❁Mjs Curlsℳ☂︎

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: Michael and you just spending emotionally deep time together.

Tags: , Love, Overstimulation, fluff, slow burn, emotional, sensual.

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: 4-5k

An: Listen to Break Of Dawn by MJ ofc

The rain has been falling since twilight. Steady. Gentle.

It sounds like a lullaby against the windows, soothing and rhythmic as you sit curled on the bed—legs folded beneath you, warm in one of Michael’s old shirts, sleeves too long, cotton soft from a hundred washes. The lights are off. Only candlelight flickers from the dresser, casting gold across the walls, painting the air in amber.

He’s there. Sitting across from you at the edge of the bed, long fingers lazily thumbing through a book of poetry, spine cracked, pages worn from being opened again and again.

You watch him in the glow.

He’s beautiful. Hair soft and unstyled, curls falling gently into his eyes. Shirt loose, collar open, his throat exposed. When he reads, it’s quiet—half to you, half to himself.

“I want to learn you…

like the words to my favorite song.

Slowly,

again and again,

until I never forget…”

His voice falters at the end. He glances at you. Smiles a little, shy. “That one made me think of you.”

Your chest tightens. You set the cup in your hands aside and shift closer.

“Read me more,” you whisper.

He nods, but gently closes the book. “Later.”

His eyes drift over you. You can feel it—hot and slow, lingering like a hand. He’s not bold. Not predatory. But he looks at you like he’s remembering something beautiful he hasn’t seen in a long time.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft.

Michael nods. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

His throat moves. “About how long it’s been since I touched you properly.”

The space between you shrinks.

He reaches out, brushing your knee. “Can I?”

You nod.

His hand moves slowly, up your thigh, pushing the oversized shirt higher, his fingers warm against your skin. He leans in—one hand cradling your face as he kisses you, soft and gentle. You melt.

His kisses are hesitant at first. Shy. Like he’s remembering how your mouth feels against his.

But then something shifts.

His tongue brushes yours, just once. You sigh into him, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You always feel like home,” he whispers against your lips.

You climb into his lap.

He groans softly as you straddle him, your hands in his hair, your bare thighs brushing his. The fabric of the shirt is the only thing between you. His hands rest on your hips, unmoving, reverent.

“I’ve missed this,” you whisper. “Missed you.”

Michael presses his forehead to yours. “Then let me take my time.”

He lifts the shirt slowly, sliding it over your head, his eyes never leaving your skin. You’re bare beneath it—no bra, no panties—and the look on his face as he sees you makes your breath catch.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful, it almost hurts.”

You blush under his gaze.

He kisses your shoulder, then your collarbone, then lower, taking his time. He lies you down on the bed like you’re fragile silk.

He undresses slowly—his shirt first, revealing warm skin and lean muscle. He’s not showing off. He’s just… there. Present. Yours.

When he comes back to you, he crawls between your legs, nudging them open with gentle hands.

“You tell me if you want to stop, alright?”

You nod, whispering, “I won’t want to.”

His lips press to your inner thigh. Then again, closer. You can feel his breath against your heat, warm and shaky.

He looks up, almost bashful. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He kisses you there—just once, gently.

You moan softly, your hips twitching.

Michael licks you slowly—long, flat strokes, tasting you like he’s trying to learn something. His tongue is soft. Curious. He hums against you, and the vibration sends a shiver through your belly.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless.

His fingers spread you gently. He watches you for a long moment, just admiring. And then he buries his mouth in you.

His tongue circles your clit, slow and teasing. His lips suck softly. Not rushed—no. He’s patient. He worships.

You moan.

He groans in return, gripping your thighs, holding you still.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me hear you.”

One finger slides into you—then another, curling just right. He keeps licking. Kissing. His shy softness melts into focus.

You gasp. “Michael—please—”

He doesn’t speed up. He presses deeper. Slower.

The orgasm builds like heat under your skin, slow and aching. You reach for his hair, gripping, thighs trembling.

“Come for me,” he breathes.

You do.

Silently at first—just your mouth parting, your breath catching, and then a moan, broken and soft. You tremble beneath him, thighs clenching around his head.

He stays. Licking gently. Working you through it.

Then he pulls away, eyes dark with love and want.

“Can I make love to you now?”

You reach for him. “Yes.”

He removes the last of his clothes, revealing the length of him—hard, flushed, dripping. His cock rests against your thigh, hot and heavy.

He lines up with your entrance, and pauses.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He pushes in slowly.

You gasp—his cock stretching you, filling you, inch by inch. He holds your gaze the whole time. Once he’s fully inside, you both exhale.

“You okay?”

“Perfect,” you whisper.

He begins to move.

Slow. Deep. His hips rock into yours, long strokes that drag over every nerve. He kisses your neck, your cheek, your mouth. One hand tangles with yours, fingers laced.

His pace is steady. Gentle. But intense.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I love you more.”

Your bodies move like poetry—soft rhythm, intimate stanzas. The build is slow, but overwhelming. His cock hits that perfect spot inside you, again and again, your body tingling with every pass.

You feel the pressure rising.

“I’m close,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, voice tight. “You feel so good around me.”

He leans up, thrusting deeper, watching your face.

“I want you to fall apart for me.”

And you do.

You come around him—slow, pulsing, full of heat and love. He follows with a low groan, burying himself deep and spilling inside you.

He holds you close, his body shaking.

Neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breath. The rain. The soft beat of two hearts, no longer aching.

You’re still wrapped in him.

His body is warm against yours—your legs tangled, his chest pressed to your back, soft breath brushing your shoulder as he holds you close beneath the sheets. His cum still inside you, slowly trickling down your thigh, your pulse still echoing through your fingertips.

Michael’s thumb strokes gently along your hipbone.

“You feel alright?” he asks, voice low, a little hoarse from moaning into your neck minutes earlier.

You nod. “Better than alright.”

He smiles. You feel it against your skin.

“I didn’t want to let go,” he murmurs. “You felt so good. So connected. I could feel everything.”

You hum. “You always make it feel like more than sex.”

He lifts his head slightly and kisses the top of your shoulder. “That’s because it is.”

He shifts gently, pulling back, and you both wince at the oversensitivity as he slowly slips out of you. His release drips out, slick and warm. He catches it with his hand, grabbing a nearby towel and pressing a soft kiss to your thigh.

“I’ll run a bath,” he whispers. “Stay here. Let me take care of you.”

You smile sleepily. “You already did.”

But he gets up anyway, padding naked across the dim bedroom, his skin glowing soft in the golden light. He disappears into the bathroom, and soon, the soft sound of water fills the air. A few moments later, he returns, offering his hand.

You take it.

He helps you up, and without a word, leads you into the candlelit bathroom. The tub is filling, steam curling into the room like silk. He’s laid out a towel, lit two more candles, and placed the poetry book on the edge of the tub.

“Romantic,” you murmur.

He shrugs, bashful. “I just… didn’t want it to end yet.”

You step into the water and sigh as the heat wraps around you. He follows, easing in behind you, pulling you between his legs so your back rests against his chest.

His arms wrap around your waist. His hands rest on your thighs. His lips brush the curve of your shoulder. Neither of you says much for a while. Just breathing. Letting the water melt everything away.

You tilt your head back against his chest. “Read to me?”

He reaches for the poetry book—still damp from your earlier moment—and opens to a page you dog-eared weeks ago.

His voice is quiet. Slow. Gentle.

“You are not a lover I want to conquer—

You are a poem I want to memorize

by heart.”

You turn to kiss his neck, slow and wet. “Read more.”

“I want to trace

the shape of your breath

as it escapes your lips

and make love to you

in the pauses between words.”

You moan softly, turning your body slightly to face him. His cock is already swelling again beneath the water, pressing against your thigh.

“You’re insatiable,” you whisper, teasing.

“I’m inspired,” he murmurs, setting the book aside. “And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.”

His hands move to your waist, pulling you gently to straddle him in the tub. The water laps against the porcelain as your knees rise, your bare chest pressed to his, slick and warm.

His cock presses between your legs, thick and twitching. Not demanding. Just… waiting.

“Can I make love to you again?” he whispers, almost shyly.

You nod.

“Here?” he asks.

“Yes. Just like this.”

He shifts beneath you, guiding himself to your entrance, and you sink down slowly, both of you gasping as he fills you again—wet and warm and overwhelming.

