifically for you, like the universe itself was laughing at how impossible it would be to stay calm after that phone call. Your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. Michael Jackson had just called sounding desperate; he didn’t sound like the untouchable megastar the world saw on television. Just Michael. Breathless. Impatient. Wanting you there now.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, one eye lined perfectly, the other unfinished, lipstick still uncapped on the vanity. The song swelled louder. Dramatic. Hungry. Urgent. You did one finally layer of eyeliner to even it out.
“Lay all your love on me…”
God. The way he’d said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. The way his voice caught slightly on please.
Your stomach flipped violently.
Every second you stayed in the apartment started to feel unbearable, like wasted time. Like he was pacing somewhere inside Hayvenhurst waiting for you already. Maybe looking out the windows. Maybe replaying the call in his head wondering if he sounded too eager. Maybe counting the minutes until you arrived.
You snatched up your keys so fast they nearly slid from your hand. The eyeliner pencil rolled forgotten across the vanity. ABBA kept roaring through the speakers behind you as you rushed for the door, heart racing faster and faster with every thought of him waiting there alone, hidden away from the world, wanting you before anyone else could take another piece of him first.
₊˚°⊹˚
The taxi pulled up to Hayvenhurst Avenue around four o'clock. The gates were impressive even from the street, black and imposing, and there were people standing outside them. Not a huge crowd, but enough to be weird; three or four girls in their twenties, one older woman with a camera around her neck, all of them just... waiting.
Watching.
When you stepped out of the taxi they all turned to look at you at once. Their expressions shifted from hopeful to dismissive in about half a second — you weren't anyone they recognized, so you were nobody. One of them actually rolled her eyes.
You felt a bit small under their gaze, and wrong, like you didn't have the right to be here. But you straightened yourself, your 60s shift dress flowing in the wind slightly, and you shrugged it off.
You walked toward the gates despite the numerous eyes on you. Toward the buzzer.
You buzzed and waited. Then, all of a sudden, rapid footsteps.
Michael appeared almost running down the drive, but you could tell he was still trying to act casual. You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling - what a sight. The butter yellow shirt and bright orange wooly jumper against his skin made him look almost otherworldly — like he'd stepped out of a dream. His hair dark was shorter than you thought it'd be, but still very curly. His skin was gorgeous, like smooth caramel in the California sun. He looked pretty enough to devour.
He was moving fast, purposeful, and when he saw you through the bars of the gate his whole face did something that made the fans' heads whip around in aching unison.
He unlocked the gate from inside and let you step through it, closing it behind you so the other girls couldn't follow, and then he was standing in front of you and you couldn't breathe properly.
He was real. In front of you. Not a voice on the phone or a picture in the newspaper or in a music video on the television screen. He was tall and he smelled like powdery cologne and something sweet, his hair was falling into his face perfectly and he was looking at you with a worshiping, adoring look.
"Hi," he said softly, a great big wide grin on his face. His teeth were impossibly white and straight.
"Hi."
"Now…Your dad showed me your picture," he said, almost immediately, like he'd been holding it in. "The one on his desk at Epic. But you're so much more beautiful in person."
Heat bloomed across your chest. You didn't know what to say to that and before you could even think to reply, he’d moved on from it.
"I'm sorry about them." He glanced at the fans behind him, at the way they were staring. "They're always here. I don't usually—" He stopped himself from explaining their stares. "Can I hold your hand?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course."
He reached out and took your hand, and his palm was warm and his grip was gentle and he looked at your joined hands like he couldn't quite believe they were connected. He brought you closer to him.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said quietly. "All week. I needed to see you."
"Michael, I—" You didn't know what to say.
"Come on." He pulled you gently away from the gates and prying eyes. "Let's get inside."
He turned and gave a brief nod to the security guard stationed at the small entrance building on the estate. The wealth that this family had, genuinely was incomprehensible to you. Michael didn’t have that air about him, he seemed like he was down on earth in some ways, and high in the sky in others.
He kept your hand the entire walk up the drive. You could see the house getting bigger as you approached, could see details you'd only ever glimpsed in photos, and it was surreal — this whole thing was surreal. You were here. You were actually here.
