To Have and To Hold (You Down)
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem! reader
Summary: The night after losing his virginity, Michael Jackson finds he can't control his body or his obsession. What begins as a tense ride home from the AMAs erupts into a raw, relentless claiming in the one place he was always meant to be innocent: his childhood bedroom. (established relationship)
Word Count: 4530
Tags: off the wall era, smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving), prone bone, sexual awakening, sort of romantic smut?, michael is pussy drunk y'all, slight praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, creampie (oop) overstimulation,
Authors Note: this was a request. people want more otw mike! and another anon requested pussy drunk michael otw era as well, so NATURALLY this was born. im so sorry if this is not what either of you had in mind lmao. rarely see smut or much at all in this era tbh (ITS HIS BEST??? ARGUE W THE (off the) WALL -- hAH get it?)
. Ęâ âč . ĘË . Ę
18+ minors dnu!!!
The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.
Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety.Â
Heâd been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.
And for the entire three-hour affairâfrom the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, heâd been visibly, achingly hard.
You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank âhis girlâ for being the perfect muse. You couldnât even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself.Â
Youâd borne witness to it all.Â
The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.
It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.
Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when itâs perfect, baby. When itâs right.â
Heâd finally decided it was right. âI love you,â heâd breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. âI know Iâm going to marry youâso why should I wait any longer?â
It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering âthank youâ over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.
Youâd thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.
The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.
âNight, Mike. Iâll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharpâyouâve got that radio show interviewââ Bill called after him.
Michael wasnât listening. He didnât even take your hand up the path like he usually did.
He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.
The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.
His childhood bedroom.
It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter.Â
Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderellaâs castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.
You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didnât want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.
He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.
The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache.Â
In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way heâd absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.
You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.
âI saw it all night,â you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.
His hands froze on the second lace. He didnât turn. âSaw what?â
âHow hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldnât. It was all I could think about.â
A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. âIt wouldnât go away,â he confessed, his voice thick. âMy body⊠it wouldnât listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting⊠painful.â
âI noticed your frustration,â you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. âAnd it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye⊠I could feel myself getting slick for you.â
He turned then.
His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.
âWet?â he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. âTell me what thatâs like.â
You closed the final distance.
You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.
He gaspedâa sharp, startled sound.
âFeel,â you instructed, your voice low.
His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.
A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
âI can make you feel this way?â he stammered, his voice full of awe. âSo warm⊠so⊠wetâŠâ
âThatâs for you,â you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. âAll night. Thatâs what the thought of you did to me.â
He was shaking now.
You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.
He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.
He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.
âOhhâŠ,â he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.
âCurve them,â you breathed, your own composure fraying. âLike youâre reaching for something.â
He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.
âMmmhhâ!â
The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasnât really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot.Â
He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.
âThis⊠this tight, soft, warm feeling⊠is what I was thinking about at dinner,â he panted, his breath coming fast. âThis is what I wanted⊠right there and then, but couldnât have.â
He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and⊠tasted.
His eyes fluttered closed.
âYâtaste so good,â he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. âYou taste like heaven.âÂ
He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.
âI need to feel you,â he said, the words rushing out. âI need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.â
He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadnât worn briefs to the ceremony.
The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.
He didnât ask before diving in at you.
He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.
He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wantingâpressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.
âI love you,â he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary.Â
âI need to feel this. Every part of it. I didnât feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time⊠I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.â
He pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.
âPerfect,â he breathed, his eyes closing. âYou are⊠so good, laying there all pretty for me.â
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.
âYou take me so completely⊠like you were made for meâŠâ
But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful.Â
He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.
âYes,â he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. âLike this. I need to feel all of you like this.â
He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasnât violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.
He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.
âYouâre so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,â he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths.Â
âSurrendered to me. Letting me feel you. Youâre my good girl, right?â
His dirty talk wasnât crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being.Â
He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsyâthe way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into youâthe want of his release overtaking his rationale.Â
You knew thereâd be bruises where he held you tomorrow.
He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs togetherâthe sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter.Â
His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours.Â
You couldnât look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. Heâd been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.
âI want to drown in you⊠I want this feelingâŠâ He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. âForever, let me have it foreverâGodââ
You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.
âAhâahâ!â
âI feel it,â he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. âI want to make you feel good⊠I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.â He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure.Â
âIâm going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,â he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.
His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.
Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.
You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably.Â
A broken cry was torn from your throatââMichaelâ!â
you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.
He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.
âYes! thatâs my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heatâŠâ
But he didnât stop after your come down.Â
He couldnât.Â
The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger.Â
His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.
âI canât⊠I canât stop,â he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. âItâs too good⊠youâre too good⊠I need more⊠I need to be deeperâŠâ
He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments.Â
His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.
âMy heart⊠is in your skin⊠your taste is in my mouthâŠâ he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.
He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.
âYouâre mine, all mine, this is just for me, alwaysââ
His own end took him by storm.
His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from himââFuuuu--GOD-- Y/Nââ a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.
You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.
He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.
When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.
âI think I got carried away,â he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. âIn you. I completely⊠got lost.â
"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"
He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.
He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
âI donât know how I held off for so long,â he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade.Â
The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michaelâs old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys.Â
Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks.Â
Then, a shift in the energy beside you.
He lowered his arm.
In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or heâd start madly blushing.
"Can IâŠ" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing.Â
He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush.Â
"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"
The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.
You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael⊠you just⊠you finished in me. It's⊠it's mixed."
He turned his head too.Â
His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity.Â
"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."
He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality.Â
The decision was made.
He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.
He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.
âSo beautiful,â he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. âLike a rose thatâs just⊠bloomed for me.â
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.
He began to part you.
It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. âOh⊠wow.â
He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.
"Look at you,â he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.
âAll pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.â He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.
"Oh, GodâŠ" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet⊠and saltyâŠ"
He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes.Â
The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.
You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael⊠ah! Too⊠im so sensitiveâŠ"
He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I havenât had enough. Sit on my face."
It was a desperate, worshipful plea.
He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.
Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.
His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place.Â
There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.
He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.
You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him â the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didnât have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.
You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight⊠unwound you completely.
His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender.Â
Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button.Â
The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.
The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.
You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.
"Whaâ?"
You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something youâd read, a way to take controlâŠ
You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed.Â
You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.
A dual cry tore through the roomâhis a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damnâ!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.
For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected.Â
You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.
Then you began to move.
You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length.Â
His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips.Â
"Yess⊠ride me⊠use me⊠you feel so good taking your pleasure from me⊠only me baby"
But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.
The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.
His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.
"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual.Â
He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath.Â
" harder. Take what you want. Use me."
He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.
"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure.Â
"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"
His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse.Â
You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.
He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.
With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.
"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips.Â
His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices.Â
He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.
"I thinkâŠm-gonna fill you up⊠againâŠ" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs.Â
"Mark you⊠inside and out⊠so you never forget⊠whose girl you are⊠Ahâ! Ah, Godâ!"
His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible.Â
He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.
His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.
âThey are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you nowâ
fin.. ;)
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pls let me know ur thoughts on this - i think its the most explicit sex ive ever written? hahahaha ok bye
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem! reader
Summary: The night after losing his virginity, Michael Jackson finds he can't control his body or his obsession. What begins as a tense ride home from the AMAs erupts into a raw, relentless claiming in the one place he was always meant to be innocent: his childhood bedroom. (established relationship)