Your forehead rests against his. The water ripples gently with your movement. He holds your waist, letting you set the rhythm—slow, gliding, wet skin against wet skin.

It’s not rushed.

You move together like breath. Like poetry.

Your hands cradle his face as he moans softly, his lips brushing yours with each thrust.

You feel your orgasm build—slow, aching, and full. He kisses you as it crests, as your body trembles against him, clenching around his cock.

And this time, when you fall apart, it’s silent.

Just the sound of water. Just two hearts beating together.

He follows, spilling inside you again with a low groan, arms wrapping around you tightly like he can’t bear to let go.

You both stay still. Floating in it.

After a while, he brushes your hair back, kisses your cheek.

“You’re everything,” he whispers.

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem Character

Synopsis: She’s just too good for a one night stand

Tags: Sex, one night stand, teasing:)

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: Idk

Reah had been on me all week about going out. Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood. Work was draining, my errands piled up, and I’d been in that “homebody” state where the couch, a blanket, and TV reruns felt more tempting than people. But Reah? She wasn’t letting me off that easy.

“Girl, you need to loosen up,” she said, sprawled across my bed like she owned it, her legs swinging off the edge while I curled my hair with my iron.

I rolled my eyes. “I am loose. Look at this hair.”

I turned my head, parting it sharp to the side, letting the bouncy curls fall into place just right. The 90s hadn’t technically started yet, but my style was always a step ahead. Reah wasn’t about to catch me slipping into some bar looking basic.

She smirked. “Mm-hmm. Loose hair, tight life. Tonight, we’re fixing that.”

I laughed, smoothing my dress down. It was classy but bold — short enough to show off my legs, but not desperate. Black silk that hugged my waist just right, gold hoops brushing my jawline, and a swipe of gloss over my lips. The stilettos made me taller, made me stand straighter. It wasn’t about men — it was about me.

Reah tilted her head, watching me. “You’re not fooling me, Athena. You can look all sleek and mysterious, but you’re lonely as hell. And don’t start with the excuses.”

I gave her a side-eye in the mirror. “I’m not hooking up with some random man. That’s you.”

“Please,” she said, sitting up to point at me like she just cracked a case. “You say that now, but one day I’m gonna get a call — ‘Reah, I messed around, help!’” She flopped back on the bed, laughing at her own prediction.

I just shook my head. “You’re insane.”

But deep down, I wondered if she was a little bit right.

⸻

The bar was crowded when we got there. Music pumping, neon lights flickering over faces and drinks, people already halfway to drunk. Reah was in her element, chatting with some man she just met before we’d even found a table.

I sat back with my drink, letting the ice clink against the glass as I watched the room.

“I swear, Athena,” Reah leaned close, already running her mouth about the guy she’d been with last Saturday. “You could at least try to have fun. You’re like a nun with good taste.”

I smirked. “Correction: I have standards. That’s all.”

And maybe I meant it. Maybe I didn’t. Because that’s when I saw him.

He was across the room, sitting at the bar like he owned it. Fedora tipped low, a few curls spilling out, red button-up crisp against his caramel skin. He wasn’t talking to anyone — just scribbling into a little notebook, one hand around a glass of whiskey.

Smooth. Too smooth.

“Uh oh,” Reah sing-songed, following my gaze. “Who’s Mr. Fedora?”

“None of my business,” I muttered, taking another sip.

“Liar.” She grabbed my arm before I could even think to stop her and dragged me right over.

I almost tripped over my heels when he looked up.

Lord have mercy. The smile on that man could’ve knocked the air clean out my lungs. Perfect white teeth. Deep brown eyes that peeked at me over his glasses before he slid them off, slow, like he was starring in a scene I didn’t know I’d walked into.

“I’m Michael,” he said, holding his hand out like he’d been expecting me. Then, he bit his lip and smirked — boyish and manly all at once.

My knees? Buckled. Almost.

“Athena,” I managed, sliding my hand into his.

Reah grinned like she’d just lit a firework. “Nice to meet you, Michael. My girl here was checking you out—”

I kicked her so fast under the table she yelped.

She laughed, waved, and disappeared, leaving me alone with him.

Michael’s eyes lingered on me, steady but curious. “Nice to meet you, Athena.”

His voice was smooth, soft, but it carried this quiet confidence that settled into me, warm and dangerous.

I bit my lip. “You too.”

We talked. Nothing too heavy — where I was from, what I did, what he was writing in his notebook. He wasn’t bragging, wasn’t cocky, but there was a weight to the way he spoke. Like he knew who he was and didn’t need to sell it to me.

That? Dangerous.

⸻

When the music picked up, people flooded the floor. I stayed at the table, sipping, watching. Until I felt his gaze on me again.

“Do you wanna dance?” he asked. Not pushy. Just direct.

“Yes.” The word slipped out before I could second-guess it.

He took my hand, warm and steady, leading me into the crowd. At first, he kept that gentleman’s distance — one hand light on my waist, the other guiding mine. Respectful. Careful.

But me? I wasn’t about to play shy.

I turned, pressing my back against his chest, letting the rhythm pull me into him. My hips moved slow, teasing, testing.

I swear I felt him gasp behind me.

When I glanced over my shoulder, his eyes were wide, fire flickering there. He didn’t step away. He moved with me, close enough that the heat between us became its own thing.

And I thought: oh, this man’s gonna be trouble.

One drink turned into two, and two turned into us tucked in the corner of the bar like we were the only two people there. Michael had this way of listening — really listening — that made me want to keep talking. He didn’t fill silences with noise. He let them breathe. And when he spoke, it was thoughtful, low, steady.

Dangerous.

Every so often, I’d catch myself staring at his lips when he took a sip from his glass, the way they lingered around the rim, the way his tongue traced lightly after. I had to force myself to look away, pretend like the heat crawling up my neck was just from the crowded room.

At some point, I realized Reah was gone. No surprise — that woman always disappeared the second a man caught her attention. Which left me here. With him.

Michael leaned in, just close enough that his shoulder brushed mine, his voice softer now. “Can I walk you out?”

My chest tightened. I should’ve said no. Should’ve gone home, safe in my own bed, with nothing more than a story about the man I met at the bar.

But when I looked at him, I couldn’t.

“Yes,” I whispered.

⸻

Outside, the cool night air hit, but I was already warm from inside out. Michael slipped his hands into his pockets as we walked side by side, the faint smell of his cologne trailing with him — spicy, rich, clean.

I stopped by my car, fumbling with my keys. “Thanks for walking me out.”

He nodded, but didn’t move away. Didn’t let the moment close. Instead, he leaned down, his breath brushing against my ear when he spoke.

“I don’t want the night to end yet.”

That did it. That flip in my stomach. The ache that had been building since I first laid eyes on him.

And without thinking too hard, I said the truth. “Neither do I.”

⸻

His place wasn’t what I expected. Not flashy, not cold. It was warm. Dim lighting, shelves lined with books and little personal things, records stacked neatly by the stereo. It felt lived in. It felt like him.

He slid a record on — something slow, deep, grooving through the speakers — and the two of us stood there, the sound filling the room.

We started talking again, but my eyes kept dropping to his mouth, his hands, the curve of his jaw. I knew he saw it. I knew he felt the pull the same way I did.

And then, without any warning, he leaned in.

His lips pressed to mine, gentle at first, like he was asking permission. I didn’t even hesitate. My hands slid up, fingers tangling into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a sound out of him — low, soft, almost a gasp.

The kiss deepened, slow but sure, like we were both savoring it. His hands cupped my face, then traced down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. Every move was careful, deliberate, but it carried weight.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t sloppy. He kissed like he’d thought about it first — like he understood what it meant to let this happen.

And when his lips trailed down to my jaw, to the edge of my neck, I knew I was gone.

So much for “I don’t do one-night stands.”

His lips were still at my neck, warm, deliberate, and I couldn’t hold back the sound that slipped from me. It wasn’t loud, just a soft whimper, but the way his hands tightened on my waist told me he heard it. Felt it.

“Michael…” I whispered, half a plea, half a warning to myself.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his thumb brushing against my jaw. His voice was steady, lower than before. “If you don’t want this…”

I cut him off with another kiss, harder this time. His body pressed to mine, pinning me gently against the edge of the couch. Every part of me screamed yes, and he knew it.