It was crazy, you didn’t even know what compelled you to call him that night. Boredom mostly, and the thought that it would ring a few times and he’d not answer.
Your father had told you all about Michael, his charisma, the spectre of his talent. How he could command a room when he was singing, but also the hushed conversations over the console when Michael was laying down vocal in the studio. The producers and executives at Epic were always fed information on the young star. He seemed lonely in a room of people; someone who needed direction, away from all the ‘yes’ men, merely in his orbit for his money. Your father always stuck up for Michael, you felt a strange longing to do the same.
You felt a need to make him feel something other than adoration from fans, you wanted him to have some sense of normality - you were, for the most part, living a normal life in LA. You could bring him up to speed, let him see that his fame doesn’t need to hold him back from absolutely everything.
He squeezed your hand, like he was checking you were real to him.
₊˚°⊹˚
Michael guided you through the doors of Hayvenhurst, through the hallowed halls of the infamous Jackson family. It smelled oddly sweet, like cookies and flowers. You ogled in awe at the entryway and the hallways until you started hearing chatter and television static down the luscious, pristine hall.
The living room was chaos.
"—I'm telling you, he was out of bounds, the whole play was—"
"Randy, you can't just make up rules—"
"I'm not making up rules, those ARE the rules you moron—"
The petite girl on the sofa with big hair, you assumed after seeing pictures, was Janet. She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, half-watching the basketball game and half-reading a magazine.
When you and Michael came through the door she looked up and her eyes went straight to your joined hands, to the way Michael looked at you like you might disappear if he let go.
She didn't say anything, but Marlon, who was leaning against the doorframe of the opposite door that led to another hallway, caught it too.
He and Janet exchanged a look that was loaded with information.
"Oh, heyyyyy," Marlon said, drawing it out like he was tasting the word. Like he hadn't been expecting you.
Like he hadn't heard Michael practically vibrating with nervous energy all afternoon.
"This is Y/N," Michael said quickly. "Her dad's part of my team at Epic."
"Right," Marlon said slowly. He was looking at your hand in Michael's hand. "The producer's daughter."
"Oh, THIS is the girl Mikey was drooling over at the receiver earlier," Randy said, finally sitting up from where he'd been sprawled on the floor with a pillow. "Wait, isn't this your first time meeting her in person?"
Michael's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "Yes. It is. And we're going to use the studio, so please do not disturb us. Or you'll get clapped around the head, you schmucks."
"So this is like a first date situation," Randy continued, totally ignoring what Michael said, his grin spreading. "That's bold, Mikey. Bringing a girl back here on the first try — she'll probably run away screaming when she meets Joseph."
"Don't joke about that," Michael said, but there was an edge to his voice now. You felt him tense up, felt his hand grow slightly sweaty in yours.
Marlon slowly made his way from the threshold of the room and plopped himself down beside Janet, who'd gone back to her magazine with a smirk plastered across her face.
"Y'all better be sneaky if you don't want caught by the parentals," Janet piped, her voice muffled behind the magazine. "They'll have ALL sorts of smothering questions. Mother will want to know your entire family history, Y/N."
"And Father will want to know your intentions with her, Mikey." Marlon added with mock seriousness. “That man is gonna be setting up lawyers; locked and loaded with a prenup, just like he did with good ol’ horny boy, Jermaine”
"Dad is gonna freak when he realises half of his fortune is at stake," Randy said, cackling at his own joke.
"Randy, shut up," Michael said, but there was no heat in it. He was already flustered enough.
Randy jumped up from watching the game and darted over to Michael, clearly trying to dap him up. Michael let go of your hand to shove him away, but Randy just grinned wider.
"My big bro FINALLY got some game," Randy announced to the room like he'd just made a major scientific discovery.
"Man, you guys are the worst," Michael said, shaking his head and nervously running his hands through his hair. "I was trying to play it cool and you all start acting like complete idiots."
"JANET," came a painfully loud, high-pitched voice from the echo-y hallway. "Mother wants your opinion on new patio furniture from the catalogu—"
LaToya walked into the living room, stopping dead when she saw everyone standing there. She looked at you, then at Michael, her eyes wide with shock.
