I tried to be good, am I no good?

niall or nini, 19, black, gold everything, multifandom, vanilla & strawberry, music, writing, matcha, chipotle, shopping, reading, editing, autumn, college student, dr pepper, abbott elementary. 🍂

🎧ྀི crying in your arms, baby, can’t we just leave? Everyone’s watching us and I can’t breathe They’re all gonna laugh at me . 🤎

pairing: mature michael x reader

warnings: this story contains explicit penetrative sex (unprotected), a significant size difference between the characters, riding/cowgirl position, consensual pinning and being held down by arms, heavy chest-to-chest grinding and full-body contact, detailed focus on physical bulk and softness over muscle, a creampie, and mild dominance from the man while he remains on his back.

Idea: imagine your riding thick 2000’s michael, and he’s lying down flat on his back on the bed whilst you straddle him. Then he wraps both of his arms around you and pulls you down so you two are chest to chest, and you just feel his plumpness and muscles and there is a BIG size difference between you and him omg.. and then you feel his broad shoulders and your stomach is pressed on top of his..@michaelssparklyglove

You climb onto the bed and swing one leg over him, the mattress dipping heavily under the sheer bulk of him. Michael is stretched out flat on his back, his body on full display—his chest rising and falling slow, soft muscle layered over denser strength, a solid, heavy frame that makes the sheets crease around his hips and shoulders. His skin is warm under the low light. You settle your knees on either side of his thick thighs and look down at the size of him. He’s massive beneath you. Your hands look small when they brace against his chest

You reach between your bodies, guide the heavy, flushed head of his dick against yourself, and sink down. Inch by thick inch. A low, broken sound leaves his throat as your walls swallows him. You take him all the way until your ass settles flush against his hips and he’s buried deep, stretching you open around his solid girth. For a moment you just stay there, breathing, feeling how completely he fills you. Then you start to move.

You roll your hips in a deep, grinding rhythm, lifting just enough to feel the drag of him before sinking back down. Every descent makes your thighs tremble. His hands come up to rest on your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin there, but the longer you ride him the more restless those big hands get. You lean forward a little, bracing on his chest, and the motion presses your stomach against the soft give of his midsection. The contrast is filthy—your smaller body working over all that heavy muscle and plumpness, the way his belly yields just slightly under yours while the rest of him stays solid and dense.

“Fuck… look at you,” he mutters, voice rough. His eyes are dark, fixed on the place where your bodies join. You keep riding him, slower now, grinding down hard so he can feel every inch of how tight you are around him. His hips start to meet yours in short, upward thrusts, the thick muscle of his thighs flexing under you. The bed creaks.

Then both of those arms come up and wrap around you.

He pulls you down hard, crushing you chest-to-chest against him. Your breasts flatten against the warm, solid plane of his chest. The sudden closeness steals your breath. His plumpness is everywhere—soft give over dense muscle, the kind of body that feels expensive and indulgent under you. Your stomach presses flush to his, the slight softness of his midsection yielding under yours, and you can feel the heat of him radiating straight into your skin. His broad shoulders fill your entire field of vision. Your face is tucked against the side of his neck, and the scent of his skin—warm, clean, a little like cologne wraps around you.

He keeps you locked there, arms banded tight around your back, holding you still while he starts thrusting up into you from below. Short, powerful rolls of his hips that drive him deep every time. You’re completely blanketed by him—his size, his heat, the solid weight of those arms keeping you pinned chest-to-chest so you can’t do anything but feel how completely he fills you. Every upward thrust makes your stomach press harder into his, makes you feel the difference in your bodies even more sharply how much bigger he is, how easily he can keep you exactly where he wants you while he fucks up into you with steady, greedy strokes.

You moan against his neck, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. The breadth of them under your hands is ridiculous. You can barely span the width of one. He just holds you tighter, breathing hard into your hair, the soft weight of his chest rising against yours with every breath. His dick drags deep inside you on every thrust, the thick base of him grinding against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. You’re so full of him it borders on overwhelming—stretched around that heavy length, pinned by all that solid bulk, forced to take every upward roll of his hips while your smaller body is crushed against the warm, plush expanse of his.

He shifts one arm lower, wrapping it around the small of your back so he can pull you down even harder onto him. The new angle makes you gasp. Your stomach is pressed so tightly to his that you can feel every flex of the muscle underneath the soft layer. His other hand slides up your spine and settles between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest locked to his. You’re completely surrounded by him—broad shoulders, heavy arms, the solid heat of his body under yours. The size difference is impossible to ignore. He could cover you completely if he wanted. Right now he’s content to keep you trapped on top of him, fucking up into you with those deep, relentless thrusts while you can only cling to his shoulders and take it.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs against your temple, voice low and rough. “Just like that.”

You do. You stay chest-to-chest, stomach pressed to his, feeling every thick inch of him slide in and out while his arms hold you down. The friction is constant, deep, filthy. Your clit grinds against the base of him with every upward thrust. Heat builds low in your belly, sharp and insistent. He can feel it—the way you start to squeeze around him, the way your breathing goes uneven against his neck. His own rhythm gets a little rougher, a little deeper, the soft bulk of his body shifting under you with every powerful roll of his hips.

You come first, clenching hard around him with a broken sound muffled against his skin. He holds you through it, arms locked tight, thrusting up into the fluttering heat of you until the pleasure tips over into something almost too much. Only then does he let himself follow—burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan, the thick pulse of him spilling deep while his arms keep you crushed against all that warm, solid bulk.

Even after, he doesn’t let go right away. He stays buried inside you, breathing hard, one big hand stroking slowly up and down your back while your smaller body remains draped over the heavy expanse of his. Chest to chest. Stomach to stomach. Completely surrounded by the thick, plush weight of him.

Thank you honey🫣😖

🤎: president!daughter who was so shy when she meets michael for the first time, and like she's just standing beside her dad, all shy until she introduced herself, and he teases her, asking if she's shy.