His hands slid down, over my hips, around to my thighs, pulling me closer. I could feel him through his slacks, hard and hot, and it made me gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound like it was his, kissing me deeper, hungrier now.

My dress was short, but the way his fingers skimmed up the hem felt slow, reverent. When his palm brushed against the bare skin of my thigh, I shivered. His touch wasn’t rushed — he traced lazy circles there, waiting, teasing, until I was practically shaking with anticipation.

“Michael…” I said again, breathless this time.

He smiled against my lips, that boyish smirk turning darker, heavier. “Tell me what you need, Athena.”

God help me, the way he said my name. Like it tasted good in his mouth. Like he already owned it.

“I need you,” I admitted, barely more than a whisper.

That was all it took.

⸻

He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the bedroom. The music followed us faintly, bass low and steady, like it was scoring every step.

He laid me on the bed, hovering over me, his curls falling forward as he kissed me again — slow, deep, tongue sliding against mine until my head spun. His hands roamed, mapping me out like he wanted to memorize every inch.

I tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel more. He chuckled softly, pulling back just enough to strip it off, his chest smooth, golden under the dim light. My hands slid across it instantly, tracing the lines of muscle, the warmth of his skin.

“Damn,” I breathed without meaning to.

That earned me another smirk, but then his mouth was on me again, trailing down my throat, across my collarbone, lower still. He took his time, kissing, sucking lightly, leaving a path of heat down to the top of my dress.

“Can I?” he asked, fingers brushing the strap.

I nodded quickly. He slid the straps down, easing the silk over my body until I was laid bare beneath him. His eyes swept over me slowly, reverently, like I was art he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Before I could reply, his mouth was on me — hot, wet, worshipful — and I arched against him, a cry catching in my throat. His tongue traced circles, his hands pinning my hips down gently when I tried to writhe beneath him. Every flick, every suck was patient, purposeful, like he wanted to unravel me one layer at a time.

“Michael, please,” I gasped, my fingers tangled in his curls.

He hummed against me, sending vibrations through my core that made me shudder. And when he finally slid a finger inside me, slow and careful, my whole body clenched tight around him.

“That’s it,” he whispered against my skin. “Let me take care of you.”

His mouth, his fingers — they were too much, too good. My body was already trembling, thighs tightening around his head as he worked me open with slow strokes, curling just right, sucking me like he wanted to taste every drop.

“Michael—oh my God…” My voice broke, high and needy.

He lifted his head just enough to look at me, lips slick, eyes dark. “Don’t hold back, Athena. I want to hear you.”

And with that, he pushed me higher. His fingers thrust deep, his tongue flicked fast, and the orgasm hit me like a wave I couldn’t fight. My back arched, hands fisting the sheets, his name spilling from my mouth in broken gasps.

He didn’t stop. He held me through it, coaxing every shake, every cry, until I collapsed back on the bed, breathless and dazed.

When he finally kissed his way back up my body, his lips found mine, letting me taste myself on him. The kiss was messy, hungry, but so full of heat that it made my whole body ache for more.

I reached between us, fumbling at his belt. “I need you inside me,” I whispered, no shame left in my voice.

His breath caught, but he didn’t hesitate. He stripped out of his slacks, and when his boxers came down, I gasped softly. He was thick, long, heavy in his hand as he stroked himself once, eyes locked on mine.

“Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse now, desperate.

“Yes,” I breathed. “God, yes.”

⸻

He positioned himself over me, pressing his tip at my entrance. The first push was slow, careful, stretching me around him inch by inch. My nails dug into his shoulders, my mouth falling open with a sharp cry.

“Shh…” he soothed, kissing me deep as he sank in further. “Just relax. Let me in.”

And then — oh God — he was inside, filling me completely. My body clenched tight around him, and he groaned against my lips, voice rough. “Fuck, Athena…”

The first thrusts were slow, controlled, as if he was testing how much I could take. But soon, the rhythm shifted — deeper, harder, each stroke hitting that spot that made me see stars. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, demanding more.

“Yes, Michael, just like that…”

His hand slid up to pin mine above my head, his hips snapping harder, faster. The sound of our skin meeting filled the room, mixed with my cries and his low grunts, raw and real. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto my chest as he drove into me, his curls brushing my face when he buried his mouth against my neck.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted. “So damn tight.”

Every word pushed me closer. My body arched, clinging to him, begging for release. “Michael—I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me,” he growled, slamming deeper, grinding against me just right.

And I broke. My climax ripped through me, violent, overwhelming, my whole body trembling under him. I screamed his name, nails clawing his back, holding on like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.

He followed right after, burying himself deep, moaning loud into my ear as he pulsed inside me. Hot, thick, filling me until I could feel it spilling. He didn’t pull out — he stayed, grinding slow, drawing out every aftershock until we both collapsed in a tangled mess of sweat and shaking limbs.

⸻

For a long time, we just lay there, breathing hard, bodies still joined. His hand stroked my hair, his lips brushing soft kisses over my temple.

“I heard what you said at the bar” he whispered with his lips pressed on my ear.

“What did I say?” My voice groggy from all the moaning.

“You don’t do one-night stands, but this is no one night stand to me.. I just wanna see you tomorrow, is that okay?”

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You have a HUGE misunderstanding

Tags: Confusion, Jealousy, held in emotions, Love, Overstimulation.

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: Idk

________________________________

We’d been talking for five months.

Not dating.

Not nothing either.

That weird in-between stage—half friendship, half “what are we doing,” full of late-night texts, soft looks across rooms, phone calls that last too long, and moments that feel like they should mean more… but no one says it.

I liked him. A lot more than I meant to.

And maybe that was the problem.

Talking makes you close—but not safe.

Talking makes you want things no one’s promised.

⸻

The night of the gathering was chill. One of Michael’s friends was throwing something low-key—just music, drinks, and a bunch of people who knew each other well enough to pretend they didn’t care who was watching.

Michael picked me up just after seven. He wore this black tee that hugged his shoulders a little too perfectly, curls still a little wet like he’d showered last minute. When he smiled at me through the open car window, my stomach pulled tight in that dumb way it always did.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.”

He smelled like cedarwood and mint. He always did.

⸻

At the party, I drifted. Talked to a few people I didn’t expect to talk to—some guy who produced something for somebody famous, a girl who ran a wellness brand I’d actually followed for a while. Michael introduced me around, then got swept up in conversation across the room.

I wasn’t mad. It was his crowd.

After a while, I excused myself to the bathroom. On the way back, I slowed when I caught sight of him in the hallway—smiling, arms wrapped around a girl. She was petite, pretty. He kissed her cheek. She laughed, touching his chest like they’d done that a hundred times before.

And it wasn’t a thing. I knew that.

But it felt like a thing.

I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch. Just kept it moving.

⸻

The car ride back to his place was quiet.

Not heavy. Not tense. Just… quiet.

I stared out the window. The rain had started again, light and steady. I watched the water slide down the glass like it had something to say.

Michael didn’t push. He drove with one hand on the wheel, one arm resting out the window. His profile looked calm, but I could feel him glancing over every so often.

When we pulled into his driveway, the sky was dark. The house was quiet. Familiar.

Inside, I sat down on the couch and kicked off my shoes. He dropped his keys on the table and stood there for a second, watching me.

“You alright?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

But I didn’t look at him. And I didn’t smile.

He paused. Then came closer. Quiet footsteps. Then he knelt in front of me, gently, like I might flinch. He sat back on his heels, hands on his knees, looking right at me.

“Okay,” he said, softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

I stared at the wall for a second. Tried to swallow it. Then looked at him—at those deep brown eyes, at that face I’d memorized too well. Something cracked a little.

“I like you,” I said. “A lot. And I’ve been trying not to say it because we’re not… you know. We’re not anything. But tonight, when I saw you hug that girl… and kiss her cheek… I don’t know. It just made me feel stupid.”

He blinked.

“Kiss her cheek?” he repeated, like I’d told him the sky was green.

“Yeah. In the hallway. You were laughing. You looked happy.”

There was a pause.

And then—he laughed.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just surprised. Soft.

“That was Janet,” he said, sitting up straighter.

I stared at him. “Janet?”

“My sister.”

My whole body went still.

“I—” I blinked. “That was your sister?”

“Yeah. I invited her last minute. She lives nearby.”

I put a hand over my face. “Oh my God.”

