hi hi could u do a mj fic where ur on ur cycle and ur ovulating so u lowkey become a freak. no anon bc im a certified freak😬
A/N: Ym am I the only ones who’s on my period but like lowkey in heat (if u don’t related pretend k didn’t say that lmao (:)
Summary: You’ve been trying to avoid Michael all day cause you been ovulating but Michael wouldn’t leave you alone. Will he regret it?
You’ve been avoiding him all day.
Not because you wanted to. God, no. That was the problem. You wanted to too much—the kind of wanting that makes your skin feel two sizes too small and your thoughts loop in directions they shouldn’t.
Your cycle had its own calendar, and today that calendar was marked in neon: ovulating. Peak fertility. The body doesn’t ask permission. It just cranks up the volume on everything. Every scent sharper. Every sound more textured. And Michael—Michael, with his cologne that clung to doorways after he’d passed through them, with his voice that curled at the edges like smoke—Michael was a walking test of your sanity.
You’d dodged breakfast by claiming a headache. Skipped the afternoon studio session with a text about needing fresh air. By four o’clock, you’d reorganized your closet, alphabetized your bookshelf, and considered faking a stomach flu just to stay locked in your room until the hormones clocked out.
A knock at the door. Three soft thuds, a pause, then two more. His rhythm.
“Hey.” His voice came through the wood, muffled but unmistakable. “You okay in there? Haven’t seen you all day.”
Your hand froze halfway to the closet rod. A silk blouse slipped off its hanger and puddled on the floor.
“I’m fine,” you called, aiming for casual. The word came out strained. “Just tired.”
Silence. Then: “You sure? You sound… off.”
Off. That was one word for it. Another word might be dangerously close to doing something irreversible.
More silence. You pictured him on the other side of the door—head tilted, that slight frown he got when he was trying to puzzle something out. He was too observant for his own good. For your own good.
“Alright,” he said finally, and his footsteps retreated down the hall.
An hour later, the house had settled into that heavy afternoon quiet—the kind that amplifies every creak and whisper. You’d migrated to the kitchen, desperate for water, for something cold to press against the back of your neck.
The tiles were cool under your bare feet. The refrigerator hummed. You pulled out a bottle of water and pressed it to your forehead, then your throat, then the inside of your wrist.
Michael stood in the doorway of the kitchen, shoulder leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest. White button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Black pants that hung on his hips in a way that made denim look unfair. His hair fell in soft curls around his face, and his eyes—those ridiculous, impossible eyes—were locked on you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Jesus,” you breathed. “You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to.” He didn’t move. “You’ve been hiding.”
“You missed breakfast. You missed the session. You’re not answering your phone.”
His head tilted. “A day from what?”
From you, you thought. From the way you smell. From the way my body reacts to you like you’re gravity and I’ve forgotten how to stand.
Michael pushed off the doorframe and walked toward you—slow, deliberate, the way he moved when he was thinking about something. His footsteps were quiet on the tile. When he stopped, he was close. Close enough that you could see the faint stubble along his jaw. Close enough that his cologne—something woody with a bite of citrus underneath—wrapped around you and squeezed.
“You’re flushed,” he said quietly.
“The air conditioning’s on.”
Your grip tightened on the water bottle. “Michael.”
“It’s not nothing.” He reached up and his fingers brushed your forehead, pushing back a strand of hair that had stuck to your temple. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but your whole body answered it. A shiver. A catch of breath. A pulse low in your belly that radiated outward like ripples in still water.
His eyes flickered. He’d felt it. The shiver. The breath. All of it.
“You’re sick,” he said, but his voice had dropped half an octave.
You couldn’t say it. You couldn’t stand here in this kitchen with him touching your forehead like you were made of something fragile and say the words I’m ovulating and you smell like every bad decision I want to make.
So you stepped back. Just one step. But it was enough to break the contact, and his hand fell to his side.
“I should lie down,” you said.
He didn’t follow you when you left the kitchen. But you felt his eyes on your back the whole way down the hall, and you knew—with the sinking certainty of someone who’s read the last page of a book—that this wasn’t over.
Evening came too slow and too fast.
You stayed in your room, curtains drawn, sprawled across the bed in a tank top and shorts that suddenly felt like too much fabric. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles. You’d given up on distracting yourself. The books on your nightstand were props now. The TV remote lay untouched. Your body had taken over the controls, and your body had exactly one interest tonight.