“Hi,” she said quietly, barely meeting his eyes. michael smiled and held out his hand. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” She shook his hand, then immediately looked down, suddenly very interested in the floor. Michael noticed and gave a quiet laugh. “Are you shy?” Her cheeks warmed. “A little.” He smiled, his voice softening. “You don't have to be.” She finally looked at him, only to find him already watching her with an amused expression.

🤎: bad!michael who calls her "tink" after meeting her for the first time, making her confused about what he means by the name, and he just smiles and walks away.

“I'll see you later, Tink.” She looked up, surprised. “Tink?” Michael simply smiled. “You'll find out.” Then he walked off, leaving her standing there with the biggest smile on her face.

🤎: president!daughter who talks on the phone with michael for hours and she's just rambling until she realizes and gets all embarrassed.

She told him about having breakfast with her parents, sitting through a few boring meetings, helping her mother with some things, and spending most of the afternoon reading. Eventually, she glanced at the clock and realized they'd been talking for almost an hour. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I've been talking forever.”

🤎: bad!michael who loves to hear her voice and feels good when she's rambling about her books and what she did during the day, so he's like, "Don't apologize. I love your voice."

🤎: bad!michael who send her little things in the mail when he's not touring. He would send her little notes from the studio, pictures of whatever he was working on, or a random book he'd found that he thought she'd like. Every now and then, she'd get a package with a handwritten note tucked inside saying, “Thought of you, Tink.”

🤎: president!daughter who sends things back to him. Her favorite candy, little souvenirs from places she'd visited, books she'd finished and thought he'd enjoy, and occasionally photographs she'd taken around the White House gardens. Michael seemed especially fond of those. One afternoon, she opened a package from him and found a small stuffed animal sitting inside with a note attached: “He looked lonely. I thought he needed a friend.”

🤎: bad!michael who uses her picture she sent to touch himself, he's all whimpery and whining. The photo she had sent rested on the bed beside him, soft smile, bright eyes, the girl he’d first called Tink. He unzipped his pants and wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slowly while staring at her face. Soft whimpers slipped out with every pull. “Tink…” he breathed, voice breaking. His hips twitched as his fist tightened. “Tink… ah.” He kept going, eyes locked on the picture, whimpering her name again and again between shaky breaths, wishing it was her hand instead of his own. When he came, it was with a broken, needy sound of her name on his lips.

🤎: president!daughter who touched herself to the picture of his hands she slowly circles at first, fingertips brushing lightly, then firmer strokes as she imagined the warm press of his palms against her instead. “Michael…” she whispered, hips lifting into her touch. Soft whimpers escaped between shallow breaths while she worked herself faster, eyes never leaving those hands. She pictured his fingers flexing the way they did on stage, gripping, guiding, touching her exactly where she needed. She came with a shaky breath, thighs trembling, still staring at the picture, his name soft on her lips.

John had her spread open beneath him, one strong hand braced beside her head, the other gripping the back of her thigh and holding her wide as he fucked into her hard and deep. Every thrust dragged a broken, helpless sound from her throat. The wet slide of his dick filling her over and over made it impossible to think. His dark eyes never left hers, that low, rough voice telling her exactly how well she was taking him—how tight she felt, how good she looked stretched around him, how he could feel her trembling every time he bottomed out.

She was already close. Had been for minutes. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he rolled his hips and ground against her clit on every deep stroke, relentless and precise. The pressure built fast, sharp and overwhelming, until coherent thought scattered.

The word slipped out on a particularly hard thrust, half-moan, half-shock, like it had been waiting under her tongue the whole time.

“Daddy—”

His hips stuttered. Just for a second. His eyes flashed, dark and intense, and a low, dangerous sound rumbled in his chest. Then he drove into her harder, deeper, the rhythm turning punishing in the best way.

“Again,” he ordered, voice rough.

She gasped it this time, clinging to him as he fucked her through the aftershocks of the first accidental slip.

“Daddy—please—”

He didn’t slow down. If anything he went harder, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. His thumb brushed the side of her neck as he watched her face.

“That’s it,” he murmured, almost darkly pleased. “Say it while I fuck you.”

She did. Over and over. Every broken “Daddy” earned her another deep, perfect stroke until she was shaking apart under him, moaning the word like a prayer as she came hard around his dick. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt and growling against her mouth, still holding her like he had no intention of letting go.

frank castle

In your apartment, late, the only light coming from the streetlamp bleeding through the half-open blinds. Frank had shown up without warning, blood still drying on his knuckles, that same quiet intensity in his eyes. He didn’t ask. He never did. One second you were standing in the doorway, the next he had you against the wall of your living room, mouth on yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours.

Your back hit the plaster hard. His hand found your throat—firm, controlled, not cutting air—while the other shoved your jeans and underwear down in one rough motion. He lifted you just enough, lined himself up, and thrust in deep. The sound you made was sharp, startled. He didn’t stop. He never stopped once he started.

Frank fucked you against the wall like he needed it more than air, hips snapping forward in hard, relentless strokes. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on yours the entire time, dark and unblinking. No words. Just the wet sound of him driving into you, the creak of the wall, your broken breaths.

He angled deeper. Found the spot that made your vision white out. Then he stayed there, grinding into it with every thrust like he was trying to carve himself into you. Your legs shook. Your hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, his back, anything. Coherent thought slipped through your fingers.

You tried to plead.

“Please— Frank, please, I can’t— slower— fuck— please—”

But every time you opened your mouth, he drove back in harder, deeper, hitting that same perfect spot until the words shattered. All that came out was broken, helpless babble mixed with desperate pleas.

“Daddy— please— Daddy— please— Daddy—”

Frank’s entire body reacted. A low, broken growl rolled through his chest, almost like a moan. His rhythm faltered for half a second, forehead dropping harder against yours, breath shuddering like the word had hit him harder than any bullet ever had. His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in, holding you tighter against him as if he was afraid you’d stop.

Then he fucked you harder. Deeper. He kept his eyes on yours the whole time, pupils blown, jaw clenched, every thrust a silent answer to every plea. Like he’d been starving for that word without even knowing it. Like hearing it spill out of you in broken, mindless pieces while you begged was the only thing that had ever made the noise in his head go quiet.