"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raising in an exaggerated arc. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"
"No," Michael supplied almost immediately. "We are going to the studio so I can let her hear the song that I’ve been working on, for the new album."
"Mmm-hm," LaToya said, and it was the most loaded 'mmm-hm' you'd ever heard. "Of course. Working on the song."
Michael grabbed your hand again and started dragging you toward the hallway. "C'mon, Y/N, let's leave these Neanderthals behind before they say anything else mortifying."
"Too late," Janet called after you both,
You followed along, your arm outstretched in front of you as he pulled you through the house and then out another door onto the driveway. The evening was cooling down, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky.
"Our studio is just across here," he said, turning back to look at you as he walked, his excitement finally breaking through the embarrassment. "Fully kitted out. State of the art."
He was already pulling you toward a separate building, this sleek modern structure that looked like it had been added on recently. When he pushed the door open you stepped into controlled chaos; equipment everywhere, soundproofing on the walls, a mixing board that looked like it cost more than a car.
Interestingly, there were post-it notes covering most of the felt walls. Sketched drawings, yellow paper scrawled with black or red sharpie. You realised you were seeing a map of Michael’s internal monologue whilst he worked. It was just as chaotic as you imagined.
But Michael went straight to the tape machine, his entire demeanor shifting. The nervousness fell away. This was his space. This was where he was in control.
"Okay, so—" He was already threading a tape in, his hands moving with an understanding not many people have of that apparatus. " I have been working on this for about three weeks.” He grinned back at you.
“All thanks to your Dad for helping green light this new project” He supplied after.
“Jackie, my older brother, has been helping me hone in on the tone of the lyrics I was writing for a concept song I am working on. I wanted to lean into something a bit more synthesized. Much darker than Off The Wall”.
You chewed your lip in anticipation of being able to be one of the first people to hear this demo.
The tape finally stopped rewinding with a short ‘Click’ and it was ready to go. You got a bit of fright when the demo started playing, a sharp creak of a door opening and shutting, and then all of a sudden, Michael howling like a wolf in the background. It was clearly a rough cut up of his vision.
You side eyed him after hearing this, not fully trusting his process on this one, and he was already staring at you, his eyes large, hopeful, saying ‘give it a chance.’
Then the beat kicked in, strong horns in staccato, blaring over the track, and then finally the Michael you had listened to over and over again on his first separately produced solo album. His tenor was smooth, he was an expert in being, not only a soulful singer, but also able to be the rhythm as well through his adlibs, and his beatboxing. The song was almost fully realised just with him making sounds with his mouth. Good with his mouth, you thought.
He played the rest of the song, and bopped and beat boxed along to it, whilst holding eye contact with you. It was really intense. You could not believe the change in him — the way his whole body moved with the rhythm, the way his voice could shift from vulnerable to commanding in a single breath.
This wasn't the boy who'd been mortified by his siblings upstairs. This was someone else entirely. Someone creatively dangerous in the best way possible.
When it ended, the tape spooled to silence and Michael turned to you, breathless, his chest still moving with the energy of what he'd just performed along to.
"That's called 'Thriller,'" he said quietly, straight back to his airy speaking voice.
"Thriller," you repeated. It fit. Everything about it; the wolf howls, the darkness underneath the pop production, the way his voice became almost predatory in places… it all made sense now. "Michael, that's..."
"Tell me honestly."
"Honestly?" You shook your head. "I think that's its the most sophisticated thing you've ever done. The production, the concept — it's not like anything on the radio right now and that’s a fact."
He smiled, but it wasn't his shy smile. It was something more confident, more sure of itself. He reached over and rewound the tape again.
"I want to play you something else," he said. "There's a bridge section that I wanted to take out, as it felt a bit too sexual, the innuendo. Jackie suggested I just let lose and try it, and I wasn't sure but now I think—" He stopped himself, looking at you.
"Actually, before I do that, I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"Do you feel it? What I'm trying to do here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, do you understand what I'm going for? Because most people don't get it. They hear the pop hooks and they think it's just a dance record. But it's not. It's supposed to be scary. It's supposed to make you uncomfortable but also, elated, make you feel thrilled."