A knock. Again. Same rhythm—three soft thuds, pause, two more.
You closed your eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten all day.”
“Because I’ve been paying attention.” A beat. “Open the door. Please.”
The please did something to you. Something that unspooled in your chest and made your thighs press together under the sheets.
You crossed the room and unlocked the door.
He stood there in low-slung grey sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, holding a bowl of soup like it was an offering. His expression was soft—concerned, even—but beneath the softness there was something else. Something patient and watchful. The same way he looked at a piano before he started to play. Like he was listening for the note before it sounded.
“You’re not okay,” he said.
He stepped past you into the room. Set the bowl on your dresser. Turned to face you, and now there was nothing between you but air and the hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of every decision you hadn’t made yet.
Michael’s jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing curls back from his face, and you watched the way his fingers moved—long, deliberate, precise. Your body catalogued it. Filed it away. Added it to the growing archive of things about Michael that made your pulse skip.
“You’ve been different all day,” he said. “Jumpy. Distracted. Every time I get near you, you find an excuse to leave the room.” He paused. “Did I do something?”
The word was there, balanced on the tip of your tongue. Ovulation. Hormones. Biology doing what biology does. But saying it out loud would crack something open, and you weren’t sure you could handle what would spill out.
“It’s… a cycle thing,” you managed.
His brow furrowed. “Cycle?”
“Monthly. You know. The female reproductive system.” The words came out too fast, strung together with nervous energy. “I’m ovulating. It’s—it makes things. Intense. It makes me intense. And I didn’t want to be around you because—”
The ceiling fan clicked through another rotation. The air in the room pressed against your skin. His scent had filled the space now—that wood-and-citrus thing that made your knees forget their job.
“Because you make it worse,” you whispered.
Something shifted in his expression. The concern didn’t leave, but it rearranged itself, making room for something hungrier.
“Worse how?” He took a step closer. “Tell me.”
Your back hit the doorframe. His body was inches away now, not touching yours but close enough that the heat radiating off him reached you, close enough that you could see the rise and fall of his chest, close enough that if you leaned forward even slightly your lips would find the hollow of his throat.
“Every instinct I have,” you said, and your voice was barely a whisper, “is telling me to climb you like a tree.”
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever heard.
Then his hand came up, slowly, giving you time to move away if you wanted to. You didn’t move. His fingers found the curve of your jaw, traced it, settled under your chin and tilted your face up toward his.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly, “because you’re horny.”
The bluntness of it knocked the air out of your lungs. “That’s—that’s a crude way to put it.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip. The touch was electric, a spark that traveled down your throat, between your breasts, straight to the ache that had been building since dawn. Your mouth parted without permission.
“How long has it been like this?” he asked.
He made a sound—low, almost a hum, something that vibrated in the back of his throat. “And you didn’t think to just… tell me?”
“Tell you what? ‘Hey Michael, my hormones are staging a coup and you’re the enemy commander’?”
That earned you a smile—a real one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger. “Something like that.”
“I didn’t want to make it weird.”
“Weird.” His thumb traced your lip again. “I don’t think it’s weird.”
Your hips shifted forward without your permission—a small, involuntary roll toward him that you caught too late. His free hand found your waist and stilled you. Not pushing you away. Just holding. Just anchoring.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmured.
“Embarrassing.” He said the word like he was tasting it. “You’re standing here with your pupils blown and your thighs pressed together and you’re worried about being embarrassed?”
Your breath hitched. “You noticed.”
“I notice everything about you.” His thumb left your lip and traced down—your chin, your throat, the dip between your collarbones. “I noticed the way you crossed your legs three times during that meeting last week. I noticed the way you bit your lip when I leaned over you to reach the coffee. I notice the way you say my name when you’re about to leave the room, like you’re making sure I’m still there.”
The confession hit you in waves. Heat bloomed up your neck, across your cheeks.
“So if you’re ovulating,” he continued, voice dropping lower, “and your body is telling you to do something—why do you think I wouldn’t want to know?”
Your hands found his shirt. Fisted in the fabric. The cotton was soft and worn and you could feel the warmth of his skin through it.
“Because it’s a lot,” you breathed. “It’s… a lot. I’m not kidding, Michael. I’m not myself right now. I’m—I’m insatiable. Everything’s turned up to eleven. My sense of smell. My sensitivity. My—” You broke off, shaking your head. “I don’t want to scare you off.”