Michael grinned. A slow, knowing grin. That perfect white smile. That amused sparkle in his eyes.

“You thought I was—?” he started.

“Don’t,” I groaned, laughing into my palms. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“You really thought I’d bring another girl and kiss her in front of you?”

I dropped my hands, cheeks hot. “I don’t know! We’re not together, Michael.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe not officially. But… do you really think I’ve been talking to you every day for five months because I don’t feel something?”

My breath caught.

He leaned in then, slow. His hand came up, fingers resting under my chin, guiding my face to his.

“I like you,” he said. Simple. Sure. No hesitation. “I’ve been trying to be patient. Respect your space. But I like you.”

His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, and then—he kissed me.

Soft at first. Still testing. Still asking.

Then deeper. Warmer. His lips full and careful, like he was trying not to break the moment. One hand stayed under my chin, holding me steady. The other slid behind my neck, his fingers slipping into my hair.

I kissed him back like I’d been waiting five months. Because I had.

And when he pulled back, just barely, he smiled again.

“You still feel stupid?” he asked gently.

I shook my head. “Only a little.”

He laughed and pulled me into his arms.

His arms wrapped around you like it was the easiest thing in the world — like your body fit against his without effort, like he’d done it a hundred times in dreams he never said out loud.

Your face rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, warm. You felt the rise and fall of his breath in your hair. Slow. Safe. Close.

You didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to lose the quiet electricity between you.

But his hands were moving. Soft, slow. Not rushed — just familiar. One hand skimmed the curve of your back. The other settled on your hip, then slid lower. It wasn’t a demand. Just presence. Weight. A quiet claim.

You shifted, just enough to see his face.

His lips brushed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then hovered just near the corner of your mouth.

“Still thinking?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed. “Trying not to.”

He smiled — that quiet, knowing smile that always made your stomach flip — and leaned in again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Warm, parted lips and slow breath. You melted into it.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingers grazing just beneath the hem of your dress. Not groping. Just… asking. Waiting.

Your breath caught.

You kissed him again, and your hands moved on instinct — under his shirt, across smooth skin, tracing the lean muscle he always kept hidden beneath quiet clothes and quiet control. He inhaled sharply when your fingertips brushed his ribs, and the small sound from him made something pulse between your legs.

Five months of holding back unraveled, one heartbeat at a time.

He pulled you gently into his lap. His grip on your hips was strong, sure. You straddled him, breath heavy, dress slipping higher, exposing soft skin beneath. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, then paused — not pushing, just holding. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with something he wasn’t hiding anymore.

He kissed you harder.

Your bodies pressed flush, heat rising between you.

You gasped into his mouth, and he stilled.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough now.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

He lifted you effortlessly — like carrying you was second nature — and walked you to the bedroom. You clung to him, fingers in his curls, heart thudding as he laid you back against the sheets.

His eyes searched yours one last time.

Then he kissed you. Again and again.

His hands slid up your thighs, under your dress, then eased it over your head. You didn’t resist. You wanted him to see. All of you.

His eyes roamed slowly — not greedy, but deliberate. Admiring.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice low and reverent.

You gave him a half-smile. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he admitted, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “Trying too hard.”

His mouth moved lower — to your chest, the soft curve of your stomach, every kiss slower than the last. He traced your skin like a map he didn’t want to rush. Your back arched. You couldn’t stay still.

You undressed him, too — peeled away his shirt, ran your hands across his chest, down his abdomen. His skin was hot under your touch. Firm, but not rigid. Real. Alive.

He didn’t say much.

He didn’t have to.

You opened your legs for him and he settled between them like it was the only place he belonged. His mouth met you there, soft tongue tracing slow circles around your clit, his fingers parting you, exploring you, then easing inside — deep, curling just right.

He took his time.

Listened to the way you gasped, adjusted when your hips twitched, stayed there until your thighs trembled and your voice broke into a desperate, helpless cry.

He kissed up your body again, and you reached for him, panting. “Please…”

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t hesitate.

You felt him press against you — thick and hard — and your legs wrapped around his hips automatically. The first thrust was slow. Careful. Deep.

You both exhaled.

“God,” you whispered.

He didn’t rush. He set a rhythm. Smooth, rocking, so deep you swore he was in your chest. His hands held your hips, guided your body, his mouth brushing yours with every breath.

You felt every inch.

Every pulse.

Every quiet gasp against your skin.

When you moaned his name, it broke something in him. He moved faster — not frantic, just needier, more raw. He kissed your throat, your cheek, your mouth again like he needed to feel every part of you from the inside out.

You clenched around him, breath hitching.

“I’m close,” you choked out.

He didn’t let go.

Didn’t change a thing.

“Let it happen,” he whispered. “I got you. I’m right here.”

And you fell apart — body tightening, back arching, breath caught in your throat as wave after wave hit you, loud and messy and real.

He followed seconds after, groaning your name, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you — deep, full, no barrier, no hesitation. It was raw. Intimate. Final.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held you.

Your bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, skin buzzing. His hand ran slowly up your side. Your fingers stayed in his curls.

After a while, he spoke — voice hoarse and soft.

“You really thought I’d kiss someone else in front of you?”

You groaned. “Let me have my meltdown in peace.”

He laughed — chest shaking, lips brushing your cheek. “Next time, just talk to me.”

You looked at him, still half breathless.

“Next time?”

His gaze held yours.

“Oh, there’s gonna be a next time.”

And the way he kissed you again?

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You have a crush on Michael and he finds out, and gives you something..~

Tags: Overstimulation, longing, holding back, Surprise

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, tense, hard, tender fuck, Gentle Mike☺︎ and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes By: @thatoneliberiangirl

Word count: too lazy ofc

AN- I feel I could have done better⌃✦

Taking requests

You didn’t know what felt more dangerous — the way Michael looked at you lately, or the fact that you were starting to look back.

You were his makeup artist, not his anything-else. You’d worked with him for months now — long hours, little moments, a few private jokes here and there. It was always quiet between you two. Warm. Easy.

But then came the little shifts.

He started holding your gaze longer. Thanking you softer. Asking if you were okay even when you clearly were.

You chalked it up to kindness. He was always kind. Always gentle.

But lately, it felt like he saw through you. Like he knew something.

And he did.

⸻

You showed up at his place thinking it was a casual call — just “touch-ups,” that was the word. You had no reason to expect anything different.

Until he opened the door.

He was barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, curls loose, lips glossy like he’d just licked them. He smiled. It was slow, deliberate. Not mischievous — just sure.

“Come in.”

No staff. No music. No gear. Just him. Just the two of you in a house too quiet.

He closed the door behind you. You turned around and saw him looking — not at your kit, not at your face, but into your nervousness.

“I didn’t really call you over for touch-ups,” he said, calm as water.

Your breath caught. “Then… what?”

“I needed to ask you something,” he said, stepping forward.

He didn’t get too close. Not yet. Just enough to make your heart race.

“Do you like me?”

You froze.

He waited.

Your mouth opened, then shut. He watched your panic carefully. Gently. Not a flicker of mockery.

“It’s okay,” he said, quieter. “You don’t have to lie.”

Your voice cracked. “Michael, I didn’t mean to— I’m not trying to be unprofessional—”

He smiled again. That slow, soft, beautiful smile. Those dimples. Those shining white teeth.

“You’re not doing anything wrong.”

He stepped closer now. Close enough to feel his heat.

“I noticed. I didn’t want to assume. But I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head.

“I like how careful you are. I like how sweet you are with me. But the way you look at me…” He paused. “It’s been driving me crazy.”

You whispered, “I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled again. “I’m glad you did.”

His fingers brushed your cheek.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

You didn’t answer.

You just kissed him first.

⸻

His lips were soft. He tasted like peppermint and warmth.

He kissed like he meant it — but didn’t rush. He kept one hand on your cheek and the other on your waist. His thumb brushed the skin just under your shirt. His mouth was gentle, then firmer. Slower, then deeper. Every few seconds, he pulled back just enough to breathe you in.

You whimpered when he sucked on your bottom lip — and he smiled into the kiss.

“Still nervous?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to take my time with you.”

He kissed you again, this time backing you slowly into the room, hands trailing down your spine, over your hips, pressing just enough to show you how hard he already was.

You could feel it against your belly — thick, hot, pulsing.