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t say anything else.

Just “Daddy” and “please” on every thrust, every grind, every time he bottomed out and forced another broken sound from your throat. Over and over until your voice cracked and the only thing left in the room was the sound of him claiming every mindless, desperate plea like it belonged to him.

smoke

Smoke was in the kitchen when you arrived—black shirt, tattoos showing, gun on the counter beside him, that same strict, controlled quiet hanging off him like a second skin. He didn’t smile when he saw you. He just looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark and assessing, then nodded once toward the bedroom.

“Go. Now.”

You followed.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Smoke stripped you with the same precise focus he used for everything else—no wasted movement, just steady hands and the weight of his gaze. When he finally pushed you back onto the bed and settled between your thighs, he held your wrists by your head.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, voice low and firm. “Don’t look away.”

He pushed inside in one long thrust.

The air left your lungs. Making you gasp. Every thrust was deliberate, deep, exact—like he was teaching your body the rules and expecting perfect obedience. One of his hands came down and gripped your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it. All of it. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

He thrust deeper, grinding against the spot that made your vision blur. He kept talking in that same, quiet tone.

“Feel how deep I am? You’re gripping me so tight. Like you don’t want me to leave. Good girl. Just like that.”

You tried to stay quiet. Tried to keep whatever was building behind your teeth locked down. But he didn’t let up—pace steady, words steady, eyes locked on yours the entire time—until the word tore out of you raw and helpless

“Daddy—”

A low, rough sound left his chest. His grip on your hip tightened. His forehead dropped against yours, breath shuddering like the single word had cracked straight through every careful wall he kept around himself.

Then he started moving again—harder, deeper—voice dropping even lower, rougher.

“Say that again. Let me hear it. You’re taking your daddy so well. Look at you… dripping all over me, whining, still trying to take every inch. Perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Every thrust drove the air from your lungs and another broken whimper from your mouth. He never stopped talking. Never stopped telling you how good you felt around him, how proud he was of the way you whined for him, how he wanted to hear that title again and again.

“That’s my girl. Keep saying it. Don’t stop. You’re mine right now—taking daddy so deep, so good. Fuck… you were made for this.”

His strict control frayed just enough to show how much he needed it—like hearing that word in your voice while you clenched around him was the closest thing to peace a man like him was ever going to get.

You couldn’t stop after that.

Couldn’t think of anything else.

stack

The juke joint was loud. Stack had you laid out on the edge of the table, dress pushed up around your waist, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder. He was on his knees between your thighs like he belonged there, mouth already working your open with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue.

You gasped, hips jerking. Your fingers flew to his head, pushing at him even as your body arched closer.

“Stack—wait—”

He didn’t wait. He licked deeper, tongue flat and wet, dragging over your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. The sound he made was filthy and satisfied. Your thighs trembled around his ears.

You pushed harder at his head, half-trying to escape the intensity, half-desperate for more. “It’s too much… fuck—”

Stack’s hands clamped down on your hips, pinning you in place. He looked up at you for just a second, mouth shiny, eyes dark and amused.

“You ain’t going nowhere,” he murmured against you. Then he dove back in, sucking harder, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

The pressure built fast. Your fingers gripped his head, pushing and pulling at the same time. You were shaking, breath coming in broken little sounds, trying to get away from how good it felt and failing completely.

“Daddy—”

The word ripped out of you, high and needy.

Stack groaned against you like he’d been waiting for it. The vibration shot straight through you. He ate you like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, then sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking until your vision blurred.

You shoved at his head again, legs shaking, voice cracking. “Daddy—please—it’s too much—”

He only held you tighter, growling low against your soaked flesh. One of his hands slid up to pin both of yours to the table, keeping you from pushing him away. The other stayed locked on your hip, forcing you to take every stroke of his tongue.

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, crying out the word over and over like a prayer and a confession.

“Daddy—Daddy—oh god—”

Stack didn’t stop until you were twitching and oversensitive, trying to squirm away while still grinding against his mouth. Only then did he slow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your trembling pussy, tasting every last pulse.

When he finally lifted his head, lips glistening, that wicked little smile was back.

“That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “Keep calling me that while you fall apart on my tongue.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh, eyes locked on yours.

“Again.”

warnings: emotional distress / intense heartbreak, Suicidal ideation / passive death wishes, Depression and mental-health struggles, Infidelity/cheating, Unresolved grief and abandonment feelings

pairing: michael x black reader

era: mature era, but honestly, whichever one you want

**Girl, you know we belong together**

You stood in the doorway of the house on the hill and felt the truth of it settle into your bones before either of you spoke. Everything about the two of you still fit—the way your shoulders angled toward his without thinking, the way the air changed when he entered a room, the quiet certainty that had lived between you since the first night he walked you to the car after a late studio session and neither of you wanted the conversation to end. Even now, with the distance already forming, that certainty remained. It sat in the shared silences, in the way his eyes still found yours across a crowded space, in the simple fact that no one else had ever made the world feel both larger and safer at the same time.

**I don’t have no time for you**  **To be playing with my heart like this**

The hours had grown uneven. You stopped answering every soft call of your name. You left rooms a little earlier than you needed to. You let the evenings stretch without reaching for him the way you once did, as if testing how far the thread could thin before it snapped. Michael felt every small withdrawal. You saw it in the way his hands stayed restless at his sides, in the careful way he watched you move through the house. Your heart had become something fragile under the weight of almosts and not-quites, and the careful distance you kept left both of you raw.

**You’ll be mine forever baby**  **You just wait**

He still believed in the longer version of the story. You could see it when he lingered in doorways longer than necessary, when he left the record player on low in the evenings as if the music might call you back into the same room. Forever had always been the word he used most carefully, the one he spoke like a promise rather than a hope. Even as the space between you widened, he held onto the idea that patience would be enough—that if he stayed still the distance would eventually close again. You felt the weight of that belief every time his eyes met yours. It was tender. It was unbearable.

