Poetic Łove
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.
“And you’re mine,” you say.