He undressed you like he was unwrapping something precious — slow, patient, eyes locked to every inch he revealed. Shirt. Bra. Pants. Panties.

When you stood bare in front of him, flushed and trembling, he looked you up and down like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Damn,” he whispered, almost to himself.

He cupped your jaw and kissed you again. Then dropped to his knees.

You gasped. “Michael—”

“I want to see you cum,” he said. “Before I even touch myself.”

He kissed your thighs first. Slow, deep kisses that left your skin wet.

Then his tongue met your pussy — one long, deliberate lick.

You nearly fell.

He groaned. “Shit…”

He buried his face in you, tongue working slow, wide circles around your clit, then flattening against it with more pressure.

Every moan from you made him go harder. Deeper.

He sucked it softly. Then flicked. Then sucked again, moaning into you like he couldn’t help it.

When he slid a finger in — then a second — your body jerked.

He curled them just right.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, voice ragged against your skin. “I want to feel you shake.”

And you did.

Your thighs clamped around his face. Your hands yanked at his curls. Your pussy clenched hard around his fingers.

You came with a cry — long, breathless, soaking his mouth.

He kissed you through it, slow and sweet.

Then licked his lips and smiled.

“Worth the wait,” he said.

⸻

He stripped slowly in front of you — shirt falling off his shoulders, pants low on his hips, revealing a lean, tight body. Smooth chest. Flat stomach. Strong thighs.

His cock was full, long, flushed at the tip. You couldn’t stop staring.

“Come here,” he said, holding out a gentle hand.

He guided you to the bed and laid you down like glass.

“You okay?”

You nodded, breathless. “Please… I want you inside me.”

“I will,” he said, brushing hair from your face. “But I need you to feel me. Every inch.”

He slid in slow.

Thick. Deep. Stretching you just enough to make your mouth drop.

His head fell to your neck.

“God-…”

He filled you all the way, paused to let you adjust, then started moving.

Slow. Long strokes. Deep, grinding thrusts that made your back arch and your toes curl.

“So tight..” he whispered into your ear.

His hips rolled like rhythm. Smooth. Powerful.

You moaned his name. Over and over.

He kissed you between thrusts. Held your hand. Rubbed your clit with careful, perfect circles.

You could barely breathe.

“Let go for me again,” he said. “One more time.” he cooed in your ear breathlessly.

You did.

Harder. Wetter. Louder.

Your whole body tightened around him.

“Fuck—” he hissed, slowing his pace, trying to hold on.

But he couldn’t.

He buried himself deep, moaning into your neck, cock pulsing as he came — warm, thick, filling you up.

⸻

After, he didn’t move for a while. Just kissed you. Touched you. Looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

Then whispered:

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: Michael has been holding back, so you help him release

Tags: Love, Overstimulation, longing, holding back,

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, tense, hard, rough fuck, squirting kink and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes By: anonymous ig

Word count: too lazy ofc

Taking requests

The house was too still.

You could tell something was off the minute you stepped out of the shower.

The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that crackled with tension instead of peace. You padded barefoot across the cool hardwood, a fluffy white towel wrapped around your body, your hair dripping wet at the ends.

It wasn’t a fight. You and Michael didn’t really fight. But you knew your husband — you knew the little signs. The way he’d been quiet all day, a little short. Giving you those looks across the kitchen, across the couch. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

You thought maybe he was stressed. Studio stuff. Family stuff. You decided to give him space, take your time in the shower, and let him work through whatever it was.

Steam curled from the open bathroom, the scent of your shampoo still lingering in the air. You padded into the dim bedroom,

You expected to find Michael maybe lying in bed, reading, pretending not to be restless.

But what you found made you stop breathing.

Michael was sitting at the foot of the bed.

Head tipped back. Curls messy. His hand wrapped slow and desperate around his cock — thick and flushed dark at the tip, slick with precum. His other hand gripped the edge of the mattress tight, the tendons of his forearm standing out.

You could see it in every line of him:

Control slipping.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding.

He must’ve heard your bare feet whisper on the hardwood, because his head snapped toward you — brown eyes wide, flushed with guilt and longing.

His hand froze.

But he didn’t let go.

He just breathed your name, voice breaking.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t wait anymore...”

The words were so soft, so aching, they made something inside you twist.

You stepped closer — towel slipping dangerously low — and cocked your head, teasing:

“Oh, so that’s why you were so quiet earlier? Snappy little answers? All those looks you thought I didn’t see?”

Michael flushed deeper, his hand tightening around himself, precum leaking faster now, messy and raw against his palm.

“I have been tryin’ to be patient,” he muttered, breath-catching. “Didn’t wanna act like some… animal…”

You let the towel fall.

Michael’s mouth parted with a low, helpless groan.

You crossed the room slowly, hips swaying, water droplets sliding down your naked body.

“You should’ve told me you were suffering, handsome,” you teased.

His hands shook slightly now. His breathing got heavier.

When you stepped between his open thighs, his hands immediately found your hips — big, strong hands that trembled as they gripped the softness of you, as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

“You have no idea,” he whispered against your stomach. “What you do to me.”

You combed your fingers into his curls, tugging gently until he looked up at you — eyes shining with restraint, devotion, and something ravenous.

“You can show me,” you said softly looking at his soft rested face.

He exhaled a shaking breath. “You sure, baby? You know once I start, I’m not stoppin’ till I’ve had you every way I need.”

You smiled and nodded.

Michael groaned again, pulling you into his lap in one swift, desperate motion.

Your thighs straddled his hips, and his bare cock, and nude tip slid between your folds — hot and slick, dragging against your clit with a slow, sinful pressure that made your breath stutter.

He didn’t rush.

He rocked you against him — slow, careful, grinding his cock against your wetness, soaking the length of him with your arousal.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “Already so wet for me.”

You nodded, whimpering, your thighs tightening around him.

Michael pressed kisses up your stomach, over your ribs, between the heavy weight of your plump breasts, until he reached your lips — and kissed you like he was drowning.

Slow. Open. Deep.

You could feel him trembling underneath you. Not from fear — from holding back.

You shifted your hips, grinding down harder, making him groan into your mouth.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me have it, baby. Let me love you the way I need to.” he pleaded.

You guided him to your entrance — so slick, so swollen — and slowly, so achingly slow, sank down onto him.

Michael’s forehead dropped against your shoulder.

He let out a sound — soft, broken — his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him as you took him deeper.

He filled you completely — stretching you, molding to every inch of you. You stayed there for a long moment, just breathing, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. Biting your lip in the process.

When you started to move — rocking your hips in slow, deep circles — he whimpered against your skin.

You moved together like waves — slow, grinding rolls that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

“Feels so good, baby,” he whispered. “You fit me so perfectly. Like you were made for me.”

You whimpered as you felt the first tremors building — low in your belly, in your thighs.

Michael felt it too.

“You close, baby?” he murmured.

You nodded, unable to speak.

He kissed your throat, whispering:

“Give it to me. Come for me, my love. Let it all go.”

You did.

You cried out, your thighs trembling violently, and squirted, the gush soaking his cock, his stomach, pooling warm and wet between you.

Michael gasped — not in disgust — but in wonder.

He pulled you tighter against him, keeping his cock buried deep inside you, his hands sliding over your trembling back.

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

But he didn’t stop.

He laid you back on the bed gently — never pulling out — and pushed your thighs up over his stomach, pressing your knees toward your chest.

The new angle was devastating.

He moved slow at first — deep, slow thrusts, dragging his cock against your sensitive, still-pulsing walls.

You gasped, eyes rolling back.

He kissed your ankle, your knee, your wrist — anywhere he could reach.

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispered. “So warm. So full of me.”

You felt him leaking inside you already — warm, thick — and when you clenched around him, another gush of wetness sprayed out of you, splashing his thighs.

Michael moaned low, thrusting deeper, messier.

He didn’t pull away from it — he loved it. Loved the way you squirted again, loved the way the sheets were soaking wet beneath you, loved the way your body shook every time he thrust.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “So messy for me. I wanna fill you up even more.”

He pressed deeper, grinding slow — not slamming, but staying so deep, so thick, that you could feel everything.

His cum started to drip out around his cock — hot and slick — but he didn’t stop.

He kept thrusting into you, slow and deep, until you were both soaked, your bodies glued together with wetness and heat.