He was animated now, his hands moving as he talked. "I want people to feel hunted when they listen to it. I want them to feel like something's chasing them and they can't escape it and whether that's a zombie or a crazed crush in the night… that’s up to who’s interpreting."
You thought about the phone call. About how vulnerable he'd been, how exposed. And then you thought about this — him in his element, confident and commanding, talking about his art with you like you’d always been in the room with you. He had no ego though, completely stripped of one, he spoke as if he knew that you would be able to understand everything he was talking about.
You couldn’t, but with the way he looked and spoke at you - you might just be able to figure it out. His vulnerability was what gave that little bit of darkness in him, its teeth.
"Yeah," you said. "I feel it."
He looked at you like you'd just given him the most important compliment of his life. Then he turned back to the mixing board and started adjusting levels, his fingers moving over the knobs with practiced ease.
"Tell me honestly if the innuendo was too much, because I don’t really have a reader on these things, if I am completely honest," Michael said, not looking away from what he was doing. "But it's said that the best artists are the ones who aren't afraid to show people the parts of themselves that scare them or that they have not tried to utilize yet. The parts they usually hide."
"It’s hard to hide from your inner monologue, it's why I journal." You supplied, feeling nervous that you weren’t getting it.
He smiled at you.
The tape that changed and rewound started playing, a muffled static and hum of the mic and then his isolated vocal - “all through the night” his strong vibrato lingering in the otherwise empty and quiet studio, “I’ll save you from the terror on the screen, I’ll make you see, that this is thriller, thriller night.”
Then he grabbed your arm, and signalled to listen to the next line, ‘cause I can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try”.
The line hung in the charged silence.
His eyes were wide, vulnerable, waiting for your judgment on the lyric, on the boldness of it. You didn't answer with words. You stepped forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was a soft, firm press of your lips to his, an answer in itself.
He froze, a startled little "Mmph!" caught in his throat. Then he melted, his hands coming up to hover near your shoulders before finally settling, trembling, on your upper arms. The kiss was achingly chaste, closed-mouthed, lasting only a few seconds before he broke it, pulling back just enough to look at you, his breath coming in quick, shallow puffs.
“I really am glad you decided to call me, because this is what I have been needing… what I have been missing” He said, quietly.
This time, he pulled you in with confidence. His lips moved tentatively against yours, and when you gently coaxed them apart, he sighed—a surrendering, warm sound—and let you in. The kiss deepened slowly, becoming wetter, hotter. His hands slid down your arms to your waist, clutching the fabric of your dress.
You walked him backward until his legs hit the low, wide leather listening couch. He sank down, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap. The position made him gasp into your mouth.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"I want to..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard.
"I want to touch you. So much. But I can't... you know, I can't go all the way. It's not right. Not yet. Maybe not ever, I don't know, it's all so confusing..." He sounded genuinely distressed, torn between desire and deep-seated doctrine.
"Shhh," you soothed, running your hands through his soft curls. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can just... fool around."
He looked up at you, his eyes liquid with gratitude and pent-up want.
"Can I... can I see you?"
You nodded, reaching back for the zipper of your dress. His hands were there first, fumbling clumsily.
"Let me, please," he murmured, his fingers shaking. He managed it after a few tries, and helped you shimmy out of the simple 60s style shift dress. It pooled around your hips on the couch.
He stared, his lips parted. You were in just your bra and underwear now. His gaze was one of pure, reverent awe. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself. "Like a little painting."
He leaned forward, burying his face in the valley between your breasts, nuzzling the soft skin there with a soft, desperate sound. His arms came around you, holding you tightly.
You could feel the hard length of him, trapped in his trousers, pressing against you. You rocked your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind.
He moaned, a long, low, helpless "Oooohhh..." and his own hips jerked up to meet the motion.
"Oh, wow," he gasped, his voice strained. "That feels... that's okay, right? Just... just like this?" He jerked his hips again, and rolled, like the motion of a dance he was familiar with.
"Just like this," you affirmed, continuing the slow, rocking rhythm.