**We belong together**  **And you know that I’m right**

The evidence of it lived in every corner of the house. The way your coffee mugs still sat side by side on the counter. The way the spare key he had given you still hung on the hook by the door. The way your body still turned toward his in sleep even on the nights you tried to keep to your own side of the bed. This was not something either of you had decided. It had simply arrived and refused to leave. Michael knew it with the same quiet certainty that lived in his voice when he spoke about a melody that already existed before anyone wrote it down. You knew it too.

**Why do you play with my heart?**  **Why do you play with my mind?**

The questions lived in his eyes long before they ever needed words. Every time you stepped away, every time you answered with silence instead of softness, every time you let another evening pass without the easy closeness that used to define the two of you, something in him folded. You saw the confusion settle behind the careful expression he wore for the rest of the world. His heart had never learned how to guard itself around you. His mind kept returning to the earlier version of the story—the one where the two of you still moved through the days like people who had already chosen each other completely.

**Said we’d be forever**  **Said it’d never die**

You remembered the night the words were spoken without hesitation. Rain against the windows. Low light. His voice quiet and certain as he talked about a future that still felt wide open. Forever had not felt like a risk then. It had felt like the most natural sentence either of you had ever offered. You had believed it completely. You had repeated it back to him with the same soft conviction. The memory of those words now sat heavy in the rooms, a reminder of how easily certainty could turn into something that hurt to look at directly.

**How could you love me and leave me**  **And never say goodbye?**

The leaving had not been a single moment. It had been a slow accumulation of smaller departures—nights spent on opposite sides of the house, conversations that ended before they reached the real center, the quiet decision to stop reaching across the space between you. Love remained. That was the part that made no sense. You still felt it when you looked at him, when you heard him moving through the rooms, when the scent of his cologne drifted past in the hallway. Yet the distance continued anyway, quiet and unfinished, without the clear edge of a farewell that might have given either of you somewhere solid to stand.

**When I can’t sleep at night** **Without holding you tight**

The dark hours became the hardest. You lay awake listening to the house settle around the empty space where his body should have been. The absence of his arm across your waist, the missing warmth of his chest against your back, the quiet rhythm of his breathing that had once been the sound that let your mind finally rest—all of it turned the nights long and sharp. Sleep refused to come without the familiar weight of him nearby. You turned from one side of the bed to the other and found only cool sheets and the knowledge that he was somewhere else in the same house, just as awake.

**Girl, each time I try**  **I just break down and cry**

Every attempt to close the distance ended the same way. A soft word. A careful step closer. The hope that this time the old ease might return. And then the sudden rush of everything that had already been lost—the easy mornings, the shared silences that once felt full instead of empty, the certainty that the two of you still moved through the same version of the story. The weight of it would rise without warning and leave you standing in the middle of a room with your vision blurred and your chest too tight to speak.

**Pain in my head**  **Oh, I’d rather be dead**  **Spinning around and around**

The ache lived behind your eyes and at the base of your skull, a constant low pressure that never fully lifted. Thoughts circled the same small set of memories and questions until the motion itself became exhausting. There were moments when the idea of simply not feeling any of it anymore arrived with a quiet, dangerous softness. You pushed the thought away each time it came, but the fact that it arrived at all told you how deep the fracture had gone.

**Although we’ve come**  **To the end of the road**  **Still I can’t let go**  **It’s unnatural**  **You belong to me**  **I belong to you**

The path the two of you had walked had narrowed to these final quiet days inside the house. Every shared glance, every almost-touch, every evening that ended with separate rooms made the finish clearer. Yet your hands still wanted to reach for him. Your mind still returned to the version of the future that included his voice in the next room. Releasing what remained felt like asking your body to stop needing air. The wrongness of it lived deeper than thought.

**Come to the end of the road**  **Still I can’t let go**  **It’s unnatural**  **You belong to me**  **I belong to you**

You walked the length of the house and felt the finish in every room. The living room where the two of you had once danced without music. The kitchen where mornings had started with quiet conversation. The balcony where the city lights had once felt like a promise. The path had delivered you here, to the place where it simply stopped. And still your chest tightened at the thought of days that did not include the sound of him moving through the rooms. What connected you did not care that the path had run out. It stayed.

**Girl, I know you really love me**  **You just don’t realize**  **You’ve never been there before**  **It’s only your first time**

Michael understood the shape of what you felt even when you could not name it yourself. The feeling was still there—raw, unfinished, larger than either of you had expected. What you had never known was how to carry something this large when the rest of the world kept demanding pieces of him. This was the first time either of you had stood inside a feeling that refused to make itself smaller for the sake of survival. The newness of it left you both without a map. He saw the depth clearly. He also saw the fear that came with realizing how much of yourself it asked for.

**Maybe I’ll forgive you**  **Maybe you’ll try**  **We should be happy together forever**  **You and I**

There were still hours when the softer possibility flickered. Moments when a shared glance lasted longer than it should. Moments when the old warmth almost returned and the idea of beginning again felt almost possible. Forgiveness waited quietly in the space between you, willing to be offered if either of you could find the courage to ask for it. The vision of a longer, brighter version of the story still lived somewhere behind both of your eyes—the two of you moving through years instead of days. It was a beautiful thought. It was also the one that hurt the most to look at directly.

**Will you love me again**  **Like you loved me before?**  **This time I want you to love me much more**  **This time instead**  **Just come to my bed**  **And baby just don’t let me, don’t let go**

The question lived in every careful movement he made around you. He wanted the earlier version of what the two of you had shared—the open, uncomplicated kind that had existed before the distance settled in. He wanted it returned to him larger, deeper, without the protective edges that had grown in recent weeks. The invitation was simple and devastating: return to the place where the two of you had once been closest, stay, and refuse to release what still lived between you. You felt the pull of it in your chest every time his eyes met yours.

**Although we’ve come**  **To the end of the road**  **Still I can’t let go**  **It’s unnatural**  **You belong to me**  **I belong to you**

Night settled over the house and the finish became impossible to ignore. The path had delivered you both to this quiet, final stretch. Yet your hands still wanted to reach. Your heart still refused the idea of separation. What held you together remained the most honest thing either of you had ever known, and releasing it felt like a violence against something essential. You stood in the dim light of the hallway and felt the full weight of a connection that had nowhere left to go.