You sobbed his name, tears sliding down your cheeks from how overwhelming it was — how full, how loved, how completely wrecked you felt in his arms.

Michael kissed the tears away, kissed your hair, your mouth, whispering:

“You’re mine, baby. All mine.”

He thrust again — deep — and you gushed another time, squirting hard enough to make him groan and sink even deeper.

When he finally came again — filling you completely, pouring himself into you — he didn’t pull out.

He stayed inside you, bodies pressed close, your thighs quivering against his chest, your heart hammering.

He kissed you slowly, hands smoothing down your sides of your soft skin.

“You’re everything,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Every breath, every heartbeat… it’s you...”

You held him close, still trembling, still full of him, the sheets soaked beneath you, the room heavy with heat, love, and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing.

And neither of you moved.

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: Michael an old associate, meets you again…

Tags:, Love, Overstimulation, new flame, One-night stand/ Quicky

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, sensual, teasing, thirsting, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes By Anonymous

Word count: too lazy to look

The moment he walked in, the air shifted.

You were mid-laugh with your best friend, glass of white wine in your hand, when the door opened — and in he stepped.

Michael.

Everything about him was striking, but tonight? He was on another level.

He wore a deep burgundy silk button-down, the top few buttons undone, revealing a smooth line of warm, caramel skin and the tease of a gold chain catching the low lights. The fabric clung to his frame like it knew what it was doing — draping off his chest, folding into sharp creases at the waist.

His blazer matched — deep red, slightly oversized, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. But it was the leather pants that made you nearly choke on your drink.

They were a shade darker than the shirt. Wine-colored, high-waisted, tight. Hugging his hips and thighs like a second skin. When he moved, they creaked ever so slightly — subtle, soft, but enough to make your breath catch.

And the boots? Black leather, polished to a quiet shine, pointed toes tapping casually as he stepped further into the room, every movement deliberate, dancer-smooth. The silver accents on the heel gleamed when the light hit just right.

Your best friend noticed your silence. Nudged you gently.

“Girl,” she whispered. “Are you breathing?”

Barely.

Michael’s eyes found you across the room like he knew — like he felt you before he even looked. When your gazes met, the corners of his lips lifted slowly. That damn smile. The kind that wasn’t just handsome — it was devastating.

And the way his brown eyes crinkled slightly when he smirked? You felt it between your legs.

He made his way through the space slowly, never once breaking eye contact. When he reached you, his voice was soft, like silk over bare skin.

“You always look this good,” he said, eyes dipping down your body, “or is this just for me?”

You gave him a look. “You assume everything’s about you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “No. But I can tell when someone wants to be noticed.”

You felt heat rush through your chest.

Your best friend cleared her throat beside you. “Michael,” she said sweetly, “play nice.”

He looked at her and gave a small bow of his head, polite and gentlemanly.

“I always play nice,” he said, then looked right at you again, “until I’m given permission not to.”

The tension cracked like static in the room. Your best friend blinked between the two of you, eyes wide.

“Okayyy, I’m gonna… grab another drink,” she muttered and slipped away.

You exhaled slowly. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Michael leaned in slightly, speaking just above a whisper. “Not when it comes to things I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

The air between you was hot now. Thick. Every time he looked at you, it felt like he was peeling away layers you didn’t realize you were wearing.

⸻

You ended up alone with him by the record player. Low vinyl playing some smoky soul track. The lights were warm and dim, the rest of the guests mellow, lost in side conversations.

Your best friend gave you a wink across the room as she disappeared upstairs.

Michael leaned one elbow against the wall beside you. “So,” he said. “Are we gonna keep pretending this is just small talk?”

You swallowed the last of your wine.

“That depends,” you said. “You planning to keep teasing or are you actually going to do something about it?”

He pushed off the wall slowly.

Stepped into your space.

So close you felt his breath on your cheek. One hand came to rest at your waist, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of your lower back — light, not demanding.

“You’re not afraid to push back,” he murmured. “I like that.”

You tilted your head up. “You’re not afraid to test limits.”

“Only yours,” he said, voice low. “Never mine.”

Your heart hammered.

And still — he didn’t kiss you.

He just stayed close. Let the heat build. Let your body start to ache for more. His hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the curve of your ass through your dress, slow, deliberate.

Then he leaned down, whispered in your ear:

“If I kiss you now, I’m not stopping.”

You turned to face him fully. “Then don’t start until you’re ready to finish.”

And he smiled.

That slow, sinful, Michael smile.

“Then let’s find somewhere with a door.”

The Room Upstairs

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality — not loud, but absolute.

You stood there for a second, breathing, letting your back rest against the door as you watched him. Michael was only a few steps ahead of you, his profile carved by warm lamplight from the nightstand. He was facing the window, hands in his pockets, that silk shirt clinging to his frame with every slow breath.

Then he turned.

And those brown eyes landed on you again — that same heat, but deeper now. Focused. His gaze ran from your face to your collarbone, then slowly down to your hips, the dip of your thighs.

“I’ve imagined this,” he said softly. “For longer than I should probably admit.”

You stayed quiet, heat rising in your cheeks. Your legs squeezed together on instinct.

“And now you’re standing there,” he continued, walking toward you, “with that look in your eye… like you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught.

When he reached you, he didn’t kiss you yet. He just lifted his hand — that same hand that guided you earlier — and gently traced his thumb across your bottom lip. You instinctively parted them, and his smile deepened.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re quiet like this,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Intentional.

His body pressed into yours with full weight, his hips pinning you gently against the door. You could feel the cool leather of his pants against your thighs, the subtle ridge of his belt buckle pressing to your stomach. He kissed like he moved — with rhythm, control, and pure intent. One hand gripped your waist. The other slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers tilting your chin up to keep you right there.

You melted under it. But he didn’t let you slip too far.

His hand slid down, around your thigh, lifting it gently, wrapping it around his waist. You could feel just how hard he was now — thick, pressing into your core, and still holding back.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your neck.

You nodded, breathless.

“I’ve been walking around this whole night like that… because of you.”

You whimpered as his hand found your ass — squeezing, grounding, claiming — while his mouth moved back to yours.

But still, he didn’t rush.

Instead, he guided you away from the door, walking you backward slowly toward the bed. He kissed down your neck, pulling at the strap of your dress. The fabric fell easily — off one shoulder, then the other — and he let it slip all the way down your body, leaving you standing there in just your bra and lace-trimmed underwear.

He stepped back, just to look.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.

“Turn around for me,” he said, voice firm but calm.

You did — slowly, your back to him, your hands resting on the bed frame. You heard the faint rustle of his clothes, then the creak of leather as he stepped closer.

His hand smoothed down your spine, then slipped between your legs, sliding up the center of your panties. You gasped.

“You’re soaked already,” he whispered. “Just from my mouth. From the way I talk to you.”

You tried to respond — couldn’t.

He kissed your neck, your shoulder, then down your back. Hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed.

And then — without a word — he knelt behind you.

His mouth pressed between your thighs, warm and open, his tongue stroking you in slow, deliberate circles. You grabbed the sheets, knuckles white, as he moaned against your pussy like he was tasting the first sip of something expensive and forbidden.

He ate you with care.

No rush. No show.

Just hunger.

When you came, it was with your forehead pressed to the mattress, your moan caught between the sheets, thighs trembling around his head.

He stood, kissed the curve of your ass, then your back, then your shoulder again.

“Up,” he said gently. “On the bed.”

You climbed on, laid back, watched as he pulled off his shirt — smooth, slow — and finally those leather pants, revealing the rest of him: long, strong, hard.

He stroked himself once, then crawled over you, pressing the tip to your entrance.

“You ready?” he asked, watching your face.

“Please,” you whispered.

He slid in.

He didn’t move.

After he slid inside you — slow and complete — he stayed still, buried deep, your thighs spread wide beneath his hips, his chest hovering just inches over yours.

His arms braced on either side of your head, and his breath kissed your lips with every exhale.

His eyes locked on yours, watching you like he could see inside you. The room was warm, humming with silence and the faint beat of your joined heartbeats.

You shifted — just slightly — needing more.

Michael didn’t budge.

He smiled.

That slow, sexy, crinkled-eye smile that made your stomach flip and a low pulse throb between your legs.

“Easy,” he whispered. “We’ve got time.”

You whimpered. Your hands reached up, gripping his biceps, the tension in your belly already coiling tight.