It was dry, and a bit frantic at times, though still incredibly intimate through the layers of fabric.
His hands clutched at your back, his fingers pressing into your skin. He was panting, little hot breaths against your chest.
"Can I... take this off?" he asked, his fingers hooking under the strap of your bra.
"Yes."
He undid the clasp with surprising dexterity, and when the garment fell away, he made a small, choked sound. He didn't touch at first, just stared, his eyes dark.
Then, hesitantly, he reached out and cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple.
A full-body shiver wracked you.
"You're so soft," he whispered. He leaned in and took the peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more pressure when you arched into him with a soft cry. His hips were moving in a frantic, grinding counter-rhythm to yours now, the friction maddening for you both.
After a few minutes of this, he pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, his face flushed. "I'm... I'm gonna… go too far… I can't stop myself like this," he confessed, his voice thick with shame and arousal. "It's too much, to feel you up this way. I’m so tempted."
You stilled your movements. "What do you want to do, Michael?” You whispered. “I don’t want you to feel pressure to actually go through with this if it will hurt you mentally or have…reprecussions"
He wouldn't meet your eyes. His brain ran off for a minute, clearly trying to brainstorm ways to keep this going.
"I've... I've thought about it. What it might be like. If you... if you used your mouth." The words came out in a rushed, guilty whisper.
"But that's probably worse, isn't it? And you wouldn't want to, we aren’t going steady, and it's dirty, I'm—"
"Michael," you interrupted softly, tipping his chin up so he had to look at you. "I want to. Very much. I don’t really care that we aren’t going ‘steady’."
His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception or pity. Finding none, he bit his lip, a war playing out on his face. "Really? You... you want to?"
"Oh, yes."
A tremor went through him. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "Okay. Okay. But... can we... not all the way? I mean, I'm still dressed, you're... you're mostly dressed. It's less... it's less like that."
You understood where he was going with that statement. A slight barrier to his fervent sexual intention. His religion was stepping in the way of the raw desire he had burning up through him, it was clear to see.
You could see it, raw and held back in the way he danced on stage, even in the way he sang. This strain…a fight against the odds.
The layers were a psychological barrier as much as a physical one.
"Of course." You said.
You slid off his lap and knelt on the plush carpet between his knees. He watched you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your babydoll shift dress was still sitting just above your hips, so your whole chest was on show to him.
You reached for his belt, and he flinched, then forced himself to be still. You undid the buckle, the button of his trousers, the zipper. He lifted his hips to help you push them down just enough, along with his underwear, to free him.
He was fully erect, beautiful and flushed. He was quite big - a bit bigger than you initially expected, from his wiry frame.
The sight of him though, combined with his utterly vulnerable expression, sent a jolt of pure heat through you. You wanted to make him feel good. Inform his art, his craft and allow him to draw on real life desire.
You leaned forward, but he suddenly put his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled.
"I'm so embarrassed. I shouldn't be letting you do this. You must think I'm not strong, for being so easily swayed."
"I think you're beautiful, and very normal" you said firmly. You reached up and gently, but insistently, pulled his hands away from his face. He resisted for a second, then let you, exposing his blush-red cheeks and worried eyes.
"And I want to do this. Look at me, Michael. See that I want to."
He held your gaze, his own wide and trusting. Slowly, you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was unlike anything you'd ever heard—a high, shattered gasp that broke into a choked-off sob. "Ah! Oh—gosh... Y/N..."
His hands flew to your head, not to guide, but to simply hold on, his fingers tangling in your hair.
You started slow, using your tongue, your lips, finding a rhythm. He was vocal, helplessly so, filling the studio with a stream of breathy, broken praise and disbelief.
"It feels... oh, it feels so good... how does it feel so good? You're so warm... your mouth is so soft... I shouldn't... I shouldn't like it this much..."
His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts, a subconscious seeking of more depth. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat. He moaned, long and loud.
"God, I am so close... How can I be so close, I can't... I've never felt anything like this..." His voice was taut with panic and pleasure.