**Come to the end of the road**  **Still I can’t let go**  **It’s unnatural**  **You belong to me**  **I belong to you**

The balcony held the last of the evening light. You stood beside him without speaking and felt the finish in the cool air and the distant city noise. Nothing about the moment asked for words. The inability to release what remained was written in the small space between your bodies, in the way neither of you stepped farther away. Standing at the finish and still feeling so completely claimed by each other was the deepest kind of wrong. It was also the only honest way either of you knew how to stand.

**Girl, I’m here for you**  **All those times at night when you just hurt me**  **And just ran out with that other fella**  **Baby, I knew about it, I just didn’t care**  **You just don’t understand how much I love you, do you?**

He had known. The nights you left, the nights you stayed away longer than necessary, the quiet ways you had tried to create distance when the closeness became too much to carry—he had seen all of it and chosen not to turn the knowledge into a weapon. The hurt had landed. It had lived in him. And still he remained, present and steady, offering the simple fact of his continued presence as the only answer he had. The depth of that feeling was larger than the injuries. You felt it in the careful way he still looked at you, in the absence of accusation.

**I’m here for you**  **I’m not out to go out there and cheat at night**  **Just like you did baby, but that’s alright**  **I love you anyway**  **And I’m still going to be here for you until my dying day, baby**

His faithfulness had never been the question. While you had sought distance in other rooms and other hours, he had stayed inside the house and inside the feeling. The contrast lived between you now without bitterness. He held onto you through the unevenness, through the leaving, through the slow fracture. The promise of remaining—until the last day, without condition—sat in the air between you like the most serious thing either of you had ever offered. It asked nothing in return.

**Right now, I’m just in so much pain, baby**  **‘Cause you just won’t come back to me, will you?**  **Just come back to me**

The pain was no longer hidden. It lived in the careful way he held himself, in the quiet breaks in his voice when the evenings grew long, in the way his eyes followed you through the rooms as if hoping the next glance might be the one that brought you closer again. The request was simple and impossible. Return to the place where the two of you still fit without effort. You felt the weight of the asking and the equal weight of the answer you could no longer give.

**Yes baby, my heart is lonely**  **My heart hurts baby, yes, I feel pain too**  **Baby, please**

Loneliness had moved into the center of everything. It lived in the empty half of the bed, in the quiet kitchens, in the evenings that once held easy conversation and now held only the sound of the city beyond the windows. The hurt was mutual and complete. It asked for relief that neither of you knew how to offer anymore. The soft plea hung in the air between you, carrying every unfinished feeling that still refused to leave.

**This time instead just come to my bed**  **And baby just don’t let me, don’t let go**

The final invitation was the simplest and the most impossible. Return to the one place that had always held the clearest version of the two of you. Stay. Refuse the finish. Hold on even as the path ran out. You felt the pull of it in every quiet breath. The wanting remained. The ability to answer it had already begun to dissolve into the same soft, inevitable distance that had brought you both here.

**Although we’ve come**   **To the end of the road**  **Still I can’t let go**  **It’s unnatural**  **You belong to me**  **I belong to you**

Morning light found the two of you still standing in the space the night had left behind. The path had ended. What connected you had not. You stood in the quiet house and felt the full, impossible truth of a feeling that had nowhere left to travel and nowhere it was willing to release. It was the deepest kind of wrong. It was complete. It was the last honest thing either of you had left to offer the morning as it arrived, bright and indifferent, over the city that had watched the whole story unfold.

🤎 mean!olderbf!smoke who makes you watch him finger you like You’re on your back with your legs forced wide, thighs trembling, pussy already dripping down onto the sheets. Smoke’s between them, one heavy hand pinning your hip to the mattress so you can’t squirm away, the other two thick fingers buried knuckle-deep inside you. He works them slow and mean, curling just enough to make your walls clench, then dragging them out so you can hear how wet you are.

“Look,” he orders, voice low and rough. “Eyes on my hand. Watch me play with this greedy little pussy.”

You try to turn your face away. He doesn’t allow it. His free hand clamps around your jaw and forces your head down so you’re staring straight between your own spread legs. His fingers are shiny with you. He spreads them open, shows you the stretch, then shoves them back in hard enough that your breath punches out.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, almost amused. “Soaking my hand already and I’ve barely started. You always this easy, or is it just me?”

He fucks those fingers into you in a steady, punishing rhythm, the wet sound filthy in the quiet room. Every time he pulls out he makes sure you see it—how your pussy clings, how it gapes for a second before he fills it again. His thumb finds your clit and presses down, rolling it in tight circles that make your hips jerk.

“Don’t you fucking look away.” His voice drops colder. “You wanted this. You came crawling. Now watch me play with my pussy.”

He adds a third finger without warning. The stretch burns and you cry out. He laughs under his breath, mean and quiet, and keeps going, scissoring them inside you, stretching you open while his thumb grinds your clit without mercy. You’re dripping down his wrist. He makes sure you see every drop.

“Listen to that. You hear my pussy talking, baby .” He leans in closer, breath hot against your thigh. “You gonna cum on my fingers while I make you watch? Gonna cream all over my hand like the desperate little slut you are?”

You try to close your legs. He shoves them wider with his shoulders and pumps harder, knuckles slamming against you, the wet slap of it loud. His eyes stay locked on your face the whole time, watching every twitch, every broken sound you make.

“That’s it. Keep those pretty eyes open. Watch me finger-fuck this messy pussy until you can’t take it. Until you’re shaking and crying and still begging for more.” He twists his wrist, curls hard against that spot that makes your vision white out. “Because I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve played with it as long as I want.”

His fingers keep moving—slow, then brutal, then slow again just to hear you whimper. He spreads them inside you, shows you how open you are, then drives back in deep. Your clit is swollen and throbbing under his thumb. You’re close and he knows it. He can feel the way you flutter around him.

