pairing: michael jackson x reader
summary: Michael swears he doesn’t do dirty dancing — not in rehearsal, not in real life, not at all. But when he’s practicing choreography at four in the morning, and you’re the only one awake to help him, he suddenly forgets that rule.
content: (MDNI), smut, established relationship, bumping n grinding, teasing, domestic setting, soft dom!michael, sub!reader, dry humping, praise kink, cunnilingus, smell kink, somnophilia if you squint, a bit of fluff
You start to hear the music again. It's not loud enough to wake up the entire house, no, it's low, steady. The same way he swore to you that he was just "running it back one more time."
You shuffle out of the bedroom, half-asleep, only to find Michael in the vast and empty living room, barefoot, curls messy. He doesn't notice you until the soft hue of the fireplace illuminates your shadow. He looks up when he does see you, breathless, kind of guilty.
"I didn't wanna wake you," he murmurs, even though he definitely did. And before you could try to tell him to come back to bed, he reached out his hand. A bit shy — hopeful — because you're the only one awake at this hour.
He doesn't want to take much of his girl's time — nor her sleep — but he needs a partner. Just for this part. Just for a minute.
"Can you help me, baby, please? I need this routine to be perfect."
"But," you stammer, "Michael, darling, can this wait until tomorrow?"
He shakes his head, no, a small smile creeping up onto his face once you reluctantly agree.
He eagerly pulls you closer, his hands guiding your hips. "Okay, just — move your hips like this, alright? Yeah, keep doing that and feel the beat."
"Mike, is this really necessary —"
"It'll only be for a few minutes, sleepyhead, I promise. Then you can go back to bed." He giggles at your crankiness, continuing to guide your hips on his, slowly letting go as you finally let the beat take over you. He laughs under his breath when you finally start moving with him, the kind of breathy laugh he only ever lets out when exhaustion is taking over. Yet, he still can't contain his happiness. His hands stay light on your hips, still guiding but not pushing, and you can tell he's trying really,
To not look down at the movement of your bodies uniting, both at the crotch.
"You're doing good," he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your feet, then back up to your face. "See? 's not so bad. I knew you could help me."
"You also knew I was sleep," you mumble, but there's no real snark or bite to it. Not when he's looking down at you like that.
He steps back just enough to turn you around sharply, your back now pressed to his hard chest. His fingers brush yours as he catches your hand again. It's supposed to be part of the routine. You know that. But you can feel the intention in the way he grinds against you.
"Michael..." you sigh, trying to sound annoyed, but you can feel the bulge growing in his sweatpants, and it makes your chest warm in a way the fireplace never could.
"I know, baby, I know," he says, smiling wider now. "I couldn't help it... you're just too..."
"Too…?" You curse yourself for getting out of bed, for coming into the living room when he's obviously pent up. Frustrated. But at the same time, the other part of you invites it. I mean, it has been a while. And by a while, you mean 3 days.
3 days of sexual frustration. 3 days of Michael's increasing insomnia. 3 days of reluctant, unsatisfying masturbation. 3 days too long.
"I don't know... too irresistible, I guess. You look so beautiful like this."
"This", meaning, your messy hair, the large black glasses you half-heartedly fumbled onto the bridge of your nose, his white t-shirt, and the cute little panties he loves so much. Curse you for looking so damn sexy.
His large hand slides under that same t-shirt, and at this point, you two aren't dancing anymore.
He's still moving his hips against you, sure, but this wasn't dancing. He was practically dry-humping you. It's ironic and amusing; it almost makes you laugh.
"I thought you didn't do dirty dancing."
"I don't." He turns you around again, smiling at your features. Specifically, the fact that your glasses are starting to slide down your nose.
He shrugs, a bit bashful. "I guess you just have that effect on me." He then pulls you into another kiss, so sensual, so deep, that it makes your knees weak. The music now becomes a soft noise in the background, the idea of you being a dance partner fleeing from any part of Michael's head. He wanted you, and in definitely more ways than one.
His hands pull you impossibly closer to him. Your chests pressed together so firmly that it feels suffocating, yet it's so deliciously addictive. Further taking your breath away as his lips against yours make their way lower into the crook of your neck. His mouth is hot on your skin, kissing and nibbling with soft, pleasurable sighs, like this does more to him than it does to you. Maybe because it does. Fuck, why do you smell so good?