His grip in your hair tightened unconsciously as you took him deeper and deeper, teetering on the edge of hitting your gag flex he was so big. "Please... don't stop... I'm gonna..."
His rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts into your mouth less controlled. He was losing himself, the conflict drowned out by sheer sensation. "Oh, I'm gonna cum... where... where should I...?"
You didn't pull away. You looked up at him with only your eyes, meeting his desperate gaze, and took him as deep as you could, your message clear.
That was his undoing.
With a cry that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy; his hips snapped upward, his hands on your head holding you firmly in place as he spilled himself down your throat.
He wasn't rough per se, but there was a surprising, instinctive strength in his grip, a complete surrender to the climax that forced you to take every last pulse. He shuddered violently, his whole body bowing off the couch.
When it was over, he went limp, his hands falling from your hair to hang uselessly at his sides.
He was panting, staring at the ceiling with a dazed, shell-shocked expression. You pulled back, swallowing, and rested your cheek on his inner thigh.
For a full minute, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he looked down at you.
His expression shifted from a somewhat post-coital blankness to dawning horror. He saw your lips, your chin, the evidence of what he'd done.
"Oh, no," he whispered, his voice small and shattered.
"Oh, no, no, no." He scrambled back on the couch, pulling his trousers up with frantic, clumsy movements, covering himself. He covered his face with those big hands again.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I made you do that. I lost control, I hurt you, I— just wanted you so badly. It felt so much better than just using my hand."
"Michael," you said softly, climbing onto the couch beside him. You reached out and touched his arm. He flinched. "You didn't hurt me. I wanted to. Every second of it."
He peeked out from behind his hands again. His eyes were so honest - this was not an act. He really felt this internal battle, of what his body wanted, what it called for and what his religion told him was right.
"Really?"
"Really. It was beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t mind being slow, as long as I get to spend more time with you" You said, now tracing circles on top of his thigh.
The tension slowly bled out of him. He uncurled slightly, letting his legs drop from where they had tense.
He looked at you, his boyish vulnerability returning in full force, replacing the tortured guilt. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop.
"Your mouth," he said, wonder in his voice. "It was… so… addicting." A faint, disbelieving smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second, replaced by shyness. He couldn't hold your gaze.
"I... I liked it. A lot. More than I've ever liked anything. Does that make me terrible?"
"It makes you human," you said, leaning in to kiss him, a soft, chaste press of lips.
He tasted himself on you, and he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, sweet surrender.
He pulled you up to lie beside him on the wide couch, arranging you so your back was to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He nuzzled his face into your hair.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being patient with me. For being so sweet. For... for letting me feel normal for a little while." He paused.
You smiled in the dim light. "It was thrilling." You let your dirty sense of humour come out to play again, as he didn’t seem as vulnerable.
He giggled then, a soft, silly, boyish sound, and squeezed you tighter. "Good." He was quiet for a long moment.
"Jackie is going to freak when I confirm I added that little line to the song." Michael said. “He’ll want to know why I changed my mind.”
"Maybe it can be our secret," you suggested. “Just be friends, but fool around like this?”
He pressed a grateful kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah. Our secret." He yawned, a huge, unguarded yawn, and snuggled closer.
"Don't go yet, okay? Just stay for a little while longer, I don’t want you to go back to being a voice on the phone or an image in my head.”
" IDIA SHROUD ISN'T JUST A BOTTOM. " ֶָ֢ ♥︎ +18 MDNI ! ꫂ᭪݁
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just my thoughts mushed into one ramble . all i gotta say...this was written at 4 am, haven't slept a wink and heavy nsfw . fem reader
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i refuse to fall for that stereotypical "power bottom idia" because have you seen this man when he locks the fuck in?? the sharp look in his eyes, that shit eating grin and the overall boost or confidence he gets? yah, once he gets comfortable and doesn't feel like an actual loser; he can top you.
i always see fics with a sub!idia, and yes, i also love a good nerdy guy getting fucked silly by his girlfriend―like yes, give me more?? but i also see idia being a semi bratty top.
sure, he's whimpering in your ear every mid thrust―but he feels powerful, in control. that just gets him going even more, especially if you topped him just a few moments ago. he's not really verbal, but he can be loud if he wants to be. the most he'll probably say is how good you feel, cheeks hot and almost his entire head bright pink.
the most teasing you'll get out of him would probably edging you, starting off slow until suddenly gaining confidence to go faster. he's a sucker for your voice, just beg him for more and he'll deliver. top or bottom.