“Go on,” he taunts, voice dripping contempt. “Come for me while you watch. Make a mess. Show me exactly how filthy this pussy is when I treat it like it deserves.”

He doesn’t stop. He just keeps working you, mean and relentless, forcing you to stare at every thrust of his fingers until your thighs are shaking and your pussy is clenching hard around him, and there’s nowhere left to hide from how thoroughly he’s using you.

warnings: explicit sexual content / smut Dom/sub dynamics (reader dominant, Michael submissive) Heavy begging and desperation Filthy / degrading dirty talk Premature ejaculation Overstimulation Coming in pants Emotional vulnerability Palming through pants Out of character? idfk

pairings: whining Michael x pretty pink reader

era: bad/thriller

inspo: here

She was home in her bedroom, the soft pink covers pulled back on the bed. She looked sweet and pretty in a pale pink crop top and matching shorts, hair a little messy around her shoulders.

Michael laid there in her bed.

He lay half-reclined against the pillows, clothes rumpled and half-unbuttoned, hands resting carefully against the pink covers like he didn't know what to do with them. The second she closed the door he looked at her with glassy, desperate eyes, thighs already parted slightly, the front of his pants visibly strained and damp.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracked and quiet. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About being in your bed… looking at you looking so soft and sweet… and just needing you to touch me. Please, baby. I’m so hard it hurts.”

She climbed onto the mattress. The second she was close enough he leaned toward her without actually grabbing, breathing her in like she was the only thing that could settle him.

“You look so pretty,” he whimpered. “I feel filthy just lying here. Please put your hands on me. Anywhere. I don’t care if it’s gentle or mean. I just need to feel you.”

She finally reached out. Her fingers brushed his cheek first, and the sound he made was immediate—high, broken, almost a sob. He nuzzled into her palm like he was starving for it.

“Oh god… yes… your hands are so soft…”

She trailed them down his neck, over his chest, then lower, pressing her palm firmly against the obvious bulge straining his pants. Michael’s whole body jolted against the pink covers. A desperate little whimper spilled out of him and his hips twitched up before he forced himself still again.

“Ah—! Sensitive… fuck, I’m already leaking just from that—” His voice was shaking. “Please keep touching me. Please. I’ve been aching for hours thinking about your pretty hands on my cock. Thinking about how soft you are while I’m this hard and messy in your bed.”

She rubbed him through the fabric, slow at first, feeling how wet the front of his pants already was. Every stroke pulled another filthy, high-pitched sound out of him. He was trembling hard now, thighs quaking against the pink covers, head tipped back into the pillows, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

“Nnnh—baby—I’m gonna come too fast, I know I am—” He was panting, words tumbling out between whimpers. “I can’t help it. You’re so pretty and your hands feel too good and I’ve been holding it in all day just waiting for this. Please don’t stop. Please use me. I’ll come in my pants for you like your desperate boy right here on your soft pink covers, I don’t care—”

She squeezed a little harder, thumb pressing right over the soaked head. Michael’s voice broke completely.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—I’m coming already—”

His hips snapped up once and then he was spilling hard into his pants with a long, broken whimper, dick pulsing under her hand as he soaked the fabric. His whole body shuddered through it, tears of overstimulation pricking at the corners of his eyes while he kept his hands obediently against the mattress the entire time.

When the worst of it passed he was still twitching, still pressed into her palm, breathing hard and looking up at her with wet, wrecked eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, voice tiny and shaky. “I came so quick… I couldn’t hold it. You just felt too good and you look so pretty and I… I needed it too much. Please don’t stop touching me even though I already came. I’ll stay hard for you. I’ll be good. Just… keep your soft little hands on me. Please.”

He was still lying there in the middle of her bed, messy and whimpering against her bed, completely hers.

warnings: explicit sexual content / smut Rough sex Mating press / folding in half Manhandling Breeding kink language Creampie Dirty talk Light restraint (legs held in place) To the point smut

pairings: mean Jackie x black reader

era: victory tour

You’re on your back in your bed, legs spread, Jackie climbs over you. He’s bigger than he looks on stage—broad shoulders, heavy arms, that same sharp Jackson jaw now set with pure intent. He doesn’t bother with soft kisses or slow teasing. One strong hand hooks under your knee and shoves it up toward your chest. The other does the same until you’re folded nearly in half, knees pinned by your ears, ass tilted high and completely open for him.

“Look at this,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “All folded up and dripping already. You wanted it like this, didn’t you?”

He lines himself up and thrust into you in one hard, deep thrust, burying every thick inch balls-deep. The stretch is brutal. You cry out as he groans, hips already moving.

Jackie fucks you hard—long, punishing strokes that slam against your spot every single time. The position leaves you nowhere to go. Your thighs are pressed tight against your own chest, your hands scrambling for anything to hold onto while he fucks you into the mattress. The wet, filthy sound of him pounding into your soaked pussy fills the room.

“Take it,” he growls, thrusting in harder. “Take every fucking inch. You’re so tight like this… clenched around my dick like you were made to get folded open and used.”

His hands stay locked on the backs of your thighs, keeping you bent double while he works you over. Sweat drips from his chest onto yours. The bed creaks under the force of his hips. Every thrust punches a broken, high-pitched moan out of you, and he only goes harder, chasing the sound like it feeds him.

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” he pants against your ear, fucking you so deep it makes your eyes water. “Gonna breed you right here in your own bed while you’re all folded open for me. You want that? Want me to pump you full wanna have my babies? Say it.”

You can barely form words between the relentless thrusts, but the desperate, fucked-out noises you make are enough. He keeps pounding, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy, hips snapping faster now. One of his hands slides up to pin your wrists above your head for a moment, holding you completely open and helpless while he drives into you even harder.

“That’s it… take it like a good girl. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

He thrust in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and comes hard—thick, hot pulses flooding you while you’re still pinned and trembling underneath him. His body shudders with every spurt, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to force every drop as far inside you as possible.