"Mike, y-y'know it's uh— 4 in the morning, right?" You pant. His hands completely rode up your — his shirt, he doesn't even realize his wondering hands are fondling the curve of your ass.
"You're not complaining, are you?" His mouth curves into a sly smirk. "Because it sounds to me like you don't want me to make you feel good."
You could barely respond when he pulls away from your neck. And suddenly, that heat is gone. Not just the feeling of his breath on your skin, but the heat of arousal pooling in your pussy. He looks down at you, amused at your contorted expression.
"Aw, baby, so desperate, and I haven't even touched you yet."
"I'm not desperate." He lifts his brows, tongue pressing into his cheek in that teasing 'oh really?' expression he always gives you. Then, pushing you gently against the distant couch, he spreads your legs slightly, revealing the wet spot in your pretty pink panties.
"Fuck, you sure?" He sinks to his knees in front of you and pulls you closer by your hips. He takes a deep inhale on your clothed pussy, causing you to gasp at the sight.
"I need you, sweetheart. So bad. You could stay up a little longer, right?" He traces soft kisses along your inner thigh, searching your eyes for an answer, as your jaw falls slack at the teasing sensation.
"If you're too tired, you can go to sleep too. I'll be more than happy to take care of you in your dreams."
Only then does he move your panties to the side, his tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. The sensation alone makes your eyes roll back.
"And you wanted to say you weren't desperate. Silly girl."
He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through your already trembling body. His tongue flicks against your clit, once, twice, a cruel and perfect tease. He doesn't even give you a chance to retort as his mouth closes over you, his tongue swirling in a pure rhythm, studied magic.
Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the soft curls as your back arches off the plush cushions on the couch. The couch that escapes you is half sob, half moan. He moans softly against your pussy, coaxing more of your noises as his fingers replace his tongue, slipping inside you in sharp, easy thrusts.
"So wet, so ready for me, baby."
You can't hear half of the words he's saying, and you didn't care to ask him to repeat himself.
All you could feel was him working you with his fingers and mouth in a syncopated rhythm that feels like his own music — impossible to resist and destined to make you lose control.
You don't even realize your orgasm crashing over you. It came without warning, a raw, screaming release that leaves you boneless against the cushions.
Before you could even catch your breath, he's pulling you up from the couch. Your legs feel like jelly as he picks you up and takes you to your shared bedroom.
His grip is gentle but firm, his exhaustion from the late-night hour now completely forgotten.
He glances back at you, a playful glint in his eye as he sets you down on the king-sized bed. He climbs on top of you and kisses you deeply, his erection now unbearable against your thigh.
He finally hooks the waistband of your now-soaked panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. His weight comforts you as he nuzzles against your neck again, taking in your honey-scented skin.
"I can't get enough of you, sweetheart. Would you believe me if I said that I was obsessed with you?"
He finally leans up, meeting your eyes. There's no playfulness in them anymore; it's now replaced with sincerity. Honestly. A hungry type of love that only he can give you.
He kisses you once more before sitting up to pull down the waistband. of his pants — and boxers — to his knees. He shifts, positioning himself at your entrance. The tip of his dick presses against you, slick with your combined arousal as precum leaks from his tip.
"Is this okay, sweetheart? You tell me if it's too much, understand?"
You can only nod, your voice to the overwhelming sensation of his gentle dominance as he slides in slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, his breath gets heavier. Chest heaving at the feeling of your pussy swallowing him whole.
"That's my girl. Just relax for me."
He fills you completely, a perfect stretching fit that makes you keen. His rhythm starts slow, a deep, rolling grind that feels more like making love than just fucking.
"You take me so well. So perfect." He whispers against your ear, voice breaking slightly with every thrust.
His pace gradually quickens, each thrust hitting your g-spot. God, does it make you see stars, and your orgasm creep in sooner than you would like it to.
His breathing grows ragged in your ear as he chases his own release.
"Fuck — come with me, baby. Let go."
The climax washes over you simultaneously, a shared, shuddering orgasm that leaves you clinging to him. He collapses against you, his weight a comforting warmth as you wrap your arms around his neck.
"You don't do this with any of your other dance partners... right?"
He lets out a breathy laugh. "No, I don't dirty dance. Unless it's with you."
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