AND THEM HANDS??? oh, don't get me started on this man's hands―UGH TAKE ME NOW. they can hold you down, and i mean pinned down ! perks of being a gamer, gripping your wrists down together above your head or at your side is like holding a game controller. despite his slender appearance, idia can most definitely keep you down if he actually tries.
i also feel like idia would be the type to try out different toys, IM NOT EXACTLY SURE WHAT KIND, LITERALLY ANY HE MAY FIND THAT HE THINKS WILL GET YOU GOING. bonus points if you give him the same treatment. he would experiment different kinds of vibrators on you and keep them in the back of his mind.
idia shroud is a switch, and will most definitely top you when he feels like it. maybe fuck him once or twice and get him to cum fast―not that you barely have to try―he'll try to beat your record by remembering all the ways to get you crying out his name in disheveled gasps.
man, i luv my bf guys...
end notes ; scared to post this because i don't want people to come at me saying this is all inaccurate, im always scared of mischaracterisation and cry about it for a whole day (˘･_･˘)
pretty boys whose favorite position is on their knees. tell them to kneel and they’re down with no hesitation, their eyes wide and puppy like as they stare up at you with such devotion. their hands are on their thighs, clenching and unclenching as they await your next order. honestly it’s both cute and pathetic how they listen to your orders so obediently. they’re so easy to train, so easy to order around, that you can’t help but make him do the simplest things just to watch him obey. make them stay kneeling for too long and they’ll let out quiet whines and whimpers because they just want to hear your voice commanding them. even better if you keep them on the ground as you walk around and do stuff in the room and they can only kneel and watch you practically ignore them. come back to them and make of him about how teary he is and how there’s already a damp spot on his crotch ❤️
Especially in moments like those, when you got him seated on your lap like some plaything, making out with him. His arms wrapped around your neck as little sobs and whimpers escaped his throat. Your hands wandered all over his body, groping at him however you wanted. The way you held him, touched him, made him let out shameful noises with them… despicable.
It took a while until you broke the kiss, stealing his breath without permission, leaving him a panting mess. Such an addicting and dizzy feeling, he had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths before opening them again. By that time, your hands were already wrapped loosely around his throat.
When and how did that even happen? And why— why were you slowly digging your thumbs into his trachea?
His eyes searched for yours, filled with tears and shaking. Those hands that were holding onto you moved to claw at your wrist, cheeks flushed like always. “You mentioned you are into choking once.” That was all you said in your defence, and he just felt a shudder run down his spine, straight to the heat in his crotch.
He was shaking with excitement, after all.
This was becoming unbearable, you moved so carefully after all. At first he could still breath, it was just more difficult to do so, but by the time you were truly squeezing, he was gagging and whining as his tongue lolled out. His voice was a meek and needy whisper as he said, “n-no, waaait~!! ♡♥︎ s-stop, hnNghh~ or m’gonna c-cum all over your shirt~!!”
Every instinct of his was screaming to push you away or yank your hands off, yet he refused to put up a resistance. He trusted you, he knew you wouldn’t hurt him. Besides it felt so good, his heart was pumping so fast and his brain was malfunctioning, shutting down on him. The sensation of it all was overwhelming, he couldn’t help it, it was pure ecstasy.
And that’s how he ended up cumming all over your lap in hot, white stripes. Mind and body melting from nothing but kisses and a little choking. When you released your grip, he slumped against you, panting, gasping for air as he twitched all pathetically. “Ah- hmm..! Ha-nghh, I-I told you… I’ll make a mess…♡♥︎♡” That might have been his most intense climax yet, now he’s wondering how good it will feel doing that while making love—?
In the end, you got yourself a trembling ruin who still haven’t recovered from the pure bliss you put him through, and scratch marks on your wrists and palms which he licked at like some cat.