Even after he finishes he doesn’t pull out right away. He stays buried deep, breathing heavy against your neck, still holding you folded in half like he’s not ready to let you close your legs just yet.

warnings: angst, intense emotions, arguing, raised voices, hurt feelings, relationship tension, emotional vulnerability, crying, fear of separation, and themes of needing reassurance, he prays.

pairings: mature era x emotional wife

era: any era you want tbh

request: How about Michael and the reader gets in an argument and she tells him she’s leaving but he pleads for her to stay but she ends up leaving anyway and he just sits on the stairs all night waiting for her praying she comes back

requested by: @bxunyx

The front door slammed so hard the picture frames on the hallway wall rattled.

Silence followed.

Just minutes earlier, the house had been filled with raised voices—well, one raised voice.

She stood in the middle of the living room, chest rising and falling with every angry breath. Weeks of bottled-up frustration spilled out at once.

"You never tell me anything, Michael!" she snapped, pacing across the rug. "You disappear into your studio for hours, you let everybody else speak for you, and when I ask what's wrong you act like everything's fine! It's exhausting!"

Michael stood a few feet away, his hands folded loosely in front of him. He wasn't glaring. He wasn't yelling back. His expression looked tired more than anything.

She hated that look.

"I am talking to you!" she shouted. "Can you at least say something?" He blinked slowly before speaking in the calmest voice imaginable. "...Are you done?"

Her mouth fell open."What?" "Were you finished?" he asked again softly. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

His voice wasn't sarcastic.It wasn't mocking.That somehow made it worse.Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Oh, so that's it?" she laughed bitterly. "That's all you have to say after everything I just said?"

"I wasn't—" "No!" she cut him off, pointing a finger at him. "Don't even bother now." Michael rubbed the back of his neck.

"I just thought maybe... if you got everything out first, then we could actually talk."She shook her head furiously. "You know what? Forget it."She stormed toward the front door.

Michael's eyes widened. "Baby..."She grabbed her purse. "I'm leaving."His calm demeanor finally cracked. "No, don't do that." She ignored him. He hurried after her."Please."

She reached for the doorknob."Can we just sit down and—" "I don't want to sit down!" The words echoed through the house. Michael stopped just behind her. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "If I upset you, I'm sorry." She opened the door.

"Don't leave angry," he pleaded. "Please... don't leave like this." She refused to turn around."I need space."His voice grew smaller."Just stay tonight."She stepped onto the porch."We'll talk in the morning."She shook her head."No."

The door closed between them. Not loud. Just... final.

Michael stood there for several seconds, staring at the wood grain of the front door as if willing it to open again. It didn't.

Slowly, he locked it before walking toward the staircase. Halfway up, his legs simply gave out.

He sat on the third step with his elbows resting on his knees, staring toward the front entrance. Maybe she'd come back in five minutes. Maybe she'd forgotten her keys. Maybe she'd realize she didn't really want to leave.

Every set of headlights passing outside made him look up hopefully. None of them stopped. The house had never felt so empty.

Bill, one of his bodyguards, quietly peeked around the corner sometime after midnight. "You alright, Mike?" Michael didn't even look away from the door.

"...She'll come back."Bill hesitated. "You should get some sleep." "I can't." Another hour passed. Then another.The lights in the house stayed off except for the lamp in the hallway.

Around three in the morning, Michael rested his forehead against his clasped hands.His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Please, God..."He closed his eyes."Please keep her safe."His shoulders trembled."I don't care if she's still angry."He swallowed hard."I don't care if she yells at me again tomorrow."A shaky breath escaped him.

"I just... want her home."He looked toward the front door once more."Please let her come back."

The clock ticked.

Four o'clock.

Five.

The sun slowly began to rise through the front windows, painting the foyer in soft gold.Michael was still sitting on the stairs in the exact same spot.He hadn't slept.He hadn't moved much at all.

His eyes stayed fixed on the front door, hoping to hear familiar footsteps on the porch.Hoping to hear the lock turn.Hoping she'd walk back inside and tell him she was ready to talk.Because if she did..

He'd listen this time.He'd let her finish every sentence.He'd apologize before saying a single word.He'd hold her until she believed him.He just prayed he'd get the chance.

warnings: explicit sexual content / hardcore smut Graphic descriptions of penetrative sex (riding / cowgirl) Finger sucking / oral use of hands Spit, drool, and messy wet sounds Multiple female orgasms while penetrating Dirty talk and degradation-tinged praise Light anal teasing / pressure (fingers against ass, no full penetration) Intense focus on hands and physical control Overstimulation / riding through orgasms

Reader discretion is strongly advised. Adult 18+ only.

pairing: mature Michael x nasty reader

era: mature Michael

You’re bouncing on his dick like it’s the only thing that matters. Hard. Deep. Messy.

Michael is under you,  body tense, those huge hands gripping your hips so tight his long fingers dig into your flesh. You’re slamming down on him over and over, taking every thick inch until your ass meets his thighs with a wet slap. Your pussy is stretched wide around him, juice running down his balls every time you rise up and drop again.

He forces two of his long fingers into your mouth while you ride, and you suck them filthy—spit already dripping down your chin— your hips moving faster. You’re grinding, rolling, bouncing, using his dick like your own sex toy. Every time you slam down he thrusts up to meet you, the force makes you moan around his fingers.

“Mmh… look at you… riding me… mama…”

His soft, breathy voice is right there under you. his long fingers push deeper in your mouth while his other hand slides under your ass, spreading you open as he watches his dick disappear inside you with every bounce. You’re dripping all over him.Wet sounds filled the room—skin slapping, your pussy squelching every time you take him to the hilt.

You lean forward, hands on his chest, and really start working him. Up and down in long, hard strokes, then deep circles that make his dick grind against every sensitive spot inside you. His fingers stay in your mouth the whole time, letting you drool and gag on them while you fuck yourself stupid on his dick.

The first orgasm hits you hard and sudden. Your thighs lock, pussy clamping down around him as you keep bouncing through it, moaning loud around his fingers. Juice gushes out of you, soaking his stomach, but you don’t stop. You fuck yourself right through it.