“Scare me off.” He laughed—a short, breathy exhale that stirred the hair at your temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Not gently. Not tentatively. His mouth claimed yours with the certainty of someone who’d been thinking about this for a while. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and he pulled you into him like you were the missing piece of something.
The kiss was a detonation.
Everything you’d been holding back—all day, all the hours of avoidance and denial—rushed to the surface and broke through. You kissed him back with a hunger that would have embarrassed you if you’d had any brain cells left to be embarrassed. Your hands released his shirt and found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. His curls wrapped around your fingers. His tongue slid against yours and the taste of him—sweet tea and something darker, something uniquely him—flooded your mouth.
He walked you backward. Your shoulder blades hit the wall next to the dresser. The bowl of soup rattled. Neither of you cared.
“Tell me what you need,” he said again, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing yours. “Word for word. I want to hear it.”
Your chest heaved. “I need you.”
“I need you to touch me.”
Everywhere. The word was right there but it wasn’t specific enough. He wanted details, and you were too far gone to be coy.
“Between my legs,” you said. “I need your hands. Your mouth. I need—I need to be filled. I know that’s a lot. I know that’s aggressive. But that’s where I am. That’s where I’ve been all day. If I don’t get something inside me in the next five minutes I’m going to lose my mind.”
The words hung in the air, filthy and honest. His eyes darkened. His grip on your waist tightened.
“Five minutes,” he repeated. “That’s a tight window.”
The sight of him there—Michael, on the floor of your bedroom, looking up at you with his lips parted and his eyes blown black—sent a jolt through your system so sharp your knees buckled. You caught yourself on his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” The question came out strangled.
“Meeting your deadline.” His hands found the waistband of your shorts. “Lift your hips.”
You did. He pulled the shorts down, slow, letting the fabric drag against your thighs until they pooled at your ankles. Your underwear followed—a simple cotton pair that you suddenly wished was lace, was silk, was anything more worthy of this moment. But he didn’t seem to care. He stared at you—at the thatch of hair between your legs, the slickness already visible, the way your thighs trembled—with something approaching reverence.
“You’re soaked,” he breathed.
“You did.” He looked up at you. “I should have knocked sooner.”
Then his mouth was on you.
No preamble. No gentle exploration. His tongue parted you with the same precision he brought to everything else—a musician’s tongue, a perfectionist’s focus—and found your clit immediately. The contact was so direct, so perfectly aimed, that a sound tore out of you—half gasp, half moan, entirely involuntary.
Your head fell back against the wall. Your fingers tangled in his hair. His name left your mouth in fragments, syllables that didn’t connect.
He ate you like he was starving.
His tongue circled, flattened, flicked. He pulled back to blow cool air across the wetness he’d created, then dove back in. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady even as your legs tried to close around his head. One of his fingers traced your entrance—circled it, teased it, then slid inside.
You bucked against his mouth.
“More,” you gasped. “More fingers.”
He obliged. A second finger joined the first, stretching you, curling upward to find the spot that made your vision white out. His mouth never stopped moving—licking and sucking and humming against you like he was tasting something he’d been craving for years.
The orgasm built fast. Too fast. You could feel it coiling at the base of your spine, tightening everything, pulling every nerve ending toward a single point. Your thighs shook. Your breath came in ragged bursts.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. If anything, he doubled his efforts—fingers pumping, tongue pressing, the obscene wet sounds filling the room like music.
You came with a cry that might have been his name or might have been a prayer. The orgasm ripped through you, sharp and bright, and he held you through it—mouth gentling, fingers stilling but not withdrawing, letting you pulse and clench around him until the last wave subsided.
When you opened your eyes, he was looking up at you.
His lips glistened. His chin shone with you. His expression was somewhere between smug and awed.
“Three minutes,” he said. “I made the deadline.”
You pulled him up by his shirt and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue, and it was the filthiest thing you’d ever done and you didn’t care at all.
“Bed,” you said against his mouth.
You shoved him backward. He landed on the mattress, bouncing once, and you climbed on top of him—straddling his hips, pressing him into the sheets. The sweatpants he wore did nothing to hide how hard he was. You could feel him through the fabric, hot and thick, and your body responded with a fresh wave of arousal that was already dripping onto his clothes.
“You’re still—?” he started.
“I told you.” You reached down and palmed him through the sweatpants. He hissed through his teeth. “Insatiable.”