He rolled his hips — once.

Twice.

And you gasped. It was barely a thrust, just enough to make your body pulse and clutch around him, but it made everything worse. You needed more. You needed him to move.

But he was in no rush.

“I want you to feel every second,” he said softly, lips brushing your cheek. “Every inch. Every part of me inside you.”

He pulled back so slowly it was maddening — the long, delicious drag of his cock along your walls, only to stop at the tip… and push all the way in again, deep and steady.

Your head tilted back, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t let you drift too far.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his hand catching your jaw gently. “I want to see it. Every time I touch you. I want to watch what I do to you.”

You opened your eyes.

He began to move — a torturously slow pace. Not to tease. To claim.

Each thrust was deliberate. Full. Drawing you up and over the edge again and again without letting you fall. His hips rolled with practiced rhythm, his muscles flexing under your hands. You could feel the control in every inch of his body — like he was holding back a storm just beneath the surface.

And still…

He didn’t go faster.

Instead, his lips met your neck, trailing soft, slow kisses down to your chest. He took your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling with wet heat, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

He moaned softly into your skin.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whispered, licking back up to your mouth. “The way you squeeze me like that when I slow down.”

You let out a broken moan, hands gripping his waist.

“I need more,” you begged. “Michael, please—”

He grinned again. “You’ll get it, baby. But not until you feel it first.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit — and still, he didn’t rush.

He rubbed it in slow, perfect circles, the pressure maddening. You writhed beneath him, every part of your body trembling now — from the teasing, from the buildup, from the overwhelming stretch of being filled so perfectly.

He kissed your lips again. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he whispered. “Just from me moving slow. From me not giving it all. You’re gonna lose it without me ever needing to fuck you hard.”

And you did.

Your orgasm came like a rising tide — slow, steady, pulling you under. Your body shook, clenched, wrapped around him like you were trying to pull him deeper, keep him inside you forever.

He stayed there. Still moving. Still slow.

“You’ve got more,” he murmured. “You’re not done. Let me keep you right here.”

You whimpered, the overstimulation making your thighs twitch, your hands shaking, your mind blank with pleasure.

And then, finally — finally — he started to pick up speed.

His thrusts got sharper, deeper, his breath heavier.

He kissed your neck again and whispered, “Turn over.”

You obeyed — barely thinking — letting him guide you to your stomach. He lifted your hips gently, pulling you back to your knees. You heard the low sound he made when he looked at your body from behind.

“So thick,” he whispered. “So perfect. This ass…”

He grabbed it, spread it, kissed it — and then slid back into you from behind.

You both moaned, the angle deeper now, rougher but still controlled. His hand snaked around your waist, back to your clit, rubbing you in time with his strokes.

And you came again.

Harder. Louder. Your body jerking, the sound of skin against skin filling the room now — wet, loud, real.

Still, he didn’t let up.

“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice low and shaking. “You can take more.”

And he was right.

You wanted more. Needed it.

You let him fuck you like that — slow, then harder, then slow again — until your legs gave out and your voice was gone and you could only feel.

When he finally came, it was with a deep groan, his hands gripping your hips, his body shaking against your back as he buried himself one last time.

He stayed there. Breathless. Pressed to your skin. Kissing the back of your shoulder, your spine, the curve of your neck.

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, pulling your face to his for a soft, slow kiss.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “Everything.”

And you believed him.

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: Michael has been trying to find himself as a new adult

Tags: Family friend, Love, Overstimulation, new flame.

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: too lazy to look

Taking requests

An: Listen to “Shoop Shoop” by Whitney Houston from waiting to exhale

Hawaii, 1977 — The Jackson family vacation

The ocean was warm. Salty and gentle, it lapped at your skin as the sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden light that made everything look like a dream. The Jacksons had rented out an entire section of the resort — a beachfront hideaway tucked between cliffs and palms. It was beautiful. But what made it better was that you were with them.

You’d been close to the family for years. Your parents had known Joe and Katherine since before you could talk, and you grew up tagging along on trips and gatherings like you were just another sibling. You knew each of the Jackson boys like family.

But Michael…

Michael was different.

He was quiet and kind in a way that sneaked up on you. Funny, but soft-spoken. He had this thoughtful air about him, like he was always somewhere between dreaming and observing. At 18, he was still figuring himself out — not quite the megastar he was becoming, but no longer a kid. Just Michael. And when he looked at you now, something in his eyes felt… new.

You were in the water, just past where the waves broke. The sun glinted off your wet skin, droplets tracing the curve of your collarbone. Your laughter echoed across the shore as you splashed Jackie, and Tito retaliated with a roar and a wave of his arms that sent water flying.

Michael was closer to shore, arms crossed, standing in the shallows with the water just brushing his hips. He watched you — and tried not to make it obvious. But God, you looked beautiful. Hair slicked back, skin glowing, smile wide. He swallowed thickly, his fingers twitching against his sides.

“You gonna come in or just admire from a distance?” you teased, paddling closer.

He chuckled, a quiet, nervous sound. “Maybe both.”

You raised a brow. “Is that so?”

Michael shrugged, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they used to. He was bolder today. The way he looked at you made something low in your stomach twist — not in discomfort, but in that warm, aching way that had been building for a while now. You hadn’t wanted to name it before.

Now you were starting to wonder if he felt it too.

After a while, the family wandered back toward the hotel. Towels slung over shoulders, wet footprints leading up the sand. Laughter echoing, someone yelling that dinner was in an hour. You started to follow, but Michael caught your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “Wanna stay out here for a bit?”

You looked at him — his curls still damp, shirt stuck to his chest, eyes a little unsure but hopeful.

You nodded. “Yeah. Let’s stay.”

You sat on a low, sun-warmed rock near the dunes. The ocean stretched out in front of you, slowly darkening with the sky. The breeze lifted your hair, and Michael sat close — not quite touching, but almost.

“You ever think about all this?” he said suddenly, eyes on the water. “Life. Like… where we’re going. Who we’re supposed to be?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t just making conversation. He meant it.

“All the time,” you said. “It’s scary. But exciting too. Like I’m waiting for something and I don’t know what.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Same. I feel like… I’m learning who I am, and every day I change a little. But sometimes I still feel like a kid.”

You looked at him then, really looked. “You’re not a kid, Michael.”

He smiled faintly. “No? What am I?”

You swallowed, your heart thudding in your chest. “You’re… you. And that’s kind of everything.”

There was a silence between you. Not awkward — just heavy. His eyes were on you now, and you felt it all over. The weight of his gaze, the closeness of his body. The air was thick with tension, charged like the edge of a storm.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t bold. Just a brush of his lips against yours, soft and trembling. He pulled back slightly, searching your face.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

You nodded, breathless. “Do it again.”

He smiled, a slow, shy thing — then leaned in and kissed you deeper. His hand found your cheek, fingers curling into your hair. You kissed like you’d been waiting all summer for this, like years of closeness had built to this exact moment. The warmth, the ache, the wanting.

His hand trailed down your side, resting on your hip. You shifted, pulled him closer, and suddenly he was against you, his body pressed along yours, heat radiating through his skin.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured against your neck. “But I can’t stop wanting to.”

“Me neither.”

He took your hand and stood. “Come with me.”

You followed him through a narrow trail between palms, up to a secluded little cabana nestled behind a wall of green. A place the family had used for storage, but it had privacy, shade, quiet.

Inside, it smelled of wood and sea air. The sun filtered through woven bamboo walls. Michael stood in front of you, chest rising and falling. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I want this. I want you.”

The kiss turned heated fast. Hands roamed, clothes fell away — the tension between you breaking like a wave. He laid you down on a soft blanket spread on the wooden floor, kissed every inch of you like you were something holy.

You touched him too — the strength in his arms, the softness of his skin, the curve of his back. He gasped when you stroked him, his body shivering with need.

When he entered you, it was careful. His eyes locked on yours. His breath caught as your body accepted him, slowly, inch by inch. He moved gently, easing into you like he was afraid to break the moment — or you.