“That’s it… cum on it… don’t stop riding… oh my… keep going…”

He keeps one hand under you, two long fingers pressing against your ass while you ride, not pushing in yet—just holding pressure so every time you drop you feel the stretch of his dick and the teasing press of his fingers at the same time. The dual sensation makes you ride harder. Faster. Messier.

You’re still trembling from the first one when the second builds fast. Your clit drags against his skin with every filthy grind. His soft voice keeps coming, low and dirty

“Ride it… use it baby… I wanna feel you cum again all over me while you suck my fingers… uh… look how deep you’re taking it… nasty baby…”

You bounce harder, hips rolling in circles, forcing his dick to hit that spot that makes your whole body shake. His fingers in your mouth push deeper every time you drop. The second orgasm rips through you even stronger—your pussy pulsing hard around him, more wetness flooding out as you cry out around his fingers. You’re shaking, drooling, stuffed full, and still you keep slamming down, riding him through every wave until your thighs burn.

Michael’s thumb is still in your mouth. The other gripping your ass, spreading you, guiding every filthy bounce while you ride him into the mattress.

You’re barely recovered when the third one starts building. He can feel it—your cunt getting tighter, wetter, desperate. His soft little laugh slips out as he watches you fall apart on his dick for the third time.

“Again… that’s it… cum for me again… don’t you dare stop bouncing… hm… make a mess on me…”

You do. Harder. Wetter. Filthier. Every drop of your weight used to take him deeper while his hands keep you exactly where he wants you. Your third orgasm crashes over you while you’re still riding, body jerking, pussy milking his dick in hard pulses, spit running down your chin as you moan around his fingers. You don’t stop. You keep bouncing through it, soaking him, shaking, using his dick until your legs give out and you’re just grinding down on him.

“Good girl… keep riding… give me one more… look at you pretty girl cumming all over me…”

Especially when it was you.

The argument hadn't even started over anything major. It was something small that had slowly turned into raised voices, hurt feelings, and both of you saying things you didn't really mean. You weren't angry because of one little thing; you were frustrated because you felt like Michael avoided serious conversations until everything built up.

And Michael, being Michael, hated feeling like he disappointed you. "You never listen when I try to talk to you," you said, your voice louder than usual.Michael immediately flinched.

Not because he was afraid of you, but because he wasn't used to seeing you that upset with him. He stood there quietly, looking down at the floor as he tried to find the right words.

"I do listen," he said softly. "Michael, you always say that, but then you walk away when things get uncomfortable." That hit him harder than he expected. He knew there was some truth to it.

But instead of explaining himself, instead of opening up the way you wanted him to, he went quiet. And that only made you more frustrated. "You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about."

A few more words were exchanged, and eventually you sighed, grabbed your things, and walked out. The second the door closed behind you, Michael just stood there.

Silent.

The room suddenly felt too empty. Bill, who had been nearby, watched Michael stare at the door like he was hoping you would magically walk back through it. After a few moments, Michael finally spoke.

"She left."Bill looked at him."Yeah, Mike. I noticed."Michael sighed.

"I didn't want her to leave.""Then why didn't you stop her?" Michael looked at him like the answer was obvious.

"Because she was upset."Bill raised an eyebrow. "And?" "And I don't like making things worse."

Bill shook his head. "You know, for someone who can command a whole stage, you sure do get nervous when it comes to one conversation."

Michael gave a small, embarrassed smile, but his expression quickly turned serious again."I don't like when she yells at me."Bill crossed his arms. "Nobody likes being yelled at."

"No, I mean..." Michael paused, trying to explain. "When she gets upset, I feel like I've hurt her. And when she raises her voice, I don't know what to say. I just freeze."

Bill softened a little.

Michael wasn't avoiding the conversation because he didn't care. He was avoiding it because he cared too much. A few seconds passed before Michael looked over.

"Bill?"

Bill immediately sighed. "No." "I didn't even ask." "I know what you're going to ask." Michael gave him a pleading look.

"Can you call her?" Bill stared at him. "You want me to call your wife?" "Just tell her I want her to come back."

"Michael." "Please."Bill shook his head, but he pulled out his phone anyway.

"You know I'm your bodyguard, right? Not your marriage counselor." "I know."

"And yet..."

Michael smiled a little. "You're the best."

Bill muttered something under his breath as he dialed your number. When you answered, you were surprised to see his name. "Bill?"

"Hey," he said. "Before you get mad, I need you to know this was Michael's idea." You sighed. "Of course it was."Bill glanced over at Michael, who was nervously pacing the room.

"He wanted me to call and tell you that he doesn't want you gone." You stayed quiet.Bill continued.

"He said he knows the argument got heated, and he knows he should have talked instead of shutting down."

Michael looked away, embarrassed. "And he also wanted me to tell you that he didn't like when you yelled at him."You frowned slightly "He told you that?"

"Yes," Bill said. "But before you think he's blaming you, that's not what he means."Michael walked closer, quietly asking, "What is she saying?"

Bill covered the phone."She hasn't said anything."Then he continued.

"He said when you yell, he doesn't know how to react. He feels like he's failed you, and he gets overwhelmed. He knows you were upset for a reason, but he wants you to know that he wasn't trying to ignore your feelings."

Your expression softened.Because that was Michael.

He could be brave in front of the entire world, but when it came to admitting his feelings, he struggled. "Tell him I wasn't trying to hurt him either."

Bill looked over at Michael. "She said she wasn't trying to hurt you."Michael immediately relaxed. "And tell her..." he whispered.

Bill sighed. "Michael.""Please." Bill rolled his eyes. "He says he misses you."

A small smile appeared on your face. "And he wants you to come home." Michael watched Bill carefully, waiting for the answer.After a moment, Bill lowered the phone.

"She said she'll come back."Michael's entire face changed. The tension disappeared, replaced by relief.

"Really?" Bill nodded. "Yes."

Michael smiled softly and walked toward the door, already ready to meet you halfway.

Bill watched him go. "I swear," he muttered to himself, "the hardest part of my job isn't protecting Michael Jackson from the world."

He shook his head with a small smile."It's getting him to just talk to his own wife."