You pulled his pants down, freeing him. He was beautiful—long and curved and so hard it looked painful. The head was slick already, beading at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him and stroked once, twice, watching his face contort.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” you said.
“For longer than I should admit.”
The admission landed somewhere deep in your chest. You filed it away for later—for a conversation when you weren’t so desperate to have him inside you.
You positioned yourself over him, the head notched at your entrance. The heat of him, the promise of being filled, made your inner walls clench in anticipation. You started to sink down—his hands flew to your hips.
“Wait,” he gasped. “Condom.”
“I’m on the pill. Are you—?”
“Clean. Tested last month.”
Slowly, inch by inch, you took him.
The stretch was exquisite. Your body, primed by hormones and the orgasm he’d already given you, opened for him easily—but he was thick, thicker than anyone you’d been with before, and the pressure was overwhelming in the best way. You paused halfway, adjusting, breathing through it.
“Okay?” His voice was strained, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“More than okay.” You sank the rest of the way, seating him fully, and the moan that escaped you was guttural.
You felt full. Complete. Every nerve ending in your body was singing.
Then you started to move.
The rhythm came naturally—a grind and lift that rubbed him against every sensitive spot inside you. Your clit dragged against the base of him with each roll of your hips. His hands roamed your body—your breasts, still covered by the tank top, then under the fabric to find bare skin. He pushed the shirt up and off, and your nipples tightened in the cool air, pebbling under his gaze before he leaned up and took one in his mouth.
The dual sensation—him inside you, his mouth on your breast—drew another orgasm out of nowhere. Or maybe not nowhere. Maybe it had been building since this morning, since the first moment you’d smelled him and felt your body respond. It crashed over you, softer than the first but longer, deeper, a full-body shudder that made you clench around him and cry out.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your skin. “You’re so…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He flipped you.
Suddenly you were on your back, and he was above you, and he was driving into you with a rhythm that was less rhythm and more desperation. His forehead pressed to yours. His breath came hard and fast. One of his hands pinned your wrist above your head; the other hooked under your knee, lifting your leg to change the angle.
The new position hit something inside you—something deep and electric—and you gasped.
“There.” The word was a plea. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t. He fucked you through it—through the third orgasm that was already cresting, that was bigger than either of the first two, that was building in your bones and your blood and the spaces between your cells. Your vision narrowed to the point where his body met yours. Sound dropped out of the world except for his breathing and your moans and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
“I’m going to—” he started.
“Inside,” you gasped. “Please. I need it. I need to feel it.”
His rhythm fractured. His hips stuttered. Then he was coming, buried deep, pulsing inside you, and the sensation of it—hot and wet and filling—pushed you over the edge one more time.
The orgasm was a detonation. Bigger than anything. Bigger than you knew your body could produce. You cried out—might have screamed, might have sobbed, couldn’t tell the difference anymore—and your nails raked down his back, and your inner walls milked him until he collapsed on top of you, trembling.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Could feel him still inside you, softening but not withdrawn. Could feel the mess of both of you, wet and warm, leaking onto the sheets.
Michael lifted his head. His eyes found yours. His lips were swollen, his hair a disaster, his expression dazed in a way that made him look twenty years younger.
“That was,” he said, and stopped.
“Yeah,” you agreed. Words were overrated.
He slid out of you—slow, careful—and the loss of him made you whimper. He settled beside you, pulling you against his chest, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip.
The ceiling fan clicked. The soup cooled on the dresser. Outside, the sky was going purple with the last light of sunset.
“So,” he said after a while. “How long does ovulation last?”
You laughed—a weak, breathy thing. “About three more days.”
His hand stilled on your hip. Then resumed its patterns, slower now. Deliberate.
“Three days,” he repeated thoughtfully.
He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, then the spot behind your ear that made you shiver.
“Because,” he murmured, “I want to know how much time I have to figure out what you taste like when I’m inside you at the same time.”
“And what sounds you make when you’re on your knees. And how many times I can make you come before you can’t remember your own name.”
His hand drifted lower, over your stomach, between your legs. His fingers found you—still sensitive, still wet—and pressed lightly.
“And,” he said, lips brushing your ear, “whether you can take me from behind without screaming loud enough to worry the neighbors.”
You were already aching again. Already wanting. Three days stretched out in front of you like a promise.
“You’re going to kill me.”
His laugh rumbled against your back.
And his fingers slipped inside you once more.
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2087