You gasped, hand curling into his back. It wasn’t painful, just intense — so full, so close. You’d never felt anything like it. You could feel every bit of him, the way he fit inside you, the tremble in his arms as he held himself up. His body was lean but strong, all smooth muscle under soft, warm skin, flexing as he adjusted his hips.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice shaky, buried somewhere in the curve of your neck. He kissed your shoulder. “Tell me if it’s too much…”

You cupped his cheek, eyes searching his. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

That lit something in him. His hips began to move — slow at first, rocking gently into you. Each thrust drew a soft sound from your lips, each grind of his pelvis brushed your most sensitive spot. He was learning your body, paying attention. Watching the way your breath hitched, how your legs pulled him closer.

The sound of your bodies filled the cabana — the soft creak of the floor beneath the blanket, your quiet gasps, his low moans against your skin. It was warm, the air thick with sweat and sea breeze, your limbs tangled beneath him as he moved inside you like he never wanted to stop.

You ran your hands over his back, down his spine, feeling every shift of his muscles, every shiver. His rhythm built slowly — a push, a pull, your hips rising to meet him each time.

“God… you feel so good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your mouth, his lips slick with sweat. “I’ve never… not like this…”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, and he groaned when you drew him deeper. His thrusts grew more urgent, his control faltering, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold on.

You could feel yourself climbing higher with him — that unbearable ache tightening in your belly, coiling hotter, faster.

“Michael,” you moaned, clutching at his shoulders, arching into him.

“I know,” he panted, face buried against your chest. “I feel it too… Baby, I’m so close…”

His movements grew messier, desperate now — hips driving harder, deeper, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat. You held him close, skin to skin, every nerve ending burning. His name slipped from your mouth again and again, like prayer, like a plea.

And then it happened — a white-hot rush that flooded through you, shaking you apart. You cried out, clutching him tight as your body trembled, waves of pleasure rolling through you in a dizzying rush.

Michael followed just after, letting out a low, broken moan as he buried himself deep, his whole body tensing. You felt the warmth of him spill inside you, and he collapsed against you with a shudder, chest heaving.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just lay there, wrapped around you, his hand stroking your side, his lips brushing lazy kisses over your collarbone, your cheek, your jaw.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you could feel like this.”

You smiled, fingers curling into his hair. “Me neither.”

The waves crashed softly outside. And in the quiet of that hidden cabana, wrapped in Michael’s arms, you felt the ache settle in your chest — deep and sweet.

✦º・⌃⚡︎

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You’re his professional assistant. Smart, put-together, and quietly obsessed. He’s smooth, slow, dominant—but sweet. It’s a late night at the office. And this time… you don’t walk away.

Tags: Confusion, Jealousy, Anger, office Love, Overstimulation.

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: too lazy to look

❀❀❀

You’ve worked for him for almost two years.

Michael.

Your boss.

The man whose voice alone makes you shift in your seat.

He’s never so much as brushed your hand, never called you anything but “Miss,” never looked at you for longer than was appropriate—but you’ve seen the way his gaze lingers when you leave his office. You’ve felt it. Like static in the air. Like a storm that refuses to break.

He’s gentle when he speaks. Polite. But behind it, there’s a current. Something low and steady, something restrained. And you’ve spent far too many nights thinking about what he might sound like when he finally lets go.

Tonight, you’re working late. Just the two of you. Everyone else has gone home, but the soft lamplight from his office still glows across the darkened floor.

You sit at your desk, typing. Trying to focus.

You hear the quiet creak of his office door open.

“Still here, Miss?” His voice is low. Smooth. Warm as silk.

You turn. “Just finishing the quarterly summary.”

He steps into the soft light. Black slacks, crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, tie loosened. His jacket’s off. His collarbone shows. His hands—long fingers, graceful—hold a glass of something amber.

You watch his throat as he drinks.

“I’ve told you,” he says, moving closer. “You work too hard.”

You smile tightly. “Comes with the job.”

He leans against your desk, just beside you. Close enough to feel the heat from his body.

“You always do more than the job,” he murmurs. “Always going above and beyond.” His gaze lingers on your mouth for half a second too long.

Your breath catches.

It shouldn't

He notices.

“You know,” he says, setting down his glass. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Your voice is tight. “Sir?”

His eyes lift slowly, locking with yours. Dark. Heavy.

“I think it’s time we stop pretending.”

Your heartbeat slams in your chest.

“I’ve watched you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen the way you cross your legs every time I say your name. I’ve been very patient, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

You freeze.

“Michael…”

“Mm.” He steps behind you. You feel his presence at your back. “Say it again.”

You do. Softly. “Michael.”

A warm breath against your ear.

“I like when you say my name like that.”

He leans down, his mouth at your ear, his hands slowly trailing over your shoulders, fingers grazing your arms.

“Stand up,” he murmurs.

You do. Slowly. Breath shaking.

He walks around, facing you again. His gaze drops, devours. “You’ve been keeping this body hidden under pencil skirts and blouses for how long now?” His tone is still soft. Too soft for the words he says next. “You think I haven’t imagined what’s under there?”

You swallow hard. “I’ve imagined it too.”

His eyes flicker. And that’s it.

The dam breaks.

His hands are on your hips, pushing you back against your desk. You gasp as you feel the hard surface at your spine, his body warm and solid against yours.

“I’m gonna be good to you,” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your neck. “You want that?”

You nod. Eyes fluttering closed.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want it. I want you.”

He groans, low and deep, before his lips crash to yours—hot, hungry, and completely in control. His tongue parts your lips and you open for him, whimpering as he tilts your chin up, dominating the kiss, his fingers sliding down your body to your thighs.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs against your lips. “That turn you on? Letting go at work? Knowing you’re mine here?”

“Yes,” you whimper.

He lifts you up onto the desk, hands firm under your thighs. You wrap your legs around him instinctively.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he growls. “Every late night. Every time you bent over to file something. Every single damn time you said ‘sir’—I’ve been imagining what you’d look like begging for it.”

“I am,” you whisper. “I’m begging.”

He smirks. “Not yet, baby. But you will.”

His hands slide up your thighs, under your skirt, teasing the edge of your panties. His fingers press lightly through the fabric—you’re already soaked.

“Fuck.” His breath shudders. “You’re soaked for me. You’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you?”

You nod, desperate. “Please, Michael…”

He slowly slides your panties aside, two fingers gliding through your folds. He groans again, kissing you deeply as his fingers circle your clit with slow, delicious pressure.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs. “So wet, so warm. And all mine now.”

You moan, hips rolling into his touch. “Please…”

He slips one finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, dragging moans from your lips as he works you open.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “That stretch? That’s nothing, baby. You’re gonna take all of me.”

You cry out, already so close. But he pulls back. Smirking.

“Not yet.”

He drops to his knees.

“Let me taste you first.”

You can’t speak. You just nod, trembling as he hooks your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between your thighs.

His tongue is wicked. Slow circles, firm strokes, teasing flicks until your hands are in his hair and you’re gasping his name like a prayer.

He moans into you. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you. Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good.”

You’re panting, thighs shaking, so close—

And then he pulls back again.

“Michael—!”

He grins. “I want you to come on my cock.”

He stands, unbuckling his belt. You watch, wide-eyed, as he drops his pants, his thick, heavy length springing free.

You gasp. “You’re…”

He smirks. “Big? I know, baby. But you’re gonna take it. Every inch. I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t be able to sit at your desk tomorrow.”

You moan helplessly, pulling him in.

He lines up with your soaked entrance, eyes locked to yours.

“You ready?”

You nod, trembling. “Please, please…”

He pushes in—slowly, deeply, stretching you with every inch. You cry out, clutching him, and he kisses you through it, whispering sweet nothings.

“That’s it. So good for me. So tight. Taking me so well.”

Once he’s buried to the hilt, he pauses. Lets you feel it.

Then he pulls back, and slams in again.

You scream.

He starts fucking you hard. Deep. His hand gripping your throat lightly, just enough to keep your eyes on his.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Wanna see your face when I wreck you.”

And wreck you he does.

Over and over, his hips slam into you, desk creaking under your bodies, your moans echoing in the empty office. “You feel what you do to me?” he pants. “Can’t think straight around you. All I wanna do is bend you over this desk and fuck you senseless.”

You sob his name, nearing the edge again.

“Come for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you.”

Your body tightens, explodes, pleasure crashing through you in waves as you come hard around him.

He groans, slamming deep one last time, and you feel him spill inside you, his breath ragged, hands shaking.

Afterward, he holds you close, forehead against yours.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly, dazed. “More than ok”

New acc bc my phone broke asf so I got a new one❤️